Brown of Osawatomie

Brown of Osawatomie

John Brown of Osawatomie

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!

John Brown of Osawatomie,

They led him out to die,

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!

The shadows of his stormy life

That moment fell apart,

Without that rash and bloody hand,

Within the loving heart;

That kiss from all its guilty means

Redeemed the good intent,

And round the fighter's grisly hair

The martyr's aureole bent!

Perish with him his 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—

Not the outlaw's pride of daring,

But the Christian's sacrifice!

Oh! never may yon blue-ridged hills

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!

So vainly shall Virginia set

Her battle in array,

In vain her trampling squadrons knead

The winter snow and 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!

J.G. Whittier (John Greenleaf Whittier)

1:29, p. 4

2.4.1860