Mithridates At Chios
By John Greenleaf Whittier
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 gean 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.