Mithridates At Chios

Knowst thou, O slave-cursed land
How, when the Chians cup of guilt
Was full to overflow, there came
Gods justice in the sword of flame
That, red with slaughter to its hilt,
Blazed in the Cappadocian victors hand?

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 Heavens 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-gods 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.

John Greenleaf Whittier

John Greenleaf Whittier was an American Quaker poet and advocate of the abolition of slavery in the United States. He was born on December 17, 1807, in Haverhill, Massachusetts, and died on September 7, 1892, in Hampton Falls, New Hampshire. Whittier is remembered particularly for his anti-slavery writings as well as his association with the Fireside Poets, a group of New England writers whose work became notable in American literature in the 19th century.

John Greenleaf Whittier

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A few brief years have passed away
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The Feast Of Victory.

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And in rows, all mournfully,
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Night on the city of the Moor!
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The Worlds Convention Of The Friends Of Emancipation, Held In London In 1840

Yes, let them gather! Summon forth
The pledged philanthropy of Earth.
From every land, whose hills have heard
The bugle blast of Freedom waking;
Or shrieking of her symbol-bird
From out his cloudy eyrie breaking:
Where Justice hath one worshipper,
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Last night I saw the sunset melt though my prison bars,
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Alone, in that dark sorrow, hour after hour crept by;
Star after star looked palely in and sank adown the sky;
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All night I sat unsleeping, for I knew that on the morrow
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