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 sleeplesseyed!"

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.

THE PROCLAMATION.

S

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.