O, give to us her finer ear!
Above this stormy din,

We too would hear the bells of cheer
Ring peace and freedom in!

MITHRIDATES AT CHIOS.

KNOW'ST thou, O slave-cursed land t

How, when the Chian's cup of guilt
Was full to overflow, there came
God's justice in the sword of flame
That, red with slaughter to its hilt,
Blazed in the Cappadocian victor's hand?

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.

"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

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.

"The gods at last pay well," So Hellas sang her taunting song, "The fisher in his net is caught, The. Chian hath his master bought "; And isle from isle, with laughter long, Took up and sped the mocking parable.

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.

S

THE PROCLAMATION.

AINT PATRICK, slave to Milcho of the herds
Of Ballymena, wakened with these words:
"Arise, and flee

Out from the land of bondage, and be free!"

Glad as a soul in pain, who hears from heaven
The angels singing of his sins forgiven,

And, wondering, sees

His prison opening to their golden keys,

He rose a man who laid him down a slave,
Shook from his locks the ashes of the grave,
And outward trod

Into the glorious liberty of God.

He cast the symbols of his shame away;
And, passing where the sleeping Milcho lay,
Though back and limb

Smarted with wrong, he prayed, "God pardon him!”

So went he forth: but in God's time he came
To light on Uilline's hills a holy flame;
And, dying, gave

The land a saint that lost him as a slave.

O dark, sad millions, patiently and dumb Waiting for God, your hour, at last, has come, And freedom's song

Breaks the long silence of your night of wrong!

Arise and flee! shake off the vile restraint
Of ages; but, like Ballymena's saint,
The oppressor spare,

Heap only on his head the coals of prayer.

Go forth, like him! like him return again,
To bless the land whereon in bitter pain
Ye toiled at first,

And heal with freedom what your slavery cursed.

74

TH

The ship-lights on the sea;

The night-wind smooths with drifting sand

Our track on lone Tybee.

At last our grating keels outslide,

Our good boats forward swing;

And while we ride the land-locked tide,
Our negroes row and sing.

For dear the bondman holds his gifts
Of music and of song:

The gold that kindly Nature sifts
Among his sands of wrong;

The power to make his toiling days
And poor home-comforts please;
The quaint relief of mirth that plays
With sorrow's minor keys.

Another glow than sunset's fire

Has filled the West with light,
Where field and garner, barn and byre
Are blazing through the night.

The land is wild with fear and hate,
The rout runs mad and fast;
From hand to hand, from gate to gate,
The flaming brand is passed.

The lurid glow falls strong across
Dark faces broad with smiles:
Not theirs the terror, hate, and loss
That fire yon blazing piles.

With oar-strokes timing to their song,
They weave in simple lays
The pathos of remembered wrong,
The hope of better days,

The triumph-note that Miriam sung,
The joy of uncaged birds:
Softening with Afric's mellow tongue
Their broken Saxon words.

SONG OF THE NEGRO BOATMEN.

O, praise an' tanks! De Lord he come To set de people free;

An' massa tink it day ob doom,

An' we ob jubilee.