YOUTH. LLET us hymn thee for our silent brothers,
Freely as the wild impellent wind blows,
Briefly, rudely, in the smoky pauses
Of a battle, in the stress and scourging
Of the sail apast thy heavenly margin;
Let us hymn thee, while the gallant pulses
In high heart and limbs one kingliest instant,
Boom and flash thy name and their allegiance;
‘Once, and for one only,’ let us hymn thee,
O Delight, O Sunrise, O sole Answer,
Empery unbought, supreme Adventure,
Youth, ah, Youth! all men’s desire and sorrow.
Let us hymn thee, we, the passing, dying,
Out of bondage by a vision lifted,
Since by chance sublime, in secret places,
Goddess! we, Aktaion-like, have seen thee.
Tho’ our voice as a spent eagle’s voice is,
Let us hymn thee, while the doom is forging;
Holding, losing, thro’ one first last moment,
One mad moment worth dull life forever,
Triumphing in anguish, let us hymn thee!
Thine, beholden Beauty, thine this heart-break,
Thine, O Hope forsworn! this salutation,
Youth, ah, Youth! all men’s desire and sorrow.
THE LAST FAUN. HHOW hath he stumbled hither, in search of love and praise,
A tardy comer and goer across the world’s highways,
A kind shape from the thicket, a wanderer all his days?
He finds a rocky seat where the moiling town recedes:
The altered shepherds flout him; but O he little heeds!
Incredulous he swings there, and drones upon his reeds.
He stamps his cloven heel, and he laughs adown the wind,
With eye that wanes and waxes at doings of mankind.
Slow, slow creeps the invader upon that happy mind.
The apple breasts his fellow; doves wheel by two and three,
And ever dance in circle the shallops on the sea;
The goats and deer are many; but playmate none hath he,
Nor nymph nor child to follow upon his signals rude;
He smiles: there is no frolic; he snarls: there is no feud.
He feels his poor heart sinking at every interlude.
His shaggy ear and freakish resents the wail and din;
Earth’s rumors chill his veins with their ghostly gliding in;
He aches to slip these tethers, and be where he hath been.
Elsewhere is waking glory, and here the dream, the thrall.
Hush! hear the sunless waters, the wrestling leaves that call!
He lops the grass, and whistles; and while he cheats them all,
Obeys, is gone, gone wholly. From alien air too cold,
The Faun, with garlands flying, with sylvan ditties trolled,
Being homesick, being patient, regains his greenwood old.
KNIGHTS OF WEATHER. WWHEN down the filmy lanes
The too wise sun goes grieving,
A wake of splendor leaving
Upbillowed from the ground;
When at the window-panes
The hooded chestnuts rattle,
And there is clash of battle
New England’s oaks around:
Oh, then we knights of weather,
We birds of sober feather,
Fill up the woods with revel
That summer’s pomp is slain;
And make a mighty shouting
For King October’s outing,
The Saracen October
Astride the hurricane!
When dappled butterflies
Have crept away to cover,
And one persistent plover
Is coaxing from the fen;
When apples show the skies
Their bubbly lush vermilion,
And from a rent pavilion
Laugh down on maids and men:
Oh, then we knights of weather,
We birds of sober feather,
Fill up the woods with revel
That summer’s pomp is slain;
And make a mighty shouting
For King October’s outing,
The Saracen October
Astride the hurricane!
When pricks the winy air;
When o’er the meadows clamber
Cloud-masonries of amber;
When brooks are silver-clear;
When conquering colors dare
The hills and cliffy places,
To hold, with braggart graces,
High wassail of the year:
Oh, then we knights of weather,
We birds of sober feather,
Fill up the woods with revel
That summer’s pomp is slain;
And make a mighty shouting
For King October’s outing,
The Saracen October
Astride the hurricane!
DAYBREAK. TTHE young sun rides the mists anew; his cohorts follow from the sea.
Let Aztec children shout and sue, the Persian lend a thankful knee:
Those glad auroral eyes shall beam not anywhere henceforth on me.
Up with the banners on the height, set every matin bell astir!
The tree-top choirs carouse in light; the dew’s on phlox and lavender:
Ah, mockery! for, worlds away, the heart of morning beats with her.
ON SOME OLD-MUSIC. TTO lie beside a stream, upon the sod
At ease, while weary shepherds homeward plod,
And feel benignly by, as daylight mellows,
The mountains in their weathering period;
Aye so, with silence shod
To lie in depth of grass with man’s meek fellows,
The cattle large and calm, aware of God,
And, keen as if to flesh the spirit sprang,
To hear,—O but to hear that silvern clang
Of young hale melody! and hither rally
The thrill, the aspiration, and the pang
Again, as once it rang
Sovereign and clear thro’ all the Saco valley,
Whose slaves were we that heard, and he that sang!
Happy the spot, the hour, the spanning strain
Precious and far, the rainbow of the rain,
The seal of patience, dark endeavor’s summing,
The heaven-bright close of Pergolese’s pain!
Sighs bid it back in vain,
Nor win its peer, till craftsmen aftercoming
Lost art, lost heart, from shipwrecked years regain.
How, like an angel, it effaced the crime,
The moil and heat of our tempestuous time,
And brought from dewier air, to us who waited,
The breath of peace, the healing breath sublime!
As falls, at midnight’s chime
To an old pilgrim, plodding on belated,
The thought of Love’s remote sunshining prime.
There flits upon the wind’s wing, as we gaze,
Our northern springtime, virgin-green three days;
The racy water shallowing, the glory
Of jonquils strewn, the wafted apple-sprays:
O let it be thy praise,
Child-song too lovely and too transitory!
Thou art as they; thy feet have gone their ways.
O beauty unassailable! O bride
Of memory! while yet thou didst abide
The yester joy was ours, the joy to-morrow,
Life’s brimming whole: and since to earth denied,
Soft ebbed thy dreamy tide,
To us the first, the full, the only sorrow,
Wild as when Abel out of Eden died.
LATE PEACE. AAS a pool beset with lilies
In the May-green copses hid,
Far from wayfarers and wrongers,
Clangors, rumors, disillusions,
Neighbored by the wild-grape only,
By the hemlock’s dreamy host,
By the Rhodian nightingale,
O remote, remote, O lonely!—
So thy life is.
Whence and wherefore is it
Never peace may be co-dweller
With my lakelet
Too belovÈd and too sheltered,
That, secure from broil of cities,
From a secret regnant spring
To its own wild depth awaking,
Makes but moaning and resistance,
Undiminishable protest;
Mimicking with pain and fury
Of humanity the struggle;
Fretting, foaming, pacing ever
Round and round its fragrant cloister,
All within itself perplexÈd,
Every heart-vein bruised but eager;
And its clear soul, doubt-o’erladen,
’Neath the stirred and floating foulness,
Long abased, long dumb, ah! long?—
So thy life is.
Comes the respite, comes the guerdon;
The perfect truce arrives
In the honey-dropping twilight,
The southwestering pallid sunshine,
The magian clouds a-fire,
The mooring galleon-wind:
At whose spell,
Potent daily,
The lulled water is beguiled
Back to saneness, back to sweetness.
All its arrowy hissing atoms
Gather from the chase forsaken;
The sphered galaxy of bubbles,
Fragments, motes, the lees unrestful,
Disunite, as to heard music,
Like weird dancers, from their wreathings
Each to its cool grotto swaying;
Till there follows, on their fervor,
Depth, and crystal clarity.
So thy life is, so thy life!
Darkling to beatitude,
Shaken in the saving change.
And the spirit made wise, not weary
By the throes that youth endureth,
When old age falls, evening-placid,
On the mystery unriddled,
Yet in empire, yet in honor,
In submission not ignoble,
Glistens to a central quiet,
Leal to the most lovely moon.
TO A YOUNG POET. SSIGH not to be remembered, dear,
Nor for Time’s fickle graces strive;
Vex not thy spirit’s songful cheer
With the sick ardor to survive.
But be content, thou quick bright thing
A while than lasting stars more fair:
A lone high-flashing skylark’s wing
Across obliterating air.
O rich in immortality!
Not thee Fame’s graven stones benight;
But ever, to some world-worn eye,
All Heaven is bluer for thy flight.
DE MORTUIS. TTHE skilfullest of mankind!
So praise him, reckoning
By shot in the sea-gull’s wing,
By doubts in boyhood’s mind.
DOWN STREAM. SSCARRED hemlock roots,
Oaks in mail, and willow-shoots
Spring’s first-knighted;
Clinging aspens grouped between,
Slender, misty-green,
Faintly affrighted:
Far hills behind,
Sombre growth, with sunlight lined,
On their edges;
Banks hemmed in with maiden-hair,
And the straight and fair
Phalanx of sedges:
Wee wings and eyes,
Wild blue gemmy dragon-flies,
Fearless rangers;
Drowsy turtles in a tribe
Diving, with a gibe
Muttered at strangers;
Wren, bobolink,
Robin, at the grassy brink;
Great frogs jesting;
And the beetle, for no grief
Half-across his leaf
Sighing and resting;
In the keel’s way,
Unwithdrawing bream at play,
Till from branches
Chestnut-blossoms, loosed aloft,
Graze them with their soft
Full avalanches!
This is very odd!
Boldly sings the river-god:
‘Pilgrim rowing!
From the Hyperborean air
Wherefore, and O where
Should man be going?’
Slave to a dream,
Me no urgings and no theme
Can embolden;
Now no more the oars swing back,
Drip, dip, till black
Waters froth golden.
Musketaquid!
I have loved thee, all unbid,
Earliest, longest;
Thou hast taught me thine own thrift:
Here I sit, and drift
Where the wind’s strongest.
If, furthermore,
There be any pact ashore,
I forget it!
If, upon a busy day
Beauty make delay,
Once over, let it!
Only,—despite
Thee, who wouldst unnerve me quite
Like a craven,—
Best the current be not so,
Heart and I must row
Into our haven!
THE INDIAN PIPE.
(TO R. L. S.) YYOUR bays shall all men bring,
And flowers the children strew you.
Once, as I stood in a thick west wood,
I took from a fissure a precious thing,
The homage whereof be to you!
A thing pearl-pale, yet stung
With fire, as the morning’s beam is;
Hid underground thro’ a solar round,
Hardy and fragile, antique and young,
More exquisite than a dream is.
No rose had so bright birth;
No gem of romance surpassed it,
By a minstrel-knight, for his maid’s delight,
Borne from the moon-burnt marge of the earth,
Where Paynim breakers cast it.
Rude-named, memorial, quaint,
The dews and the darkness mould it:
Scarce twice in an age is our heritage
This glory and mystery without taint.
Dear Stevenson, do you hold it
A text of grace, ah! much
Beyond what the praising throng say:
Only your art is its peer at heart,
Only your touch is a wonder such,
My wild little loving song says!
BROOK FARM. DDOWN the long road bent and brown,
Youth, that dearly loves a vision,
Ventures to the gates Elysian,
As a palmer from the town,
Coming not so late, so far,
Rocks and birches! for your story,
Nor to prate of vanished glory
Where of old was quenched a star;
Where, of old, in lapse of toil,
Time, that has for weeds a dower,
Bade the supersensual flower
Starve in our New England soil.
But to Youth, whose radiant eyes
Shatter mists of grief and daunting,
Lost glad voices still are chanting
’Neath those unremaining skies;
Still the dreams of fellowship
Beat their wings of aspiration;
And a smile of soft elation
Trembles from his haughty lip,
If another dare deride
Hopes heroic snapped and parted,
Disillusion so high-hearted,
All success is mean beside!
‘MY TIMES ARE IN THY HANDS.’ M‘MY times are in Thy hands!’
It rumbles from the sea;
It jingles ever, inland far,
From the reddening rowan-tree.
Let me not sit inert,
Let me not be afraid!
Teach me to dare and to resist
Like the first mortal made,
To whom of fate’s dread strength
No sickening rumors ran;
Who with whatever grim event
Grappled, as man with man.
Seal to my utmost age
What now my youth hath known:
‘My times are in Thy hands,’ O most!
When wholly in my own.
GARDEN CHIDINGS. TTHE spring being at her blessed carpentry,
This morning makes a stem, this noon a leaf,
And jewels her sparse greenery with a bud;
Fostress of happy growth is she. But thou,
O too disdainful spirit, or too shy!
Passive dost thou inhabit, like a mole,
The porch elect of darkness; for thy trade
Is underground, a barren industry,
Shivering true ardor on the nether air,
Shaping the thousandth tendril, and all year
Webbing the silver nothings to and fro.
What wonder if the gardener think thee dead,
When every punctual neighbor-root now goes
Adventurously skyward for a flower?
Up, laggard! climb thine inch; thyself fulfil;
Thou only hast no sign, no pageantry,
Save these fine gropings: soon from thy small plot
The seasonable sunshine steals away.
FRÉDÉRIC OZANAM. UUNTO the constant heart whom saints befriend
Afar in peace, what were our gaudy praise?
His course is ended, and his faith is kept.
Honor in silence to that memory! sweet
Equally in the forum of the schools,
And in the sufferer’s hovel. His, threefold,
The lowliness of Isai’s chosen son,
And zeal that fired the warring Macchabee,
About him like a wedding-garment, worn
The day of his acceptance; and we know
That for the sake of some such soul as this,—
So brave, so clean, compassionate and just,
Alert in its most meek security,—
Love beareth yet with all that stains the world.
BANKRUPT. PPAST the cold gates, a wraith without a name,
Sullen and withered, like a thing half-tame
Still for its jungle moaning, came by night,
Before the Judgment’s awful Angel came.
‘Answer, Immortal! at my high decree
Glory or shame shall flood thee as the sea:
What of the power, the skill, the graciousness,
The star-strong soul the Lord hath lent to thee?’
But the lone spectre raised a mournful hand:
‘Call me not that! Release me from this land!
What words are Heaven and Hell? They fall on me
As on a sphere the fooled and slipping sand.
‘Discerning, thou the good mayst yet belie,
By some last test, the sinner sanctify.
My guilt is neutral-safe, like innocence:
No boon nor bane of deathless days gain I,
‘Whose life is hollow shell and broken bowl,
Of all which was its treasury, the whole
Utterly, vilely squandered. O most Just!
Put down thy scales: for I have spent my soul.’
A REASON FOR SILENCE. YYOU sang, you sang! you mountain brook
Scarce by your tangly banks held in,
As running from a rocky nook,
You leaped the world, the sea to win,
Sun-bright past many a foamy crook,
And headlong as a javelin.
Now men do check and still your course
To serve a village enterprise,
And wheelward drive your sullen force,
What wonder, slave! that in no wise
Breaks from you, pooled ’mid reeds and gorse,
The voice you had in Paradise?
TEMPTATION. II COME where the wry road leads
Thro’ the pines and the alder scents,
Sated of books, with a start,
Sharp on the gang to-day:
Scarce see the Romany steeds,
Scarce hear the flap of the tents,
When hillo! my heart, my heart
Is out of its leash, and away.
Gypsies, gypsies, the whole
Tatterdemalion crew!
Brown and sly and severe
With curious trades in hand.
A string snaps in my soul,
The one high answer due
If an exile chance to hear
The songs of his fatherland.
... To be abroad with the rain,
And at home with the forest hush,
With the crag, and the flower-urn,
And the wan sleek mist upcurled;
To break the lens and the plane,
To burn the pen and the brush,
And, clean and alive, return
Into the old wild world!...
How is it? O wind that bears
The arrow from its mark,
The sea-bird from the sea,
The moth from his midnight lamp,
Fate’s self, thou mocker of prayers!
Whirl up from the mighty dark,
And even so, even me
Blow far from the gypsy camp!
FOR A CHILD.
Schumann’s ‘Erinnerung: Novbr. 4, 1847.’ IIN memory of dear Mendelssohn, the loving song I made
Fain would I sing for you, my own, but that I am afraid,
Aye, truly, sore afraid:
For sweet as was its every tone, once freed to mortal ears,
In memory of dear Mendelssohn, the ghostly wand of tears
Would yet be strong to break my song,
Thro’ all these after-years!
AGLAUS. TTHE ash hath no perfidious mind;
The open fields are just and kind;
Tho’ loves betray, I hear this way
The feathery step of the faithful wind.
Thorn-apple, bayberry and rose
Around me, talismanic, close:
The frosty flakes, the thunder-quakes,
Are bulwarks twain of my year’s repose.
No struggle, no delight, no moan,
But at my hearthstone I have known!
All thoughts that pass, as in a glass
The gods have bared to me for mine own.
Wisdom, the sought and unpossessed,
Hath of her own will been my guest;
Not smoking feud, but quietude
My heart hath chosen, at her behest.
‘This is of men the happiest man
Who hath his plot Arcadian,’
Apollo cried, my gates beside,
‘Nor ever wanders beyond its span.’
Now, like my sheep, I seek the fold;
My hair is shaken in the cold;
The night is nigh; but ere I die,
Bear witness, brothers! that young and old,
My name I wear without regret:
The Home-Keeper am I, and yet
At every inn my feet have been,
Above all travellers I am set.
Tho’ ocean currents by me purled,
The sails of my desire were furled.
What pilgrims crave, three acres gave;
And I, Aglaus, have seen the world!
AN AUDITOR.
THE WATER-TEXT. WWATCHING my river marching overland,
By mighty tides, transfigured and set free,—
My river, lapped in idle-hearted mirth,
Made at a touch a glory to the earth,
And leaving, wheresoever falls his hand,
The balm and benediction of the sea,—
O soon, I know, the hour whereof we dreamed,
The saving hour miraculous, arrives!
When, ere to darkness winds our sordid course,
Some glad, new, potent, consecrating force
Shall speed us, so uplifted, so redeemed,
Along the old worn channel of our lives.
CYCLAMEN. OON me, thro’ joy’s eclipse, and inward dark,
First fell thy beauty like a star new-lit;
To thee my carol now! albeit no lark
Hath for thy praise a throat too exquisite.
O would that song might fit
These harsh north slopes for thine inhabiting,
Or shelter lend thy loveliest laggard wing,
Thou undefiled estray of earth’s o’ervanished spring!
Here is the sunless clime, the fallen race;
Down our green dingles is no peer of thee:
Why art thou such, dear outcast, who hadst place
With shrine, and bower, and olive-silvery
Peaked islets in mid-sea?
Thou seekest thine Achaian dews in vain,
And osiered nooks jocose, at summer’s wane,
With gossip spirit-fine of chill and widening rain.
Thou wert among Thessalia’s hoofy host,
Their radiant shepherd stroked thee with a sigh;
When falchioned Perseus spied the Æthiop coast,
Unto his love’s sad feet thy cheek was nigh;
And all thy blood beat high
With woodland Rhoecus at the brink of bliss;
Thy leaf the Naiad plucked by Thyamis,
And she, the straying maid, the bride beguiled of Dis.
These, these are gone. The air is wan and cold,
The choric gladness of the woods is fled:
But thou, aye dove-like, rapt in memories old,
Inclinest to the ground thy fragile head,
In ardor and in dread.
Searcher of yesternight! how wilt thou find
In any dolven aisle or cavern blind,
In any ocean-hall, the glory left behind?
June’s butterfly, poised o’er his budded sweet,
Is scarce so quiet-winged, betimes, as thou.
Fail twilight’s thrill, and noonday’s wavy heat
To kiss the fever from thy downcast brow.
Ah, cease that vigil now!
No west nor east thine unhoused vision keeps,
Nor yet in heaven’s pale purpureal deeps
Of worlds unnavigate, the dream of childhood sleeps.
Flower of the joyous realm! thy rivers lave
Their once proud valleys with forgetful moan;
Thy kindred nod on many a trodden grave
Among marmorean altars overthrown;
For thou art left alone,
Alone and dying, duped for love’s extreme:
Hope not! thy Greece is over, as a dream;
Stay not! but follow her down Time’s star-lucent stream.
Less art thou of the earth than of the air,
A frail outshaken splendor of the morn;
Dimmest desire, the softest throb of prayer,
Impels thee out of bondage to thy bourn:
Ere thou art half forlorn,
Farewell, farewell! for from thy golden stem
Thou slippest like a wild enchanter’s gem.
Swift are the garden-ghosts, and swiftest thou of them!
Yea, speed thy freeborn life no doubts debar,
O blossom-breath of that which was delight!
In cooling whirl and undulation far
The wind shall be thy bearer all the night
Thro’ ether trembling-white:
And I that clung with thee, as exiles may
Whose too slight roots in every zephyr sway,
Thy little soul salute along her homeward way!
A PASSING SONG. WWHERE thrums the bee and the honeysuckle hovers,
Gather, golden lasses, to a roundelay;
Dance, dance, yokefellows and lovers,
Headlong down the garden, in the heart of May!
Youth is slipping, dripping, pearl on pearl, away.
Dance! what if last year Winnie’s cheek were rounder?
Dance! tho’ that foot, Hal, were nimbler yesterday.
Spread the full sail! for soon the ship must founder;
Flaunt the red rose! soon the canker-worm has sway:
Youth is slipping, dripping, pearl on pearl, away.
See the dial shifting, hear the night-birds calling!
Dance, you starry striplings! round the fountain-spray;
With its mellow music out of sunshine falling,
With its precious waters trickling into clay,
Youth is slipping, dripping, pearl on pearl, away!
IN TIME. HHER little dumb child, for whom hope was none
In any mind, she watched from sun to sun,
Until three years her mighty faith had run;
Then, in an agony of love, laid by
The bright head from her breast, and went to lie
’Neath cedarn shadows, and the wintry sky,
Not having, for her long desire and prayer,
One sign from those shut lips, so rosy-fair
It seemed all eloquence must nestle there.
That day, to her near grave, thro’ frost and sleet,
He, following from his toys on truant feet,
Cried: ‘Mother, mother!’ joyous and most sweet.
And as their souls ached in them at the word,
The father lifted his new-wakened bird
With one rapt tear, that now at last she heard!
THE WILD RIDE. II HEAR in my heart, I hear in its ominous pulses,
All day, the commotion of sinewy, mane-tossing horses;
All night, from their cells, the importunate tramping and neighing.
Cowards and laggards fall back; but alert to the saddle,
Straight, grim, and abreast, vault our weather-worn, galloping legion,
With a stirrup-cup each to the one gracious woman that loves him.
The road is thro’ dolor and dread, over crags and morasses;
There are shapes by the way, there are things that appal or entice us:
What odds? We are knights, and our souls are but bent on the riding!
I hear in my heart, I hear in its ominous pulses,
All day, the commotion of sinewy, mane-tossing horses;
All night, from their cells, the importunate tramping and neighing.
We spur to a land of no name, out-racing the storm-wind;
We leap to the infinite dark, like the sparks from the anvil.
Thou leadest, O God! All’s well with Thy troopers that follow.
THE LIGHT OF THE HOUSE. BBEYOND the cheat of Time, here where you died, you live;
You pace the garden-walks secure and sensitive;
You linger on the stair: Love’s lonely pulses leap!
The harpsichord is shaken, the dogs look up from sleep.
Years after, and years after, you keep your heirdom still,
Your winning youth about you, your joyous force and skill,
Unvexed, unapprehended, with waking sense adored;
And still the house is happy that hath so dear a lord.
To every quiet inmate, strong in the cheer you brought,
Your name is as a spell midway of speech and thought;
And unto whoso knocks, an awe-struck visitor,
The sunshine that was you floods all the open door!
A LAST WORD ON SHELLEY. EEACH ninth hierarchal wave, a league of sound,
To phantom shreds the hostile crags confound,
To wreck on wreck forlorn. The crags remain.
Smile at the storm for our safe poet’s sake!
Not ever this ordainÈd world shall break
That mounting, foolish, foam-bright heart again.
IMMUNITY. LLEAF of the deep-leaved holly-tree,
Long spared the weather-god’s disdain,
Have not thy brothers borne for thee
June’s inavertible raging rain?
And they are beautiful and hale,
Those sun-veined revellers; and thou
Still crippled, still afraid and pale,
Sole discord of the singing bough!
PAULA’S EPITAPH. GGO you by with gentle tread.
This was Paula, who is dead:
Eyes dark-lustrous to the look
As a leaf-pavilioned brook,
Voice upon the ear to cling
Sweeter than the cithern-string;
Whose shy spirit, unaware
Loosed into refreshful air,
With it took for talisman,
Climbing past the starry van,
Names to which the heavens do ope,
Candor, Chastity, and Hope.
JOHN BROWN: A PARADOX. CCOMPASSIONATE eyes had our brave John Brown,
And a craggy stern forehead, a militant frown;
He, the storm-bow of peace. Give him volley on volley,
The fool who redeemed us once of our folly,
And the smiter that healed us, our right John Brown!
Too vehement, verily, was John Brown!
For waiting is statesmanlike; his the renown
Of the holy rash arm, the equipper and starter
Of freedmen; aye, call him fanatic and martyr:
He can carry both halos, our plain John Brown.
A scandalous stumbling-block was John Brown,
And a jeer; but ah! soon from the terrified town,
In his bleeding track made over hilltop and hollow,
Wise armies and councils were eager to follow,
And the children’s lips chanted our lost John Brown.
Star-led for us, stumbled and groped John Brown,
Star-led, in the awful morasses to drown;
And the trumpet that rang for a nation’s upheaval,
From the thought that was just, thro’ the deed that was evil,
Was blown with the breath of this dumb John Brown!
Bared heads and a pledge unto mad John Brown!
Now the curse is allayed, now the dragon is down,
Now we see, clear enough, looking back at the onset,
Christianity’s flood-tide and Chivalry’s sunset
In the old broken heart of our hanged John Brown!
|
  |
