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[240] 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, likehim! like him return again,
     To bless the land whereon in bitter pain
Ye toiled at first,
     And heal with freedom what your slavery cursed.


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1863 AD (1)
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