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242
“OLD JOHN BROWN.”
They call thee hot-brained, crazed, and mad;
But every word that falls
Goes straight and true, and hits the mark
More sure than cannon-balls.
Through spectre forms of bogus law
It cuts its way complete;
And judge and jury, too, are tried
At God's great judgment-seat.
But every word that falls
Goes straight and true, and hits the mark
More sure than cannon-balls.
Through spectre forms of bogus law
It cuts its way complete;
And judge and jury, too, are tried
At God's great judgment-seat.
Old man, farewell! They'll take thy life:
For dangerous enough,
In these our sweetly piping times,
Are men of hero stuff.
We should tread soft above the fires
That underneath us lie:
You'll crack the crust of compromise,
And set them spouting high.
For dangerous enough,
In these our sweetly piping times,
Are men of hero stuff.
We should tread soft above the fires
That underneath us lie:
You'll crack the crust of compromise,
And set them spouting high.
Where Henry's cry for “Liberty”
Once sent its shivering thrill,
There's only room, six feet by two,
For heroes now to fill.
And o'er the spot the years will roll,
As spring its verdure weaves,
And autumn o'er the felon's grave
Shakes down its yellow loaves.
Once sent its shivering thrill,
There's only room, six feet by two,
For heroes now to fill.
And o'er the spot the years will roll,
As spring its verdure weaves,
And autumn o'er the felon's grave
Shakes down its yellow loaves.
243
But not the spot six feet by two
Will hold a man like thee:
John Brown will tramp the shaking earth
From Blue Ridge to the sea,
Till the strong angel comes at last,
And ope's each dungeon door,
And God's Great Charter holds, and waves
O'er all his humble poor.
Will hold a man like thee:
John Brown will tramp the shaking earth
From Blue Ridge to the sea,
Till the strong angel comes at last,
And ope's each dungeon door,
And God's Great Charter holds, and waves
O'er all his humble poor.
And then the humble poor will come,
In that far distant day,
And from the felon's nameless grave
They'll brush the leaves away;
And gray old men will point the spot,
Beneath the pine-tree shade,
As children ask with streaming eyes,
Where Old John Brown was laid.
In that far distant day,
And from the felon's nameless grave
They'll brush the leaves away;
And gray old men will point the spot,
Beneath the pine-tree shade,
As children ask with streaming eyes,
Where Old John Brown was laid.
November, 1859.
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