“ 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.

THE PROCLAMATION.

SAINT 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.

ANNIVERSARY POEM.

[READ before the Alumni of the Friends? Yearly Meeting School, at the Annual Meeting at Newport, R. I., 15th 6th Mo., 1863.)

ONCE more, dear friends, you meet beneath

A clouded sky:
Not yet the sword has found its sheath,
And on the sweet spring airs the breath

Of war floats by.

Yet trouble springs not from the ground,

Nor pain from chance;
The Eternal order circles round,
And wave and storm find mete and bound

In Providence.

Full long our feet the flowery ways

Of peace have trod,
Content with creed and garb and phrase :
A harder path in earlier days

Led up to God.

Too cheaply truths, once purchased dear,

Are made our own;
Too long the world has smiled to hear
Our boast of full corn in the ear

By others sown;

To see us stir the martyr fires

Of long ago,
And wrap our satisfied desires
In the singed mantles that our sires

Have dropped below.

But now the cross our worthies bore

On us is laid;

Profession's quiet sleep is o'er,
And in the scale of truth once more

Our faith is weighed.

The cry of innocent blood at last

Is calling down
An answer in the whirlwind-blast,
The thunder and the shadow cast

From Heaven's dark frown.

The land is red with judgments. Who

Stands guiltless forth ?
Have we been faithful as we knew,
To God and to our brother true,

To Heaven and Earth ?

How faint, through din of merchandise

And count of gain, Have seemed to us the captive's cries ! How far away the tears and sighs

Of souls in pain!
This day the fearful reckoning comes

To each and all ;
We hear amidst our peaceful homes
The summons of the

conscript drums, The bugle's call.

Our path is plain ; the war-net draws

Round us in vain,
While, faithful to the Higher Cause,
We keep our fealty to the laws

Through patient pain.

The levelled gun, the battle-brand,

We may not take ;
But, calmly loyal, we can stand
And suffer with our suffering land

For conscience' sake.

Why ask for ease where all is pain ?

Shall we alone
Be left to add our gain to gain,
When over Armageddon's plain

The trump is blown ?
To suffer well is well to serve;

Safe in our Lord
The rigid lines of law shall curve
To spare us; from our heads shall swerve

Its smiting sword.

And light is mingled with the gloom,

And joy with grief; Divinest compensations come, Through thorns of judgment mercies bloom

In sweet relief.

Thanks for our privilege to bless,

By word and deed,
The widow in her keen distress,
The childless and the fatherless,

The hearts that bleed !

For fields of duty, opening wide,

Where all our powers
Are tasked the eager steps to guide
Of millions on a path untried :

THE SLAVE IS OURS !

Ours by traditions dear and old,

Which make the race
Our wards to cherish and uphold,
And cast their freedom in the mould

Of Christian grace.
And we may tread the sick-bed floors

Where strong men pine,
And, down the groaning corridors,