Up, men!" he cried, "yon rocky cone, And look from Winter's frozen throne They set their faces to the blast, And faint, worn, bleeding, hailed at last The promised land below. Behind, they saw the snow-cloud tossed Before, warm valleys, wood-embossed, They left the Winter at their backs And downward, with the cataracts, Strong leader of that mountain band To break from Slavery's desert land The winds are wild, the way is drear Rise up, FREMONT! and go before; 8th mo., 1856. THE BATTLE AUTUMN OF 1862. `HE flags of war like storm-birds fly, TH The charging trumpets blow; Yet rolls no thunder in the sky, No earthquake strives below. And, calm and patient, Nature keeps Her ancient promise well, Though o'er her bloom and greenness sweeps The battle's breath of hell. And still she walks in golden hours And still she wears her fruits and flowers What mean the gladness of the plain, The mirth that shakes the beard of grain Ah! eyes may well be full of tears, She meets with smiles our bitter grief, Still, in the cannon's pause, we hear She knows the seed lies safe below She sees with clearer eye than ours The hearts that blossom like her flowers, O, give to us, in times like these, The vision of her eyes; And make her fields and fruited trees O, give to us her finer ear! We too would hear the bells of cheer K MITHRIDATES AT CHIOS. NOW'ST thou, O slave-cursed land! The heavens are still and far; But, not unheard of awful Jove, The sighing of the island slave Was answered, when the Ægean wave The keels of Mithridates clove, And the vines shrivelled in the breath of war. 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 From the hoar sea-god's dusky caves: 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. And still she walks in golden hours And still she wears her fruits and flowers What mean the gladness of the plain, The mirth that shakes the beard of grain Ah! eyes may well be full of tears, She meets with smiles our bitter grief, Still, in the cannon's pause, we hear She knows the seed lies safe below She sees with clearer eye than ours The hearts that blossom like her flowers, O, give to us, in times like these, The vision of her eyes; And make her fields and fruited trees |