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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.

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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


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


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