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“Up, men !” he cried, “yon rocky cone,
To-day, please God, we ’H pass,
On Summer's flowers and grass !”
They set their faces to the blast,
They trod th' eternal snow,
The promised land below.
Behind, they saw the snow-cloud tossed
By many an icy horn;
And green with vines and corn.
To flap his baffled wing,
Leaped to the lap of Spring.
Another task remains,
A path to Freedom's plains.
Yet, flashing through the night,
Blaze out in morning light !
The Hour must have its Man;
And lead in Freedom's van ! 8th mo., 1856.
THE BATTLE AUTUMN OF 1862.
THE flags of war like storm-birds ily,
T The charging trumpets blow;
No earthquake strives below.
Her ancient promise well,
The battle's breath of hell.
And still she walks in golden hours .
Through harvest-happy farms, And still she wears her fruits and flowers
Like jewels on her arms.
What mean the gladness of the plain,
This joy of eve and morn, The mirth that shakes the beard of grain
And yellow locks of corn ?
Ah! eyes may well be full of tears,
And hearts with hate are hot;
And Nature changes not.
She meets with smiles our bitter grief,
With songs our groans of pain;
The war-field's crimson stain.
Still, in the cannon's pause, we hear
Her sweet thanksgiving-psalm ; Too near to God for doubt or fear,
She shares th' eternal calm.
She knows the seed lies safe below
The fires that blast and burn; For all the tears of blood we sow
She waits the rich return.
She sees with clearer eye than ours
The good of suffering born, The hearts that blossom like her flowers,
And ripen like her corn.
0, give to us, in times like these,
The vision of her eyes ;
Our golden prophecies !
0, give to us her finer ear!
Above this stormy din,
Ring peace and freedom in !
MITHRIDATES AT CHIOS.
V NOW'ST thou, O slave-cursed land!
Was full to overflow, there came
The heavens are still and far;
The sighing of the island slave
“ Robbers of Chios ! hark,” The victor cried, “ to Heaven's decree !
Pluck your last cluster from the vine,
Drain your last cup of Chian wine; Slaves of your slaves, your doom shall be, In Colchian mines by Phasis rolling dark.”
Then rose the long lament
The priestess rent her hair and cried,
“Woe! woe! The gods are sleepless-eyed !” And, chained and scourged, the slaves of slaves, The lords of Chios into exile went.
«« The gods at last pay well,”
« The fisher in his net is caught,
And isle from isle, with laughter long,
Once more the slow, dumb years Bring their avenging cycle round,
And, more than Hellas taught of old,
Our wiser lesson shall be told, * Of slaves uprising, freedom-crowned, To break, not wield, the scourge wet with their blood and tears.
C AINT PATRICK, slave to Milcho of the herds
“ Arise, and flee
Glad as a soul in pain, who hears from heaven
And, wondering, sees
And outward trod
He cast the symbols of his shame away ;
Though back and limb