Will ye Join hands with the oppressor?
And is it Christian England cheers The bruiser, not the bruised?
And must she run, despite the tears And prayers of eighteen hundred years, Amuck in Slavery's crusade?
Oh, black disgrace! Oh, shame and loss Too deep for tongue to phrase on Tear from your flag its holy cross, And in your van of battle toss The pirate's skull-bone blazon! 1862.
MITHRIDATES AT CHIOS.
It is recorded that the Chians, when subjugated by Mithridates of Cappadocia, were delivered up to their own slaves, to be carried away captive to Colchis.

Athenxus considers this a just punishment for their wickedness in first introducing the slave-trade into Greece.

From this ancient villany of the Chians the proverb arose, "The Chian hath bought himself a master." KNOW'ST thou, O slave-cursed land How, when the Chian's cup of guilt Was full to overflow, there came God's justice in the sword of flame That, red with slaughter to its hilt, Blazed in the Cappadocian victor's hand?
The heavens are still and far; But, not unheard of awful Jove, The sighing of the island slave Was answered, when the AEgean 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.
1868.
AT PORT ROYAL.
In November, 1861, a Union force under Commodore Dupont and General Sherman captured Port Royal, and from this point as a basis of operations, the neighboring islands between Charleston and Savannah were taken possession of.

The early occupation of this district, where the negro population was greatly in excess of the white, gave an opportunity which was at once seized upon, of practically emancipating the slaves and of beginning that work of civilization which was accepted as the grave responsibility of those who had labored for freedom.
THE tent-lights glimmer on the land, The ship-lights on the sea; The night-wind smooths with drifting sand Our track on lone Tybee.
At last our grating keels outslide, Our good boats forward swing; And while we ride the land-locked tide, Our negroes row and sing.
For dear the bondman holds his gifts Of music and of song The gold that kindly Nature sifts Among his sands of wrong: The power to make his toiling days And poor home-comforts please; The quaint relief of mirth that plays With sorrow's minor keys.
Another glow than sunset's fire Has filled the west with light, Where field and garner, barn and byre, Are blazing through the night.
The land is wild with fear and hate, The rout runs mad and fast; From hand to hand, from gate to gate The flaming brand is passed.
The lurid glow falls strong across Dark faces broad with smiles Not theirs the terror, hate, and loss That fire yon blazing piles.
With oar-strokes timing to their song, They weave in simple lays The pathos of remembered wrong, The hope of better days,-- The triumph-note that Miriam sung, The joy of uncaged birds Softening with Afric's mellow tongue Their broken Saxon words.
SONG OF THE NEGRO BOATMEN.
Oh, praise an' tanks! De Lord he come To set de people free; An' massa tink it day ob doom, An' we ob jubilee.
De Lord dat heap de Red Sea waves He jus' as 'trong as den; He say de word: we las' night slaves; To-day, de Lord's freemen.
De yam will grow, de cotton blow, We'll hab de rice an' corn; Oh nebber you fear, if nebber you hear De driver blow his horn! Ole massa on he trabbels gone; He leaf de land behind De Lord's breff blow him furder on, Like corn-shuck in de wind.
We own de hoe, we own de plough, We own de hands dat hold; We sell de pig, we sell de cow, But nebber chile be sold.
De yam will grow, de cotton blow, We'll hab de rice an' corn; Oh nebber you fear, if nebber you hear De driver blow his horn! We pray de Lord: he gib us signs Dat some day we be free; De norf-wind tell it to de pines, De wild-duck to de sea; We tink it when de church-bell ring, We dream it in de dream; De rice-bird mean it when he sing, De eagle when be scream.
De yam will grow, de cotton blow, We'll hab de rice an' corn Oh nebber you fear, if nebber you hear De driver blow his horn! We know de promise nebber fail, An' nebber lie de word; So like de 'postles in de jail, We waited for de Lord An' now he open ebery door, An' trow away de key; He tink we lub him so before, We hub him better free.
De yam will grow, de cotton blow, He'll gib de rice an' corn; Oh nebber you fear, if nebber you hear De driver blow his horn! So sing our dusky gondoliers; And with a secret pain, And smiles that seem akin to tears, We hear the wild refrain.
We dare not share the negro's trust, Nor yet his hope deny; We only know that God is just, And every wrong shall die.
Rude seems the song; each swarthy face, Flame-lighted, ruder still We start to think that hapless race Must shape our good or ill; That laws of changeless justice bind Oppressor with oppressed; And, close as sin and suffering joined, We march to Fate abreast.
Sing on, poor hearts! your chant shall be Our sign of blight or bloom, The Vala-song of Liberty, Or death-rune of our doom! 1862.
ASTRAEA AT THE CAPITOL.
ABOLITION OF SLAVERY IN THE DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA, 1862.
WHEN first I saw our banner wave Above the nation's council-hall, I heard beneath its marble wall The clanking fetters of the slave! In the foul market-place I stood, And saw the Christian mother sold, And childhood with its locks of gold, Blue-eyed and fair with Saxon blood.
I shut my eyes, I held my breath, And, smothering down the wrath and shame That set my Northern blood aflame, Stood silent,--where to speak was death.
Beside me gloomed the prison-cell Where wasted one in slow decline For uttering simple words of mine, And loving freedom all too well.
The flag that floated from the dome Flapped menace in the morning air; I stood a perilled stranger where The human broker made his home.
For crime was virtue: Gown and Sword And Law their threefold sanction gave, And to the quarry of the slave Went hawking with our symbol-bird.
On the oppressor's side was power; And yet I knew that every wrong, However old, however strong, But waited God's avenging hour.
I knew that truth would crush the lie, Somehow, some time, the end would be; Yet scarcely dared I hope to see The triumph with my mortal eye.
But now I see it! In the sun A free flag floats from yonder dome, And at the nation's hearth and home The justice long delayed is done.
Not as we hoped, in calm of prayer, The message of deliverance comes, But heralded by roll of drums On waves of battle-troubled air! Midst sounds that madden and appall, The song that Bethlehem's shepherds knew! The harp of David melting through The demon-agonies of Saul! Not as we hoped; but what are we?
Above our broken dreams and plans God lays, with wiser hand than man's, The corner-stones of liberty.
I cavil not with Him: the voice That freedom's blessed gospel tells Is sweet to me as silver bells, Rejoicing! yea, I will rejoice! Dear friends still toiling in the sun; Ye dearer ones who, gone before, Are watching from the eternal shore The slow work by your hands begun, Rejoice with me! The chastening rod Blossoms with love; the furnace heat Grows cool beneath His blessed feet Whose form is as the Son of God! Rejoice! Our Marah's bitter springs Are sweetened; on our ground of grief Rise day by day in strong relief The prophecies of better things.
Rejoice in hope! The day and night Are one with God, and one with them Who see by faith the cloudy hem Of Judgment fringed with Mercy's light.
1862.
THE BATTLE AUTUMN OF 1862.
THE 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 The battle's breath of hell.
And still she walks in golden hours Through harvest-happy farms, And still she wears her fruits and flowers Like jewels on her arms.
What mean the gladness of the plain, This joy of eve and morn, The mirth that shakes the beard of grain And yellow locks of corn?
Ah! eyes may well be full of tears, And hearts with hate are hot; But even-paced come round the years, And Nature changes not.
She meets with smiles our bitter grief, With songs our groans of pain; She mocks with tint of flower and leaf The war-field's crimson stain.
Still, in the cannon's pause, we hear Her sweet thanksgiving-psalm; Too near to God for doubt or fear, She shares the eternal calm.
She knows the seed lies safe below The fires that blast and burn; For all the tears of blood we sow She waits the rich return.
She sees with clearer eve than ours The good of suffering born,-- The hearts that blossom like her flowers, And ripen like her corn.
Oh, give to us, in times like these, The vision of her eyes; And make her fields and fruited trees Our golden prophecies Oh, give to us her finer ear Above this stormy din, We too would hear the bells of cheer Ring peace and freedom in.
1862.
HYMN, SUNG AT CHRISTMAS BY THE SCHOLARS OF ST.

HELENA'S ISLAND, S.C.
OH, none in all the world before Were ever glad as we! We're free on Carolina's shore, We're all at home and free.
Thou Friend and Helper of the poor, Who suffered for our sake, To open every prison door, And every yoke to break! Bend low Thy pitying face and mild, And help us sing and pray; The hand that blessed the little child, Upon our foreheads lay.
We hear no more the driver's horn, No more the whip we fear, This holy day that saw Thee born Was never half so dear.
The very oaks are greener clad, The waters brighter smile; Oh, never shone a day so glad On sweet St.Helen's Isle.
We praise Thee in our songs to-day, To Thee in prayer we call, Make swift the feet and straight the way Of freedom unto all.
Come once again, O blessed Lord! Come walking on the sea! And let the mainlands hear the word That sets the islands free! 1863.
THE PROCLAMATION.
President Lincoln's proclamation of emancipation was issued January 1, 1863.
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.
1863.
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.