All night upon the guarded hill,Until the stars were low,Wrapped round as with Jehovah's will,We waited for the foe;All night the silent sentinelsMoved by like gliding ghosts;All night the fancied warning bellsHeld all men to their posts.We heard the sleeping prairies breathe,The forest's human moans,The hungry gnashing of the teethOf wolves on bleaching bones;We marked the roar of rushing fires,The neigh of frightened steeds,The voices as of far-off lyresAmong the river reeds.We were but thirty-nine who layBeside our rifles then;We were but thirty-nine, and theyWere twenty hundred men.Our lean limbs shook and reeled about,Our feet were gashed and bare,And all the breezes shredded outOur garments in the air.*****They came: the blessed Sabbath day,That soothed our swollen veins,Like God's sweet benediction, layOn all the singing plains;The valleys shouted to the sun,The great woods clapped their hands,And joy and glory seemed to runLike rivers through the lands.And then our daughters and our wives,And men whose heads were white,Rose sudden into kingly livesAnd walked forth to the fight;And we drew aim along our gunsAnd calmed our quickening breath,Then, as is meet for Freedom's sons,Shook loving hands with Death.And when three hundred of the foeRode up in scorn and pride,Whoso had watched us then might knowThat God was on our side;For all at once a mighty thrillOf grandeur through us swept,And strong and swiftly down the hillLike Gideons we leapt.And all throughout that Sabbath dayA wall of fire we stood,And held the baffled foe at bay,And streaked the ground with blood.And when the sun was very lowThey wheeled their stricken flanks,And passed on, wearily and slow,Beyond the river banks.Beneath the everlasting starsWe bended child-like knees,And thanked God for the shining scarsOf His large victories.And some, who lingered, said they heardSuch wondrous music passAs though a seraph's voice had stirredThe pulses of the grass.Richard Realf.
All night upon the guarded hill,Until the stars were low,Wrapped round as with Jehovah's will,We waited for the foe;All night the silent sentinelsMoved by like gliding ghosts;All night the fancied warning bellsHeld all men to their posts.We heard the sleeping prairies breathe,The forest's human moans,The hungry gnashing of the teethOf wolves on bleaching bones;We marked the roar of rushing fires,The neigh of frightened steeds,The voices as of far-off lyresAmong the river reeds.We were but thirty-nine who layBeside our rifles then;We were but thirty-nine, and theyWere twenty hundred men.Our lean limbs shook and reeled about,Our feet were gashed and bare,And all the breezes shredded outOur garments in the air.*****They came: the blessed Sabbath day,That soothed our swollen veins,Like God's sweet benediction, layOn all the singing plains;The valleys shouted to the sun,The great woods clapped their hands,And joy and glory seemed to runLike rivers through the lands.And then our daughters and our wives,And men whose heads were white,Rose sudden into kingly livesAnd walked forth to the fight;And we drew aim along our gunsAnd calmed our quickening breath,Then, as is meet for Freedom's sons,Shook loving hands with Death.And when three hundred of the foeRode up in scorn and pride,Whoso had watched us then might knowThat God was on our side;For all at once a mighty thrillOf grandeur through us swept,And strong and swiftly down the hillLike Gideons we leapt.And all throughout that Sabbath dayA wall of fire we stood,And held the baffled foe at bay,And streaked the ground with blood.And when the sun was very lowThey wheeled their stricken flanks,And passed on, wearily and slow,Beyond the river banks.Beneath the everlasting starsWe bended child-like knees,And thanked God for the shining scarsOf His large victories.And some, who lingered, said they heardSuch wondrous music passAs though a seraph's voice had stirredThe pulses of the grass.Richard Realf.
All night upon the guarded hill,Until the stars were low,Wrapped round as with Jehovah's will,We waited for the foe;All night the silent sentinelsMoved by like gliding ghosts;All night the fancied warning bellsHeld all men to their posts.
We heard the sleeping prairies breathe,The forest's human moans,The hungry gnashing of the teethOf wolves on bleaching bones;We marked the roar of rushing fires,The neigh of frightened steeds,The voices as of far-off lyresAmong the river reeds.
We were but thirty-nine who layBeside our rifles then;We were but thirty-nine, and theyWere twenty hundred men.Our lean limbs shook and reeled about,Our feet were gashed and bare,And all the breezes shredded outOur garments in the air.
*****
They came: the blessed Sabbath day,That soothed our swollen veins,Like God's sweet benediction, layOn all the singing plains;The valleys shouted to the sun,The great woods clapped their hands,And joy and glory seemed to runLike rivers through the lands.
And then our daughters and our wives,And men whose heads were white,Rose sudden into kingly livesAnd walked forth to the fight;And we drew aim along our gunsAnd calmed our quickening breath,Then, as is meet for Freedom's sons,Shook loving hands with Death.
And when three hundred of the foeRode up in scorn and pride,Whoso had watched us then might knowThat God was on our side;For all at once a mighty thrillOf grandeur through us swept,And strong and swiftly down the hillLike Gideons we leapt.
And all throughout that Sabbath dayA wall of fire we stood,And held the baffled foe at bay,And streaked the ground with blood.And when the sun was very lowThey wheeled their stricken flanks,And passed on, wearily and slow,Beyond the river banks.
Beneath the everlasting starsWe bended child-like knees,And thanked God for the shining scarsOf His large victories.And some, who lingered, said they heardSuch wondrous music passAs though a seraph's voice had stirredThe pulses of the grass.
Richard Realf.
A bill for the admission of Kansas under a constitution permitting slavery was introduced in Congress in February, 1858, and occasioned one of the most acrimonious debates ever heard at the Capital. In the House, a fist fight occurred between Keitt of South Carolina, and Grow of Pennsylvania. The bill was passed on May 4.
A bill for the admission of Kansas under a constitution permitting slavery was introduced in Congress in February, 1858, and occasioned one of the most acrimonious debates ever heard at the Capital. In the House, a fist fight occurred between Keitt of South Carolina, and Grow of Pennsylvania. The bill was passed on May 4.
THE FIGHT OVER THE BODY OF KEITT
A FRAGMENT FROM THE GREAT AMERICAN EPIC, THE WASHINGTONIAD
[March, 1858]
Sing, O goddess, the wrath, the ontamable dander of Keitt—Keittof South Carolina, the clear grit, the tall, the ondaunted—Him that hath wopped his own niggers till Northerners all unto KeittSeem but as niggers to wop, and hills of the smallest potatoes.Late and long was the fight on the Constitution of Kansas;Daylight passed into dusk, and dusk into lighting of gas-lamps;—Still on the floor of the house the heroes unwearied were fighting.Dry grew palates and tongues with excitement and expectoration,Plugs were becoming exhausted, and Representatives also.Who led on to the warthe anti-Lecomptonite phalanx?Grow, hitting straight from the shoulder, the Pennsylvania Slasher;Him followed Hickman, and Potter the wiry, from woody Wisconsin;Washburne stood with his brother,—Cadwallader stood with Elihu;Broad Illinois sent the one, and woody Wisconsin the other.Mott came mild as new milk, with gray hairs under his broad brim,Leaving the first chop location and water privilege near it,Held by his fathers of old on the willow-fringed banks of Ohio.Wrathy Covode, too, I saw, and Montgomery ready for mischief.Who against these to the floor led on the Lecomptonite legions?Keitt of South Carolina, the clear grit, the tall, the ondaunted—Keitt and Reuben Davis, the ra'al hoss of wild Mississippi;Barksdale, wearer of wigs, and Craige from North Carolina;Craige and scorny McQueen, and Owen, and Lovejoy, and Lamar,These Mississippi sent to the war, "tres juncti in uno."Long had raged the warfare of words; it was four in the morning;Whittling and expectoration and liquorin' all were exhausted,When Keitt, tired of talk, bespake Reu. Davis, "O Reuben,Grow's a tarnation blackguard, and I've concluded to clinch him."This said, up to his feet he sprang, and loos'ning his choker,Straighted himself for a grip, as a b'ar-hunter down in ArkansasSquares to go in at the b'ar, when the dangerous varmint is cornered."Come out, Grow," he cried, "you Black Republican puppy,Come on the floor, like a man, and darn my eyes, but I'll show you"—Him answered straight-hitting Grow, "Wall now, I calkilate, Keitt,No nigger-driver shall leave his plantation in South Carolina,Here to crack his cow-hide round this child's ears, if he knows it."Scarce had he spoke when the hand, the chiválrous five fingers of Keitt,Clutched at his throat,—had they closed, the speeches of Grow had been ended,—Never more from a stump had he stirred up the free and enlightened;—But though smart Keitt's mauleys, the mauleys of Grow were still smarter;Straight from the shoulder he shot,—not Owen Swift or Ned AdamsEver put in his right with more delicate feeling of distance.As drops hammer on anvil, so dropped Grow's right into KeittJust where the jugular runs to the point at which Ketch ties his drop-knot;—Prone like a log sank Keitt, his dollars rattled about him.Forth sprang his friends o'er the body; first Barksdale, waving-wig-wearer,Craige and McQueen and Davis, the ra'al hoss of wild Mississippi;Fiercely they gathered round Grow, catawampously up as to chaw him;But without Potter they reckoned, the wiry from woody Wisconsin;He, striking out right and left, like a catamount varmint and vicious,Dashed to the rescue, and with him the Washburnes, Cadwallader, Elihu;Slick into Barksdale's bread-basket walked Potter's one, two,—hard and heavy;Barksdale fetched wind in a trice, dropped Grow, and let out at Elihu.Then like a fountain had flowed the claret of Washburne the elder,But for Cadwallader's care,—Cadwallader, guard of his brother,Clutching at Barksdale's nob, into Chancery soon would have drawn it.Well was it then for Barksdale, the wig that waved over his forehead:Off in Cadwallader's hands it came, and, the wearer releasing,Left to the conqueror naught but the scalp of his bald-headed foeman.Meanwhile hither and thither, a dove on the waters of trouble,Moved Mott, mild as new milk, with his gray hair under his broad brim,Preaching peace to deaf ears, and getting considerably damaged.Cautious Covode in the rear, as dubious what it might come to,Brandished a stone-ware spittoon 'gainst whoever might seem to deserve it,—Little it mattered to him whether Pro- or Anti-Lecompton,So but he found in the Hall a foeman worthy his weapon!So raged the battle of men, till into the thick of themêlée,Like to the heralds of old, stepped the Sergeant-at-Arms and the Speaker.
Sing, O goddess, the wrath, the ontamable dander of Keitt—Keittof South Carolina, the clear grit, the tall, the ondaunted—Him that hath wopped his own niggers till Northerners all unto KeittSeem but as niggers to wop, and hills of the smallest potatoes.Late and long was the fight on the Constitution of Kansas;Daylight passed into dusk, and dusk into lighting of gas-lamps;—Still on the floor of the house the heroes unwearied were fighting.Dry grew palates and tongues with excitement and expectoration,Plugs were becoming exhausted, and Representatives also.Who led on to the warthe anti-Lecomptonite phalanx?Grow, hitting straight from the shoulder, the Pennsylvania Slasher;Him followed Hickman, and Potter the wiry, from woody Wisconsin;Washburne stood with his brother,—Cadwallader stood with Elihu;Broad Illinois sent the one, and woody Wisconsin the other.Mott came mild as new milk, with gray hairs under his broad brim,Leaving the first chop location and water privilege near it,Held by his fathers of old on the willow-fringed banks of Ohio.Wrathy Covode, too, I saw, and Montgomery ready for mischief.Who against these to the floor led on the Lecomptonite legions?Keitt of South Carolina, the clear grit, the tall, the ondaunted—Keitt and Reuben Davis, the ra'al hoss of wild Mississippi;Barksdale, wearer of wigs, and Craige from North Carolina;Craige and scorny McQueen, and Owen, and Lovejoy, and Lamar,These Mississippi sent to the war, "tres juncti in uno."Long had raged the warfare of words; it was four in the morning;Whittling and expectoration and liquorin' all were exhausted,When Keitt, tired of talk, bespake Reu. Davis, "O Reuben,Grow's a tarnation blackguard, and I've concluded to clinch him."This said, up to his feet he sprang, and loos'ning his choker,Straighted himself for a grip, as a b'ar-hunter down in ArkansasSquares to go in at the b'ar, when the dangerous varmint is cornered."Come out, Grow," he cried, "you Black Republican puppy,Come on the floor, like a man, and darn my eyes, but I'll show you"—Him answered straight-hitting Grow, "Wall now, I calkilate, Keitt,No nigger-driver shall leave his plantation in South Carolina,Here to crack his cow-hide round this child's ears, if he knows it."Scarce had he spoke when the hand, the chiválrous five fingers of Keitt,Clutched at his throat,—had they closed, the speeches of Grow had been ended,—Never more from a stump had he stirred up the free and enlightened;—But though smart Keitt's mauleys, the mauleys of Grow were still smarter;Straight from the shoulder he shot,—not Owen Swift or Ned AdamsEver put in his right with more delicate feeling of distance.As drops hammer on anvil, so dropped Grow's right into KeittJust where the jugular runs to the point at which Ketch ties his drop-knot;—Prone like a log sank Keitt, his dollars rattled about him.Forth sprang his friends o'er the body; first Barksdale, waving-wig-wearer,Craige and McQueen and Davis, the ra'al hoss of wild Mississippi;Fiercely they gathered round Grow, catawampously up as to chaw him;But without Potter they reckoned, the wiry from woody Wisconsin;He, striking out right and left, like a catamount varmint and vicious,Dashed to the rescue, and with him the Washburnes, Cadwallader, Elihu;Slick into Barksdale's bread-basket walked Potter's one, two,—hard and heavy;Barksdale fetched wind in a trice, dropped Grow, and let out at Elihu.Then like a fountain had flowed the claret of Washburne the elder,But for Cadwallader's care,—Cadwallader, guard of his brother,Clutching at Barksdale's nob, into Chancery soon would have drawn it.Well was it then for Barksdale, the wig that waved over his forehead:Off in Cadwallader's hands it came, and, the wearer releasing,Left to the conqueror naught but the scalp of his bald-headed foeman.Meanwhile hither and thither, a dove on the waters of trouble,Moved Mott, mild as new milk, with his gray hair under his broad brim,Preaching peace to deaf ears, and getting considerably damaged.Cautious Covode in the rear, as dubious what it might come to,Brandished a stone-ware spittoon 'gainst whoever might seem to deserve it,—Little it mattered to him whether Pro- or Anti-Lecompton,So but he found in the Hall a foeman worthy his weapon!So raged the battle of men, till into the thick of themêlée,Like to the heralds of old, stepped the Sergeant-at-Arms and the Speaker.
Sing, O goddess, the wrath, the ontamable dander of Keitt—Keittof South Carolina, the clear grit, the tall, the ondaunted—Him that hath wopped his own niggers till Northerners all unto KeittSeem but as niggers to wop, and hills of the smallest potatoes.Late and long was the fight on the Constitution of Kansas;Daylight passed into dusk, and dusk into lighting of gas-lamps;—Still on the floor of the house the heroes unwearied were fighting.Dry grew palates and tongues with excitement and expectoration,Plugs were becoming exhausted, and Representatives also.Who led on to the warthe anti-Lecomptonite phalanx?Grow, hitting straight from the shoulder, the Pennsylvania Slasher;Him followed Hickman, and Potter the wiry, from woody Wisconsin;Washburne stood with his brother,—Cadwallader stood with Elihu;Broad Illinois sent the one, and woody Wisconsin the other.Mott came mild as new milk, with gray hairs under his broad brim,Leaving the first chop location and water privilege near it,Held by his fathers of old on the willow-fringed banks of Ohio.Wrathy Covode, too, I saw, and Montgomery ready for mischief.Who against these to the floor led on the Lecomptonite legions?Keitt of South Carolina, the clear grit, the tall, the ondaunted—Keitt and Reuben Davis, the ra'al hoss of wild Mississippi;Barksdale, wearer of wigs, and Craige from North Carolina;Craige and scorny McQueen, and Owen, and Lovejoy, and Lamar,These Mississippi sent to the war, "tres juncti in uno."Long had raged the warfare of words; it was four in the morning;Whittling and expectoration and liquorin' all were exhausted,When Keitt, tired of talk, bespake Reu. Davis, "O Reuben,Grow's a tarnation blackguard, and I've concluded to clinch him."This said, up to his feet he sprang, and loos'ning his choker,Straighted himself for a grip, as a b'ar-hunter down in ArkansasSquares to go in at the b'ar, when the dangerous varmint is cornered."Come out, Grow," he cried, "you Black Republican puppy,Come on the floor, like a man, and darn my eyes, but I'll show you"—Him answered straight-hitting Grow, "Wall now, I calkilate, Keitt,No nigger-driver shall leave his plantation in South Carolina,Here to crack his cow-hide round this child's ears, if he knows it."Scarce had he spoke when the hand, the chiválrous five fingers of Keitt,Clutched at his throat,—had they closed, the speeches of Grow had been ended,—Never more from a stump had he stirred up the free and enlightened;—But though smart Keitt's mauleys, the mauleys of Grow were still smarter;Straight from the shoulder he shot,—not Owen Swift or Ned AdamsEver put in his right with more delicate feeling of distance.As drops hammer on anvil, so dropped Grow's right into KeittJust where the jugular runs to the point at which Ketch ties his drop-knot;—Prone like a log sank Keitt, his dollars rattled about him.Forth sprang his friends o'er the body; first Barksdale, waving-wig-wearer,Craige and McQueen and Davis, the ra'al hoss of wild Mississippi;Fiercely they gathered round Grow, catawampously up as to chaw him;But without Potter they reckoned, the wiry from woody Wisconsin;He, striking out right and left, like a catamount varmint and vicious,Dashed to the rescue, and with him the Washburnes, Cadwallader, Elihu;Slick into Barksdale's bread-basket walked Potter's one, two,—hard and heavy;Barksdale fetched wind in a trice, dropped Grow, and let out at Elihu.Then like a fountain had flowed the claret of Washburne the elder,But for Cadwallader's care,—Cadwallader, guard of his brother,Clutching at Barksdale's nob, into Chancery soon would have drawn it.Well was it then for Barksdale, the wig that waved over his forehead:Off in Cadwallader's hands it came, and, the wearer releasing,Left to the conqueror naught but the scalp of his bald-headed foeman.Meanwhile hither and thither, a dove on the waters of trouble,Moved Mott, mild as new milk, with his gray hair under his broad brim,Preaching peace to deaf ears, and getting considerably damaged.Cautious Covode in the rear, as dubious what it might come to,Brandished a stone-ware spittoon 'gainst whoever might seem to deserve it,—Little it mattered to him whether Pro- or Anti-Lecompton,So but he found in the Hall a foeman worthy his weapon!So raged the battle of men, till into the thick of themêlée,Like to the heralds of old, stepped the Sergeant-at-Arms and the Speaker.
Only a few days later, on May 19, occurred an affair which threw the country into convulsion. A Georgian named Charles A. Hamilton gathered together a gang of twenty-five Missourians, attacked the Free-Soilers in the neighborhood of Marais des Cygnes, took eleven prisoners, marched them off to a gulch and shot them. The pursuit of the assassins was so half-hearted that they all escaped.
Only a few days later, on May 19, occurred an affair which threw the country into convulsion. A Georgian named Charles A. Hamilton gathered together a gang of twenty-five Missourians, attacked the Free-Soilers in the neighborhood of Marais des Cygnes, took eleven prisoners, marched them off to a gulch and shot them. The pursuit of the assassins was so half-hearted that they all escaped.
LE MARAIS DU CYGNE
[May 19, 1858]
A blush as of rosesWhere rose never grew!Great drops on the bunch-grass,But not of the dew!A taint in the sweet airFor wild bees to shun!A stain that shall neverBleach out in the sun!Back, steed of the prairies!Sweet song-bird, fly back!Wheel hither, bald vulture!Gray wolf, call thy pack!The foul human vulturesHave feasted and fled;The wolves of the BorderHave crept from the dead.From the hearths of their cabins,The fields of their corn,Unwarned and unweaponed,The victims were torn,—By the whirlwind of murderSwooped up and swept onTo the low, reedy fen-lands,The Marsh of the Swan.With a vain plea for mercyNo stout knee was crooked;In the mouths of the riflesRight manly they looked.How paled the May sunshine,O Marais du Cygne!On death for the strong life,On red grass for green!In the homes of their rearing,Yet warm with their lives,Ye wait the dead only,Poor children and wives!Put out the red forge-fire,The smith shall not come;Unyoke the brown oxen,The ploughman lies dumb.Wind slow from the Swan's Marsh,O dreary death-train,With pressed lips as bloodlessAs lips of the slain!Kiss down the young eyelids,Smooth down the gray hairs;Let tears quench the cursesThat burn through your prayers.Strong man of the prairies,Mourn bitter and wild!Wail, desolate woman!Weep, fatherless child!But the grain of God springs upFrom ashes beneath,And the crown of his harvestIs life out of death.Not in vain on the dialThe shade moves along,To point the great contrastsOf right and of wrong:Free homes and free altars,Free prairie and flood,—The reeds of the Swan's Marsh,Whose bloom is of blood!On the lintels of KansasThat blood shall not dry;Henceforth the Bad AngelShall harmless go by;Henceforth to the sunset,Unchecked on her way,Shall Liberty followThe march of the day.John Greenleaf Whittier.
A blush as of rosesWhere rose never grew!Great drops on the bunch-grass,But not of the dew!A taint in the sweet airFor wild bees to shun!A stain that shall neverBleach out in the sun!Back, steed of the prairies!Sweet song-bird, fly back!Wheel hither, bald vulture!Gray wolf, call thy pack!The foul human vulturesHave feasted and fled;The wolves of the BorderHave crept from the dead.From the hearths of their cabins,The fields of their corn,Unwarned and unweaponed,The victims were torn,—By the whirlwind of murderSwooped up and swept onTo the low, reedy fen-lands,The Marsh of the Swan.With a vain plea for mercyNo stout knee was crooked;In the mouths of the riflesRight manly they looked.How paled the May sunshine,O Marais du Cygne!On death for the strong life,On red grass for green!In the homes of their rearing,Yet warm with their lives,Ye wait the dead only,Poor children and wives!Put out the red forge-fire,The smith shall not come;Unyoke the brown oxen,The ploughman lies dumb.Wind slow from the Swan's Marsh,O dreary death-train,With pressed lips as bloodlessAs lips of the slain!Kiss down the young eyelids,Smooth down the gray hairs;Let tears quench the cursesThat burn through your prayers.Strong man of the prairies,Mourn bitter and wild!Wail, desolate woman!Weep, fatherless child!But the grain of God springs upFrom ashes beneath,And the crown of his harvestIs life out of death.Not in vain on the dialThe shade moves along,To point the great contrastsOf right and of wrong:Free homes and free altars,Free prairie and flood,—The reeds of the Swan's Marsh,Whose bloom is of blood!On the lintels of KansasThat blood shall not dry;Henceforth the Bad AngelShall harmless go by;Henceforth to the sunset,Unchecked on her way,Shall Liberty followThe march of the day.John Greenleaf Whittier.
A blush as of rosesWhere rose never grew!Great drops on the bunch-grass,But not of the dew!A taint in the sweet airFor wild bees to shun!A stain that shall neverBleach out in the sun!
Back, steed of the prairies!Sweet song-bird, fly back!Wheel hither, bald vulture!Gray wolf, call thy pack!The foul human vulturesHave feasted and fled;The wolves of the BorderHave crept from the dead.
From the hearths of their cabins,The fields of their corn,Unwarned and unweaponed,The victims were torn,—By the whirlwind of murderSwooped up and swept onTo the low, reedy fen-lands,The Marsh of the Swan.
With a vain plea for mercyNo stout knee was crooked;In the mouths of the riflesRight manly they looked.How paled the May sunshine,O Marais du Cygne!On death for the strong life,On red grass for green!
In the homes of their rearing,Yet warm with their lives,Ye wait the dead only,Poor children and wives!Put out the red forge-fire,The smith shall not come;Unyoke the brown oxen,The ploughman lies dumb.
Wind slow from the Swan's Marsh,O dreary death-train,With pressed lips as bloodlessAs lips of the slain!Kiss down the young eyelids,Smooth down the gray hairs;Let tears quench the cursesThat burn through your prayers.
Strong man of the prairies,Mourn bitter and wild!Wail, desolate woman!Weep, fatherless child!But the grain of God springs upFrom ashes beneath,And the crown of his harvestIs life out of death.
Not in vain on the dialThe shade moves along,To point the great contrastsOf right and of wrong:Free homes and free altars,Free prairie and flood,—The reeds of the Swan's Marsh,Whose bloom is of blood!
On the lintels of KansasThat blood shall not dry;Henceforth the Bad AngelShall harmless go by;Henceforth to the sunset,Unchecked on her way,Shall Liberty followThe march of the day.
John Greenleaf Whittier.
Prominent among the Kansas Free-Soilers was John Brown, a leader in the guerrilla warfare. United States troops were finally thrown into the territory to preserve peace, and Brown, looking around for new fields, decided to strike a blow in Virginia. On the night of October 16, 1859, at the head of a small company, he surprised and captured the arsenal at Harper's Ferry. He was attacked next day by an overwhelming force of militia and United States marines, his men either killed or captured, and he himself taken prisoner. He was tried for treason and murder in the first degree, was found guilty and hanged December 2, 1859. The men who had been captured with him were hanged a few days later.
Prominent among the Kansas Free-Soilers was John Brown, a leader in the guerrilla warfare. United States troops were finally thrown into the territory to preserve peace, and Brown, looking around for new fields, decided to strike a blow in Virginia. On the night of October 16, 1859, at the head of a small company, he surprised and captured the arsenal at Harper's Ferry. He was attacked next day by an overwhelming force of militia and United States marines, his men either killed or captured, and he himself taken prisoner. He was tried for treason and murder in the first degree, was found guilty and hanged December 2, 1859. The men who had been captured with him were hanged a few days later.
HOW OLD BROWN TOOK HARPER'S FERRY
[October 16, 1859]
John Brown in Kansas settled, like a steadfast Yankee farmer,Brave and godly, with four sons, all stalwart men of might.There he spoke aloud for freedom, and the Border-strife grew warmer,Till the Rangers fired his dwelling, in his absence, in the night;And Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Came homeward in the morning—to find his house burned down.Then he grasped his trusty rifle and boldly fought for freedom;Smote from border unto border the fierce, invading band;And he and his brave boys vowed—so might Heaven help and speed 'em!—They would save those grand old prairies from the curse that blights the land;And Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Said, "Boys, the Lord will aid us!" and he shoved his ramrod down.And the Lorddidaid these men, and they labored day and even,Saving Kansas from its peril; and their very lives seemed charmed,Till the ruffians killed one son, in the blessed light of Heaven,—In cold blood the fellows slew him, as he journeyed all unarmed;Then Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Shed not a tear, but shut his teeth, and frowned a terrible frown!Then they seized another brave boy,—not amid the heat of battle,But in peace, behind his ploughshare,—and they loaded him with chains,And with pikes, before their horses, even as they goad their cattle,Drove him cruelly, for their sport, and at last blew out his brains;Then Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Raised his right hand up to Heaven, calling Heaven's vengeance down.And he swore a fearful oath, by the name of the Almighty,He would hunt this ravening evil that had scathed and torn him so;He would seize it by the vitals; he would crush it day and night; heWould so pursue its footsteps, so return it blow for blow,That Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Should be a name to swear by, in backwoods or in town!Then his beard became more grizzled, and his wild blue eye grew wilder,And more sharply curved his hawk's-nose, snuffing battle from afar;And he and the two boys left, though the Kansas strife waxed milder,Grew more sullen, till was over the bloody Border War,And Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Had gone crazy, as they reckoned by his fearful glare and frown.So he left the plains of Kansas and their bitter woes behind him,Slipt off into Virginia, where the statesmen all are born,Hired a farm by Harper's Ferry, and no one knew where to find him,Or whether he'd turned parson, or was jacketed and shorn;For Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Mad as he was, knew texts enough to wear a parson's gown.He bought no ploughs and harrows, spades and shovels, and such trifles;But quietly to his rancho there came, by every train,Boxes full of pikes and pistols, and his well-beloved Sharp's rifles;And eighteen other madmen joined their leader there again.Says Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,"Boys, we've got an army large enough to march and take the town!"Take the town, and seize the muskets, free the negroes and then arm them;Carry the County and the State, ay, and all the potent South.On their own heads be the slaughter, if their victims rise to harm them—These Virginians! who believed not, nor would heed the warning mouth."Says Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,"The world shall see a Republic, or my name is not John Brown."'Twas the sixteenth of October, on the evening of a Sunday:"This good work," declared the captain, "shall be on a holy night!"It was on a Sunday evening, and before the noon of Monday,With two sons, andCaptain Stephens, fifteen privates—black and white,Captain Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Marched across the bridged Potomac, and knocked the sentry down;Took the guarded armory-building, and the muskets and the cannon;Captured all the county majors and the colonels, one by one;Scared to death each gallant scion of Virginia they ran on,And before the noon of Monday, I say, the deed was done.Mad Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,With his eighteen other crazy men, went in and took the town.Very little noise and bluster, little smell of powder made he;It was all done in the midnight, like the Emperor'scoup d'état."Cut the wires! Stop the rail-cars! Hold the streets and bridges!" said he,Then declared the new Republic, with himself for guiding star,—This Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown;And the bold two thousand citizens ran off and left the town.Then was riding and railroading and expressing here and thither;And the Martinsburg Sharpshooters and the Charlestown Volunteers,And the Shepherdstown and Winchester militia hastened whitherOld Brown was said to muster his ten thousand grenadiers.General Brown!Osawatomie Brown!Behind whose rampant banner all the North was pouring down.But at last, 'tis said, some prisoners escaped from Old Brown's durance,And the effervescent valor of the Chivalry broke out,When they learned that nineteen madmen had the marvellous assurance—Only nineteen—thus to seize the place and drive them straight about;And Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Found an army come to take him, encamped around the town.But to storm, with all the forces I have mentioned, was too risky;So they hurried off to Richmond for the Government Marines,Tore them from their weeping matrons, fired their souls with Bourbon whiskey,Till they battered down Brown's castle with their ladders and machines;And Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Received three bayonet stabs, and a cut on his brave old crown.Tallyho! the old Virginia gentry gather to the baying!In they rushed and killed the game, shooting lustily away;And whene'er they slew a rebel, those who came too late for slaying,Not to lose a share of glory,fired their bullets in his clay;And Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Saw his sons fall dead beside him, and between them laid him down.How the conquerors wore their laurels;how they hastened on the trial;How Old Brown was placed, half dying, on the Charlestown court-house floor;How he spoke his grand oration, in the scorn of all denial;What the brave old madman told them,—these are known the country o'er."Hang Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,"Said the judge, "and all such rebels!" with his most judicial frown.But, Virginians, don't do it! for I tell you that the flagon,Filled with blood of Old Brown's offspring, was first poured by Southern hands;And each drop from Old Brown's life-veins, like the red gore of the dragon,May spring up a vengeful Fury, hissing through your slave-worn lands!And Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,May trouble you more than ever, when you've nailed his coffin down!Edmund Clarence Stedman.November, 1859.
John Brown in Kansas settled, like a steadfast Yankee farmer,Brave and godly, with four sons, all stalwart men of might.There he spoke aloud for freedom, and the Border-strife grew warmer,Till the Rangers fired his dwelling, in his absence, in the night;And Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Came homeward in the morning—to find his house burned down.Then he grasped his trusty rifle and boldly fought for freedom;Smote from border unto border the fierce, invading band;And he and his brave boys vowed—so might Heaven help and speed 'em!—They would save those grand old prairies from the curse that blights the land;And Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Said, "Boys, the Lord will aid us!" and he shoved his ramrod down.And the Lorddidaid these men, and they labored day and even,Saving Kansas from its peril; and their very lives seemed charmed,Till the ruffians killed one son, in the blessed light of Heaven,—In cold blood the fellows slew him, as he journeyed all unarmed;Then Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Shed not a tear, but shut his teeth, and frowned a terrible frown!Then they seized another brave boy,—not amid the heat of battle,But in peace, behind his ploughshare,—and they loaded him with chains,And with pikes, before their horses, even as they goad their cattle,Drove him cruelly, for their sport, and at last blew out his brains;Then Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Raised his right hand up to Heaven, calling Heaven's vengeance down.And he swore a fearful oath, by the name of the Almighty,He would hunt this ravening evil that had scathed and torn him so;He would seize it by the vitals; he would crush it day and night; heWould so pursue its footsteps, so return it blow for blow,That Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Should be a name to swear by, in backwoods or in town!Then his beard became more grizzled, and his wild blue eye grew wilder,And more sharply curved his hawk's-nose, snuffing battle from afar;And he and the two boys left, though the Kansas strife waxed milder,Grew more sullen, till was over the bloody Border War,And Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Had gone crazy, as they reckoned by his fearful glare and frown.So he left the plains of Kansas and their bitter woes behind him,Slipt off into Virginia, where the statesmen all are born,Hired a farm by Harper's Ferry, and no one knew where to find him,Or whether he'd turned parson, or was jacketed and shorn;For Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Mad as he was, knew texts enough to wear a parson's gown.He bought no ploughs and harrows, spades and shovels, and such trifles;But quietly to his rancho there came, by every train,Boxes full of pikes and pistols, and his well-beloved Sharp's rifles;And eighteen other madmen joined their leader there again.Says Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,"Boys, we've got an army large enough to march and take the town!"Take the town, and seize the muskets, free the negroes and then arm them;Carry the County and the State, ay, and all the potent South.On their own heads be the slaughter, if their victims rise to harm them—These Virginians! who believed not, nor would heed the warning mouth."Says Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,"The world shall see a Republic, or my name is not John Brown."'Twas the sixteenth of October, on the evening of a Sunday:"This good work," declared the captain, "shall be on a holy night!"It was on a Sunday evening, and before the noon of Monday,With two sons, andCaptain Stephens, fifteen privates—black and white,Captain Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Marched across the bridged Potomac, and knocked the sentry down;Took the guarded armory-building, and the muskets and the cannon;Captured all the county majors and the colonels, one by one;Scared to death each gallant scion of Virginia they ran on,And before the noon of Monday, I say, the deed was done.Mad Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,With his eighteen other crazy men, went in and took the town.Very little noise and bluster, little smell of powder made he;It was all done in the midnight, like the Emperor'scoup d'état."Cut the wires! Stop the rail-cars! Hold the streets and bridges!" said he,Then declared the new Republic, with himself for guiding star,—This Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown;And the bold two thousand citizens ran off and left the town.Then was riding and railroading and expressing here and thither;And the Martinsburg Sharpshooters and the Charlestown Volunteers,And the Shepherdstown and Winchester militia hastened whitherOld Brown was said to muster his ten thousand grenadiers.General Brown!Osawatomie Brown!Behind whose rampant banner all the North was pouring down.But at last, 'tis said, some prisoners escaped from Old Brown's durance,And the effervescent valor of the Chivalry broke out,When they learned that nineteen madmen had the marvellous assurance—Only nineteen—thus to seize the place and drive them straight about;And Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Found an army come to take him, encamped around the town.But to storm, with all the forces I have mentioned, was too risky;So they hurried off to Richmond for the Government Marines,Tore them from their weeping matrons, fired their souls with Bourbon whiskey,Till they battered down Brown's castle with their ladders and machines;And Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Received three bayonet stabs, and a cut on his brave old crown.Tallyho! the old Virginia gentry gather to the baying!In they rushed and killed the game, shooting lustily away;And whene'er they slew a rebel, those who came too late for slaying,Not to lose a share of glory,fired their bullets in his clay;And Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Saw his sons fall dead beside him, and between them laid him down.How the conquerors wore their laurels;how they hastened on the trial;How Old Brown was placed, half dying, on the Charlestown court-house floor;How he spoke his grand oration, in the scorn of all denial;What the brave old madman told them,—these are known the country o'er."Hang Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,"Said the judge, "and all such rebels!" with his most judicial frown.But, Virginians, don't do it! for I tell you that the flagon,Filled with blood of Old Brown's offspring, was first poured by Southern hands;And each drop from Old Brown's life-veins, like the red gore of the dragon,May spring up a vengeful Fury, hissing through your slave-worn lands!And Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,May trouble you more than ever, when you've nailed his coffin down!Edmund Clarence Stedman.November, 1859.
John Brown in Kansas settled, like a steadfast Yankee farmer,Brave and godly, with four sons, all stalwart men of might.There he spoke aloud for freedom, and the Border-strife grew warmer,Till the Rangers fired his dwelling, in his absence, in the night;And Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Came homeward in the morning—to find his house burned down.
Then he grasped his trusty rifle and boldly fought for freedom;Smote from border unto border the fierce, invading band;And he and his brave boys vowed—so might Heaven help and speed 'em!—They would save those grand old prairies from the curse that blights the land;And Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Said, "Boys, the Lord will aid us!" and he shoved his ramrod down.
And the Lorddidaid these men, and they labored day and even,Saving Kansas from its peril; and their very lives seemed charmed,Till the ruffians killed one son, in the blessed light of Heaven,—In cold blood the fellows slew him, as he journeyed all unarmed;Then Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Shed not a tear, but shut his teeth, and frowned a terrible frown!
Then they seized another brave boy,—not amid the heat of battle,But in peace, behind his ploughshare,—and they loaded him with chains,And with pikes, before their horses, even as they goad their cattle,Drove him cruelly, for their sport, and at last blew out his brains;Then Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Raised his right hand up to Heaven, calling Heaven's vengeance down.
And he swore a fearful oath, by the name of the Almighty,He would hunt this ravening evil that had scathed and torn him so;He would seize it by the vitals; he would crush it day and night; heWould so pursue its footsteps, so return it blow for blow,That Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Should be a name to swear by, in backwoods or in town!
Then his beard became more grizzled, and his wild blue eye grew wilder,And more sharply curved his hawk's-nose, snuffing battle from afar;And he and the two boys left, though the Kansas strife waxed milder,Grew more sullen, till was over the bloody Border War,And Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Had gone crazy, as they reckoned by his fearful glare and frown.
So he left the plains of Kansas and their bitter woes behind him,Slipt off into Virginia, where the statesmen all are born,Hired a farm by Harper's Ferry, and no one knew where to find him,Or whether he'd turned parson, or was jacketed and shorn;For Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Mad as he was, knew texts enough to wear a parson's gown.
He bought no ploughs and harrows, spades and shovels, and such trifles;But quietly to his rancho there came, by every train,Boxes full of pikes and pistols, and his well-beloved Sharp's rifles;And eighteen other madmen joined their leader there again.Says Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,"Boys, we've got an army large enough to march and take the town!
"Take the town, and seize the muskets, free the negroes and then arm them;Carry the County and the State, ay, and all the potent South.On their own heads be the slaughter, if their victims rise to harm them—These Virginians! who believed not, nor would heed the warning mouth."Says Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,"The world shall see a Republic, or my name is not John Brown."
'Twas the sixteenth of October, on the evening of a Sunday:"This good work," declared the captain, "shall be on a holy night!"It was on a Sunday evening, and before the noon of Monday,With two sons, andCaptain Stephens, fifteen privates—black and white,Captain Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Marched across the bridged Potomac, and knocked the sentry down;
Took the guarded armory-building, and the muskets and the cannon;Captured all the county majors and the colonels, one by one;Scared to death each gallant scion of Virginia they ran on,And before the noon of Monday, I say, the deed was done.Mad Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,With his eighteen other crazy men, went in and took the town.
Very little noise and bluster, little smell of powder made he;It was all done in the midnight, like the Emperor'scoup d'état."Cut the wires! Stop the rail-cars! Hold the streets and bridges!" said he,Then declared the new Republic, with himself for guiding star,—This Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown;And the bold two thousand citizens ran off and left the town.
Then was riding and railroading and expressing here and thither;And the Martinsburg Sharpshooters and the Charlestown Volunteers,And the Shepherdstown and Winchester militia hastened whitherOld Brown was said to muster his ten thousand grenadiers.General Brown!Osawatomie Brown!Behind whose rampant banner all the North was pouring down.
But at last, 'tis said, some prisoners escaped from Old Brown's durance,And the effervescent valor of the Chivalry broke out,When they learned that nineteen madmen had the marvellous assurance—Only nineteen—thus to seize the place and drive them straight about;And Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Found an army come to take him, encamped around the town.
But to storm, with all the forces I have mentioned, was too risky;So they hurried off to Richmond for the Government Marines,Tore them from their weeping matrons, fired their souls with Bourbon whiskey,Till they battered down Brown's castle with their ladders and machines;And Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Received three bayonet stabs, and a cut on his brave old crown.
Tallyho! the old Virginia gentry gather to the baying!In they rushed and killed the game, shooting lustily away;And whene'er they slew a rebel, those who came too late for slaying,Not to lose a share of glory,fired their bullets in his clay;And Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Saw his sons fall dead beside him, and between them laid him down.
How the conquerors wore their laurels;how they hastened on the trial;How Old Brown was placed, half dying, on the Charlestown court-house floor;How he spoke his grand oration, in the scorn of all denial;What the brave old madman told them,—these are known the country o'er."Hang Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,"Said the judge, "and all such rebels!" with his most judicial frown.
But, Virginians, don't do it! for I tell you that the flagon,Filled with blood of Old Brown's offspring, was first poured by Southern hands;And each drop from Old Brown's life-veins, like the red gore of the dragon,May spring up a vengeful Fury, hissing through your slave-worn lands!And Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,May trouble you more than ever, when you've nailed his coffin down!
Edmund Clarence Stedman.
November, 1859.
THE BATTLE OF CHARLESTOWN
[December 2, 1859]
Fresh palms for the Old Dominion!New peers for the valiant Dead!Never hath showered her sunshineOn a field of doughtier dread—Heroes in buff three thousand,And a single scarred gray head!Fuss, and feathers, and flurry—Clink, and rattle, and roar—The old man looks around himOn meadow and mountain hoar;The place, he remarks, is pleasant,I had not seen it before.Form, in your boldest order,Let the people press no nigher!Would ye have them hear to his words—The words that may spread like fire?'Tis a right smart chance to test him(Here we are at the gallows-tree),So knot the noose—pretty tightly—Bandage his eyes, and we'll see(For we'll keep him waiting a little),If he tremble in nerve or knee.There, in a string, we've got him!(Shall the music bang and blow?)The chivalry wheels and marches,And airs its valor below.Look hard in the blindfold visage(He can't look back), and inquire(He has stood there nearly a quarter),If he doesn't begin to tire?Not yet! how long will he keep us,To see if he quail or no?I reckon it's no use waiting,And 'tis time that we had the show.For the trouble—we can't see why—Seems with us, and not with him,As he stands 'neath the autumn sky,So strangely solemn and dim!But high let our standard flout it!"Sic Semper"—the drop comes down—And (woe to the rogues that doubt it!)There's an end of old John Brown!Henry Howard Brownell.
Fresh palms for the Old Dominion!New peers for the valiant Dead!Never hath showered her sunshineOn a field of doughtier dread—Heroes in buff three thousand,And a single scarred gray head!Fuss, and feathers, and flurry—Clink, and rattle, and roar—The old man looks around himOn meadow and mountain hoar;The place, he remarks, is pleasant,I had not seen it before.Form, in your boldest order,Let the people press no nigher!Would ye have them hear to his words—The words that may spread like fire?'Tis a right smart chance to test him(Here we are at the gallows-tree),So knot the noose—pretty tightly—Bandage his eyes, and we'll see(For we'll keep him waiting a little),If he tremble in nerve or knee.There, in a string, we've got him!(Shall the music bang and blow?)The chivalry wheels and marches,And airs its valor below.Look hard in the blindfold visage(He can't look back), and inquire(He has stood there nearly a quarter),If he doesn't begin to tire?Not yet! how long will he keep us,To see if he quail or no?I reckon it's no use waiting,And 'tis time that we had the show.For the trouble—we can't see why—Seems with us, and not with him,As he stands 'neath the autumn sky,So strangely solemn and dim!But high let our standard flout it!"Sic Semper"—the drop comes down—And (woe to the rogues that doubt it!)There's an end of old John Brown!Henry Howard Brownell.
Fresh palms for the Old Dominion!New peers for the valiant Dead!Never hath showered her sunshineOn a field of doughtier dread—Heroes in buff three thousand,And a single scarred gray head!
Fuss, and feathers, and flurry—Clink, and rattle, and roar—The old man looks around himOn meadow and mountain hoar;The place, he remarks, is pleasant,I had not seen it before.
Form, in your boldest order,Let the people press no nigher!Would ye have them hear to his words—The words that may spread like fire?
'Tis a right smart chance to test him(Here we are at the gallows-tree),So knot the noose—pretty tightly—Bandage his eyes, and we'll see(For we'll keep him waiting a little),If he tremble in nerve or knee.
There, in a string, we've got him!(Shall the music bang and blow?)The chivalry wheels and marches,And airs its valor below.
Look hard in the blindfold visage(He can't look back), and inquire(He has stood there nearly a quarter),If he doesn't begin to tire?
Not yet! how long will he keep us,To see if he quail or no?I reckon it's no use waiting,And 'tis time that we had the show.
For the trouble—we can't see why—Seems with us, and not with him,As he stands 'neath the autumn sky,So strangely solemn and dim!But high let our standard flout it!"Sic Semper"—the drop comes down—And (woe to the rogues that doubt it!)There's an end of old John Brown!
Henry Howard Brownell.
BROWN OF OSSAWATOMIE
[December 2, 1859]
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!"John Brown of Ossawatomie, 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;And they who blamed the bloody hand forgave the loving heart.That kiss from all its guilty means redeemed the good intent,And round the grisly fighter's hair the martyr's aureole bent!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;Not the borderer's pride of daring, but the Christian's sacrifice.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!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!John Greenleaf Whittier.
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!"John Brown of Ossawatomie, 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;And they who blamed the bloody hand forgave the loving heart.That kiss from all its guilty means redeemed the good intent,And round the grisly fighter's hair the martyr's aureole bent!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;Not the borderer's pride of daring, but the Christian's sacrifice.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!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!John Greenleaf Whittier.
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!"
John Brown of Ossawatomie, 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;And they who blamed the bloody hand forgave the loving heart.That kiss from all its guilty means redeemed the good intent,And round the grisly fighter's hair the martyr's aureole bent!
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;Not the borderer's pride of daring, but the Christian's sacrifice.
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!
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!
John Greenleaf Whittier.
In the North, Brown was considered a sainted martyr—an estimate as untrue as the Southern one—and "John Brown's Body" became the most popular marching song in the war whichwas to follow. Charles Sprague Hall is said to have been the author of the verses.
In the North, Brown was considered a sainted martyr—an estimate as untrue as the Southern one—and "John Brown's Body" became the most popular marching song in the war whichwas to follow. Charles Sprague Hall is said to have been the author of the verses.
GLORY HALLELUJAH! OR JOHN BROWN'S BODY
John Brown's body lies a-mould'ring in the grave,John Brown's body lies a-mould'ring in the grave,John Brown's body lies a-mould'ring in the grave,His soul is marching on!Chorus—Glory! Glory Hallelujah!Glory! Glory Hallelujah!Glory! Glory Hallelujah!His soul is marching on.He's gone to be a soldier in the army of the Lord!His soul is marching on.John Brown's knapsack is strapped upon his back.His soul is marching on.His pet lambs will meet him on the way,And they'll go marching on.They'll hang Jeff Davis on a sour apple tree,As they go marching on.Now for the Union let's give three rousing cheers,As we go marching on.Hip, hip, hip, hip, Hurrah!Charles Sprague Hall.
John Brown's body lies a-mould'ring in the grave,John Brown's body lies a-mould'ring in the grave,John Brown's body lies a-mould'ring in the grave,His soul is marching on!Chorus—Glory! Glory Hallelujah!Glory! Glory Hallelujah!Glory! Glory Hallelujah!His soul is marching on.He's gone to be a soldier in the army of the Lord!His soul is marching on.John Brown's knapsack is strapped upon his back.His soul is marching on.His pet lambs will meet him on the way,And they'll go marching on.They'll hang Jeff Davis on a sour apple tree,As they go marching on.Now for the Union let's give three rousing cheers,As we go marching on.Hip, hip, hip, hip, Hurrah!Charles Sprague Hall.
John Brown's body lies a-mould'ring in the grave,John Brown's body lies a-mould'ring in the grave,John Brown's body lies a-mould'ring in the grave,His soul is marching on!Chorus—Glory! Glory Hallelujah!Glory! Glory Hallelujah!Glory! Glory Hallelujah!His soul is marching on.
He's gone to be a soldier in the army of the Lord!His soul is marching on.
John Brown's knapsack is strapped upon his back.His soul is marching on.
His pet lambs will meet him on the way,And they'll go marching on.
They'll hang Jeff Davis on a sour apple tree,As they go marching on.
Now for the Union let's give three rousing cheers,As we go marching on.Hip, hip, hip, hip, Hurrah!
Charles Sprague Hall.
A variant of the John Brown song was written by Miss Edna Dean Proctor, and is certainly more coherent and intelligible than the lines which formed a marching song for over a million men.
A variant of the John Brown song was written by Miss Edna Dean Proctor, and is certainly more coherent and intelligible than the lines which formed a marching song for over a million men.
JOHN BROWN
John Brown died on the scaffold for the slave;Dark was the hour when we dug his hallowed grave;Now God avenges the life he gladly gave,Freedom reigns to-day!Glory, glory hallelujah,Glory, glory hallelujah,Glory, glory hallelujah,Freedom reigns to-day!John Brown sowed and the harvesters are we;Honor to him who has made the bondsman free;Loved evermore shall our noble ruler be,Freedom reigns to-day!John Brown's body lies mouldering in the grave;Bright o'er the sod let the starry banner wave;Lo! for the million he perilled all to save,Freedom reigns to-day!John Brown's body through the world is marching on;Hail to the hour when oppression shall be gone;All men will sing in the better day's dawn,Freedom reigns to-day!John Brown dwells where the battle's strife is o'er;Hate cannot harm him, nor sorrow stir him more;Earth will remember the martyrdom he bore,Freedom reigns to-day!John Brown's body lies mouldering in the grave;John Brown lives in the triumph of the brave;John Brown's soul not a higher joy can crave,Freedom reigns to-day!Edna Dean Proctor.
John Brown died on the scaffold for the slave;Dark was the hour when we dug his hallowed grave;Now God avenges the life he gladly gave,Freedom reigns to-day!Glory, glory hallelujah,Glory, glory hallelujah,Glory, glory hallelujah,Freedom reigns to-day!John Brown sowed and the harvesters are we;Honor to him who has made the bondsman free;Loved evermore shall our noble ruler be,Freedom reigns to-day!John Brown's body lies mouldering in the grave;Bright o'er the sod let the starry banner wave;Lo! for the million he perilled all to save,Freedom reigns to-day!John Brown's body through the world is marching on;Hail to the hour when oppression shall be gone;All men will sing in the better day's dawn,Freedom reigns to-day!John Brown dwells where the battle's strife is o'er;Hate cannot harm him, nor sorrow stir him more;Earth will remember the martyrdom he bore,Freedom reigns to-day!John Brown's body lies mouldering in the grave;John Brown lives in the triumph of the brave;John Brown's soul not a higher joy can crave,Freedom reigns to-day!Edna Dean Proctor.
John Brown died on the scaffold for the slave;Dark was the hour when we dug his hallowed grave;Now God avenges the life he gladly gave,Freedom reigns to-day!Glory, glory hallelujah,Glory, glory hallelujah,Glory, glory hallelujah,Freedom reigns to-day!
John Brown sowed and the harvesters are we;Honor to him who has made the bondsman free;Loved evermore shall our noble ruler be,Freedom reigns to-day!
John Brown's body lies mouldering in the grave;Bright o'er the sod let the starry banner wave;Lo! for the million he perilled all to save,Freedom reigns to-day!
John Brown's body through the world is marching on;Hail to the hour when oppression shall be gone;All men will sing in the better day's dawn,Freedom reigns to-day!
John Brown dwells where the battle's strife is o'er;Hate cannot harm him, nor sorrow stir him more;Earth will remember the martyrdom he bore,Freedom reigns to-day!
John Brown's body lies mouldering in the grave;John Brown lives in the triumph of the brave;John Brown's soul not a higher joy can crave,Freedom reigns to-day!
Edna Dean Proctor.
JOHN BROWN: A PARADOX
Compassionate 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 renownOf the holy rash arm, the equipper and starterOf 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 sunsetIn the old broken heart of our hanged John Brown!Louise Imogen Guiney.
Compassionate 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 renownOf the holy rash arm, the equipper and starterOf 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 sunsetIn the old broken heart of our hanged John Brown!Louise Imogen Guiney.
Compassionate 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 renownOf the holy rash arm, the equipper and starterOf 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 sunsetIn the old broken heart of our hanged John Brown!
Louise Imogen Guiney.
The summer of 1860 swung around, and on April 23 the National Democratic Convention met at Charleston, S. C. Antagonism at once developed between the delegates from the South and from the North, the committee on resolutions could not agree, and after a week of bitter debate the Northern platform was adopted and the Southern delegates withdrew in a body. It was the first step toward secession. The convention adjourned to meet at Baltimore, where Stephen A. Douglas was nominated for the presidency.
The summer of 1860 swung around, and on April 23 the National Democratic Convention met at Charleston, S. C. Antagonism at once developed between the delegates from the South and from the North, the committee on resolutions could not agree, and after a week of bitter debate the Northern platform was adopted and the Southern delegates withdrew in a body. It was the first step toward secession. The convention adjourned to meet at Baltimore, where Stephen A. Douglas was nominated for the presidency.
LECOMPTON'S BLACK BRIGADE
A SONG OF THE CHARLESTON CONVENTION
[April 23, 1860]
Single-handed, and surrounded by Lecompton's black brigade,With the treasury of a nation drained to pay for hireling aid;All the weapons of corruption—the bribe, the threat, the lie—All the forces of his rivals leagued to make this one man die,Yet smilingly he met them, his heart and forehead bare,And they quailed beneath the lightnings of his blue eye's sudden glare;For all behind him thronging the mighty people came,With looks of fiery eagerness and words of leaping flame—"A Douglas and a Douglas!"Hark to the people's cry,Shaking the earth beneath their feet,And thundering through the sky.Crooked and weak, but envious as the witches of Macbeth,Came old and gray Buchanan a-hungering for his death;And full of mortal strategy, with green and rheumy eyes,John Slidell—he of Houmas—each poisoned arrow tries.With cold and stony visage, lo! Breckinridge is there,While old Joe Lane keeps flourishing his rusty sword in air;But still the "Little Giant" holds unmoved his fearless way,While the great waves of the people behind him rock and sway—"A Douglas and a Douglas!No hand but his can guide,In such a strait, our ship of stateAcross the stormy tide."A poisonous reptile, many-scaled and with most subtle fang,Crawled forward Caleb Cushing, while behind his rattles rang;And, mounted on a charger of hot and glossy black,The Alabamian Yancey dashes in with fell attack:Lo! Bayard is aroused, and quits his favorite cards and dice,While Jeff Davis plots with Bigler full many a foul device;But, smiling still, against them all their One Foe holds his own,While louder still and louder, the cry behind has grown—"A Douglas and a Douglas,Who every base trick spurns;The people's will is sovereign still,And that to Douglas turns."Half horse, half alligator, here from Mississippi's banksThe blatant Barry caracoles and spurs along the ranks;From Arkansaw comes Burrows, with his "toothpick" in its sheath,While that jaundiced Georgian, Jackson, shows his grim and ugly teeth;And Barksdale barks his bitterest bark, and curls his stunted tail,And snarls like forty thousand curs beneath a storm of hail;But smiling now—almost a laugh—the Douglas marches on,While many million voices rise in chorus like to one—"A Douglas and a Douglas"Louder the war-song grows:"God speed the man who fights so wellAgainst a thousand foes."Long and fierce was the encounter beneath the burning sky,Fierce were the threatening gestures—the words rang shrill and high;In a struggle most protracted, after seven and fifty shocks,Like those old gigantic combats in which Titans fought with rocks(And with "rocks," but of a different kind, no doubt Buchanan fought),This first pitched battle of the war unto its end was brought;And smiling still, with stainless plume and eye as clear as day,The "Little Giant" held his own through all that murderous fray:"A Douglas and a Douglas!"Still louder grows the roarWhich swells and floats from myriad throatsLike waves on some wild shore.Oh! a cheer for Colonel Flournoy, who to help our chief did press,May memory perish if his name we cease to love and bless!And a cheer for all the good and true who faced the music's note,Who seized old Hydra in his den, and shook him by the throat.Though our country stand forever, from her record ne'er will fadeThe glory of that combat with Lecompton's black brigade;And when June comes with her roses, at Baltimore we'll crownThe "Little Giant," who has met and struck corruption down.So a Douglas and a Douglas!While hearts have smiles and tears,Your name will glow, your praise shall flow,Through all the coming years.Charles Graham Halpine.
Single-handed, and surrounded by Lecompton's black brigade,With the treasury of a nation drained to pay for hireling aid;All the weapons of corruption—the bribe, the threat, the lie—All the forces of his rivals leagued to make this one man die,Yet smilingly he met them, his heart and forehead bare,And they quailed beneath the lightnings of his blue eye's sudden glare;For all behind him thronging the mighty people came,With looks of fiery eagerness and words of leaping flame—"A Douglas and a Douglas!"Hark to the people's cry,Shaking the earth beneath their feet,And thundering through the sky.Crooked and weak, but envious as the witches of Macbeth,Came old and gray Buchanan a-hungering for his death;And full of mortal strategy, with green and rheumy eyes,John Slidell—he of Houmas—each poisoned arrow tries.With cold and stony visage, lo! Breckinridge is there,While old Joe Lane keeps flourishing his rusty sword in air;But still the "Little Giant" holds unmoved his fearless way,While the great waves of the people behind him rock and sway—"A Douglas and a Douglas!No hand but his can guide,In such a strait, our ship of stateAcross the stormy tide."A poisonous reptile, many-scaled and with most subtle fang,Crawled forward Caleb Cushing, while behind his rattles rang;And, mounted on a charger of hot and glossy black,The Alabamian Yancey dashes in with fell attack:Lo! Bayard is aroused, and quits his favorite cards and dice,While Jeff Davis plots with Bigler full many a foul device;But, smiling still, against them all their One Foe holds his own,While louder still and louder, the cry behind has grown—"A Douglas and a Douglas,Who every base trick spurns;The people's will is sovereign still,And that to Douglas turns."Half horse, half alligator, here from Mississippi's banksThe blatant Barry caracoles and spurs along the ranks;From Arkansaw comes Burrows, with his "toothpick" in its sheath,While that jaundiced Georgian, Jackson, shows his grim and ugly teeth;And Barksdale barks his bitterest bark, and curls his stunted tail,And snarls like forty thousand curs beneath a storm of hail;But smiling now—almost a laugh—the Douglas marches on,While many million voices rise in chorus like to one—"A Douglas and a Douglas"Louder the war-song grows:"God speed the man who fights so wellAgainst a thousand foes."Long and fierce was the encounter beneath the burning sky,Fierce were the threatening gestures—the words rang shrill and high;In a struggle most protracted, after seven and fifty shocks,Like those old gigantic combats in which Titans fought with rocks(And with "rocks," but of a different kind, no doubt Buchanan fought),This first pitched battle of the war unto its end was brought;And smiling still, with stainless plume and eye as clear as day,The "Little Giant" held his own through all that murderous fray:"A Douglas and a Douglas!"Still louder grows the roarWhich swells and floats from myriad throatsLike waves on some wild shore.Oh! a cheer for Colonel Flournoy, who to help our chief did press,May memory perish if his name we cease to love and bless!And a cheer for all the good and true who faced the music's note,Who seized old Hydra in his den, and shook him by the throat.Though our country stand forever, from her record ne'er will fadeThe glory of that combat with Lecompton's black brigade;And when June comes with her roses, at Baltimore we'll crownThe "Little Giant," who has met and struck corruption down.So a Douglas and a Douglas!While hearts have smiles and tears,Your name will glow, your praise shall flow,Through all the coming years.Charles Graham Halpine.
Single-handed, and surrounded by Lecompton's black brigade,With the treasury of a nation drained to pay for hireling aid;All the weapons of corruption—the bribe, the threat, the lie—All the forces of his rivals leagued to make this one man die,Yet smilingly he met them, his heart and forehead bare,And they quailed beneath the lightnings of his blue eye's sudden glare;For all behind him thronging the mighty people came,With looks of fiery eagerness and words of leaping flame—"A Douglas and a Douglas!"Hark to the people's cry,Shaking the earth beneath their feet,And thundering through the sky.
Crooked and weak, but envious as the witches of Macbeth,Came old and gray Buchanan a-hungering for his death;And full of mortal strategy, with green and rheumy eyes,John Slidell—he of Houmas—each poisoned arrow tries.With cold and stony visage, lo! Breckinridge is there,While old Joe Lane keeps flourishing his rusty sword in air;But still the "Little Giant" holds unmoved his fearless way,While the great waves of the people behind him rock and sway—"A Douglas and a Douglas!No hand but his can guide,In such a strait, our ship of stateAcross the stormy tide."
A poisonous reptile, many-scaled and with most subtle fang,Crawled forward Caleb Cushing, while behind his rattles rang;And, mounted on a charger of hot and glossy black,The Alabamian Yancey dashes in with fell attack:Lo! Bayard is aroused, and quits his favorite cards and dice,While Jeff Davis plots with Bigler full many a foul device;But, smiling still, against them all their One Foe holds his own,While louder still and louder, the cry behind has grown—"A Douglas and a Douglas,Who every base trick spurns;The people's will is sovereign still,And that to Douglas turns."
Half horse, half alligator, here from Mississippi's banksThe blatant Barry caracoles and spurs along the ranks;From Arkansaw comes Burrows, with his "toothpick" in its sheath,While that jaundiced Georgian, Jackson, shows his grim and ugly teeth;And Barksdale barks his bitterest bark, and curls his stunted tail,And snarls like forty thousand curs beneath a storm of hail;But smiling now—almost a laugh—the Douglas marches on,While many million voices rise in chorus like to one—"A Douglas and a Douglas"Louder the war-song grows:"God speed the man who fights so wellAgainst a thousand foes."
Long and fierce was the encounter beneath the burning sky,Fierce were the threatening gestures—the words rang shrill and high;In a struggle most protracted, after seven and fifty shocks,Like those old gigantic combats in which Titans fought with rocks(And with "rocks," but of a different kind, no doubt Buchanan fought),This first pitched battle of the war unto its end was brought;And smiling still, with stainless plume and eye as clear as day,The "Little Giant" held his own through all that murderous fray:"A Douglas and a Douglas!"Still louder grows the roarWhich swells and floats from myriad throatsLike waves on some wild shore.
Oh! a cheer for Colonel Flournoy, who to help our chief did press,May memory perish if his name we cease to love and bless!And a cheer for all the good and true who faced the music's note,Who seized old Hydra in his den, and shook him by the throat.Though our country stand forever, from her record ne'er will fadeThe glory of that combat with Lecompton's black brigade;And when June comes with her roses, at Baltimore we'll crownThe "Little Giant," who has met and struck corruption down.So a Douglas and a Douglas!While hearts have smiles and tears,Your name will glow, your praise shall flow,Through all the coming years.
Charles Graham Halpine.
While the Democrats were thus divided, the Republicans had met at Chicago, adopted a platform protesting against the extension of slavery in the territories, and nominated for President Abraham Lincoln, of Illinois. On November 6, 1860, Lincoln was elected President, receiving one hundred and eighty electoral votes.
While the Democrats were thus divided, the Republicans had met at Chicago, adopted a platform protesting against the extension of slavery in the territories, and nominated for President Abraham Lincoln, of Illinois. On November 6, 1860, Lincoln was elected President, receiving one hundred and eighty electoral votes.
LINCOLN, THE MAN OF THE PEOPLE
When the Norn-Mother saw the Whirlwind Hour,Greatening and darkening as it hurried on,She bent the strenuous heavens and came downTo make a man to meet the mortal need.She took the tried clay of the common road—Clay warm yet with the genial heat of Earth,Dashed through it all a strain of prophecy;Then mixed a laughter with the serious stuff.It was a stuff to wear for centuries,A man that matched the mountains, and compelledThe stars to look our way and honor us.The color of the ground was in him, the red earth;The tang and odor of the primal things—The rectitude and patience of the rocks;The gladness of the wind that shakes the corn;The courage of the bird that dares the sea;The justice of the rain that loves all leaves;The pity of the snow that hides all scars;The loving-kindness of the wayside well;The tolerance and equity of lightThat gives as freely to the shrinking weedAs to the great oak flaring to the wind—To the grove's low bill as to the MatterhornThat shoulders out the sky.And so he came.From prairie cabin up to Capitol,One fair Ideal led our chieftain on.Forevermore he burned to do his deedWith the fine stroke and gesture of a king.He built the rail-pile as he built the State,Pouring his splendid strength through every blow,The conscience of him testing every stroke,To make his deed the measure of a man.So came the Captain with a mighty heart:And when the step of Earthquake shook the house,Wrenching the rafters from their ancient hold,He held the ridgepole up, and spiked againThe rafters of the Home. He held his place—Held the long purpose like a growing tree—Held on through blame and faltered not at praise.And when he fell in whirlwind, he went downAs when a kingly cedar green with boughsGoes down with a great shout upon the hills,And leaves a lonesome place against the sky.Edwin Markham.
When the Norn-Mother saw the Whirlwind Hour,Greatening and darkening as it hurried on,She bent the strenuous heavens and came downTo make a man to meet the mortal need.She took the tried clay of the common road—Clay warm yet with the genial heat of Earth,Dashed through it all a strain of prophecy;Then mixed a laughter with the serious stuff.It was a stuff to wear for centuries,A man that matched the mountains, and compelledThe stars to look our way and honor us.The color of the ground was in him, the red earth;The tang and odor of the primal things—The rectitude and patience of the rocks;The gladness of the wind that shakes the corn;The courage of the bird that dares the sea;The justice of the rain that loves all leaves;The pity of the snow that hides all scars;The loving-kindness of the wayside well;The tolerance and equity of lightThat gives as freely to the shrinking weedAs to the great oak flaring to the wind—To the grove's low bill as to the MatterhornThat shoulders out the sky.And so he came.From prairie cabin up to Capitol,One fair Ideal led our chieftain on.Forevermore he burned to do his deedWith the fine stroke and gesture of a king.He built the rail-pile as he built the State,Pouring his splendid strength through every blow,The conscience of him testing every stroke,To make his deed the measure of a man.So came the Captain with a mighty heart:And when the step of Earthquake shook the house,Wrenching the rafters from their ancient hold,He held the ridgepole up, and spiked againThe rafters of the Home. He held his place—Held the long purpose like a growing tree—Held on through blame and faltered not at praise.And when he fell in whirlwind, he went downAs when a kingly cedar green with boughsGoes down with a great shout upon the hills,And leaves a lonesome place against the sky.Edwin Markham.
When the Norn-Mother saw the Whirlwind Hour,Greatening and darkening as it hurried on,She bent the strenuous heavens and came downTo make a man to meet the mortal need.She took the tried clay of the common road—Clay warm yet with the genial heat of Earth,Dashed through it all a strain of prophecy;Then mixed a laughter with the serious stuff.It was a stuff to wear for centuries,A man that matched the mountains, and compelledThe stars to look our way and honor us.
The color of the ground was in him, the red earth;The tang and odor of the primal things—The rectitude and patience of the rocks;The gladness of the wind that shakes the corn;The courage of the bird that dares the sea;The justice of the rain that loves all leaves;The pity of the snow that hides all scars;The loving-kindness of the wayside well;The tolerance and equity of lightThat gives as freely to the shrinking weedAs to the great oak flaring to the wind—To the grove's low bill as to the MatterhornThat shoulders out the sky.
And so he came.From prairie cabin up to Capitol,One fair Ideal led our chieftain on.Forevermore he burned to do his deedWith the fine stroke and gesture of a king.He built the rail-pile as he built the State,Pouring his splendid strength through every blow,The conscience of him testing every stroke,To make his deed the measure of a man.
So came the Captain with a mighty heart:And when the step of Earthquake shook the house,Wrenching the rafters from their ancient hold,He held the ridgepole up, and spiked againThe rafters of the Home. He held his place—Held the long purpose like a growing tree—Held on through blame and faltered not at praise.And when he fell in whirlwind, he went downAs when a kingly cedar green with boughsGoes down with a great shout upon the hills,And leaves a lonesome place against the sky.
Edwin Markham.
Lincoln's election was the signal the South had been awaiting. On December 20, 1860, the state of South Carolina unanimously passed an ordinance of secession, and a week later, the state troops seized Castle Pinckney and Fort Moultrie, in Charleston harbor, and took possession of the United States arsenal at Charleston, with seventy-five thousand stands of arms.
Lincoln's election was the signal the South had been awaiting. On December 20, 1860, the state of South Carolina unanimously passed an ordinance of secession, and a week later, the state troops seized Castle Pinckney and Fort Moultrie, in Charleston harbor, and took possession of the United States arsenal at Charleston, with seventy-five thousand stands of arms.
BROTHER JONATHAN'S LAMENT FOR SISTER CAROLINE