The Proclamation

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 east 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.