IN MEMORY OF JOHN BROWN OF OSSAWATTOMIE.
INSCRIBED TO JOHN J. INGALLS.
I.
A cloud for years o’erhung the border-land,
Black, ominous, wherein were dimly seen
Soul-terrifying shapes of beasts unclean,
And men uncleaner still, a hideous band,
Loathsome as reptiles from the slimy strand
Of vanished seas, in ages pliocene.
Prophets the portent read with vision keen,
But lying seers cried “Peace,” throughout the land,
’Tis but a cloud-bank changing with the wind,
And craven hearts draw their own pictures there,
And traitors sneered, and from the pulpit whined
Sleek hypocrites, blind leaders of the blind,
Buyers of souls, who gathered gold with care,
With gnashing and blaspheming filled the air.
II.
A soul flamed forth like a titanic brand,
Or fiery meteor through the murky sky,
Thrilled by electric arrows from on high;
And by swift wings of unseen seraphs fanned
The baleful clouds dispersed, as though a hand
Omnipotent had swept the firmament
And from its face the darkening veil had rent.
Vague shapes of fear, as by enchanter’s wand,
Were changed to forms substantial, and arose
The Nation’s foes, implacable and fierce.
The canting knave, who chapter gave and verse
To justify the trade in human woes,
Slunk with his broad phylacteries away,
And strong men armed them for the deadly fray.
III.
True greatness is the greatest in defeat.
A laurel wreath entwined about that head
Had but obscured the glory that it shed.
Unshaken in his high prophetic seat,
Beyond all crowns of vict’ry grand and great
In happier days, as when, illusions fled,
His fierce foes found him lying ’mid his dead,
Alike his spirit soared secure from Fate.
So, when the charging battle standards meet,
Gold fringe and silken fold are plucked away
As by the myriad beaks of birds of prey,
Still on the staff, high in his ancient seat,
The brazen eagle sits, serene, the same,
Pride of the legions o’er the battle’s flame.