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.