But there lurked a taint in the clime so blest,
Like a serpent coiled in a ring-dove's nest,
And the human sounds to the ear it gave
Were the clank of chains on a low-browed Slave!
The Soldier old at his sentry-post,
Where the sun's last trail of light is lost,
Beheld the shame of the Land he loved,
And the old, old love in his bosom moved.
He cried to the land, Beware! Beware
Of the symboled Curse in the Bondman there!
And a prophet's soul in fire came down
To live in the voice of old John Brown.
He cried; and the ingrate answer came
In words of steel from a tongue of flame;
They dyed his hearth in the blood of kin,
And his dear ones fell for the Nation's Sin!
O, matchless deed! that a fiend might scorn,
O, deed of shame! for a world to mourn;
A Soldier's pay in his blood most dear,
And a land to mock at a Father's tear!
Is't strange that the tranquil soul of age
Was turned to strife in a madman's rage?
Is't strange that the cry of blood did seem
Like the roll of drums in a martial dream?
Is't strange the clank of the Helot's chain
Should drive the Wrong to the old man's brain,
To fire his heart with a santon's zeal,
And mate his arm to the Soldier's steel?
The bane of Wrong to its depth had gone,
And the sword of Right from its sheath was drawn;
But the cabined Slave heard not his cry,
And the old man armed him but to die.
Ye may call him Mad, that he did not quail
When his stout blade broke on the unblest mail;
Ye may call him Mad, that he struck alone,
And made the land's dark Curse his own;