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| JOHN BROWN OF OSSAWATOMIE spake on his dying day: | |
| “I will not have to shrive my soul a priest in Slavery’s pay; | |
| But let some poor slave-mother whom I have striven to free, | |
| With her children, from the gallows-stair put up a prayer for me!” | |
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| John Brown of Ossawatomie, they led him out to die; | 5 |
| And lo! a poor slave-mother with her little child pressed nigh: | |
| Then the bold, blue eye grew tender, and the old harsh face grew mild, | |
| As he stooped between the jeering ranks and kissed the negro’s child! | |
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| The shadows of his stormy life that moment fell apart, | |
| And they who blamed the bloody hand forgave the loving heart; | 10 |
| That kiss from all its guilty means redeemed the good intent, | |
| And round the grisly fighter’s hair the martyr’s aureole bent! | |
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| Perish with him the folly that seeks through evil good! | |
| Long live the generous purpose unstained with human blood! | |
| Not the raid of midnight terror, but the thought which underlies; | 15 |
| Not the borderer’s pride of daring, but the Christian’s sacrifice. | |
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| Nevermore may yon Blue Ridges the Northern rifle hear, | |
| Nor see the light of blazing homes flash on the negro’s spear; | |
| But let the free-winged angel Truth their guarded passes scale, | |
| To teach that right is more than might, and justice more than mail! | 20 |
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| So vainly shall Virginia set her battle in array; | |
| In vain her trampling squadrons knead the winter snow with clay! | |
| She may strike the pouncing eagle, but she dares not harm the dove; | |
| And every gate she bars to Hate shall open wide to Love! | |
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