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“ 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
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.
SAINT PATRICK, slave to Milcho of the herds
Arise, and flee
Glad as a soul in pain, who hears from heaven
And, wondering, sees
He rose a man who laid him down a slave,
And outward trod
Though back and limb
So went he forth : but in God's time he came
And, dying, gave
O dark, sad millions, patiently and dumb
And freedom's song
Arise and flee! shake off the vile restraint
The oppressor spare,
Ye toiled at first,
[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:
Of war floats by.
Yet trouble springs not from the ground,
Nor pain from chance;
Full long our feet the flowery ways
Of peace have trod,
Led up to God.
Too cheaply truths, once purchased dear,
Are made our own;
By others sown;
To see us stir the martyr fires
Of long ago,
Have dropped below.
But now the cross our worthies bore
On us is laid;
Profession's quiet sleep is o'er,
Our faith is weighed.
The cry of innocent blood at last
Is calling down
From Heaven's dark frown.
The land is red with judgments. Who
Stands guiltless forth ?
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!
To each and all ;
conscript drums, The bugle's call.
Our path is plain ; the war-net draws
Round us in vain,
Through patient pain.
The levelled gun, the battle-brand,
We may not take ;
For conscience' sake.
Why ask for ease where all is pain ?
Shall we alone
The trump is blown ?
Safe in our Lord
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 hearts that bleed !
For fields of duty, opening wide,
Where all our powers
THE SLAVE IS OURS !
Ours by traditions dear and old,
Which make the race
Of Christian grace.
Where strong men pine,