Now his story shall be whispered by the firelight's evening glow,
And in fields of rice and cotton, when the hot noon passes slow,
Till his name shall be a watch-word from Missouri to the sea,
And his planting find its reaping in the birthday of the Free!
Christ, the crucified, attend him, weak and erring though he be;
In his measure he has striven, suffering Lord! to love like Thee;
Thou the vine—thy friends the branches—is he not a branch of Thine,
Though some dregs from earthly vintage have defiled the heavenly wine?
Now his tendrils lie unclasped, bruised and prostrate on the sod,—
"OLD JOHN BROWN."
BY REV. E. H. SEARS.
Not any 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 opes 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" is laid.
