Shot up behind the walls of snow, Up, men!" he cried, "yon rocky cone, And look from Winter's frozen throne They set their faces to the blast, And faint, worn, bleeding, hailed at last THE BATTLE AUTUMN OF 1862. Behind, they saw the snow-cloud tossed Before, warm valleys, wood-embossed, They left the Winter at their backs And downward, with the cataracts, Strong leader of that mountain band To break from Slavery's desert land The winds are wild, the way is drear Yet, flashing through the night, Rise up, FREMONT! and go before; 8th mo., 1856. 69 THE BATTLE AUTUMN OF 1862. T HE flags of war like storm-birds fly, The charging trumpets blow; Yet rolls no thunder in the sky, No earthquake strives below. And, calm and patient, Nature keeps Her ancient promise well, Though o'er her bloom and greenness sweeps And still she walks in golden hours And still she wears her fruits and flowers What mean the gladness of the plain, The mirth that shakes the beard of grain The hearts that blossom like her flowers, And ripen like her corn. O, give to us, in times like these, The vision of her eyes; And make her fields and fruited trees MITHRIDATES AT CHIOS. O, give to us her finer ear! We too would hear the bells of cheer MITHRIDATES AT CHIOS. KNOW'ST thou, O slave-cursed land! How, when the Chian's cup of guilt 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 duşky caves: The priestess rent her hair and cried, The gods are sleepless-eyed!' "" 71 "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"; Once more the slow, dumb years Of slaves uprising, freedom-crowned, To break, not wield, the scourge wet with their blood and tears. THE PROCLAMATION. AINT PATRICK, slave to Milcho of the herds Out from the land of bondage, and be free!" Glad as a soul in pain, who hears from heaven And, wondering, sees His prison opening to their golden keys, He rose a man who laid him down a slave, Into the glorious liberty of God. He cast the symbols of his shame away; Smarted with wrong, he prayed, "God pardon him!" |