by Ellen Patton
A sound of weeping is in the wind,
A smell of blood upon the air;
Oh, list to the hoof-beats of a horse,
And bark to a mother's prayer.
The bunch-grass is redder than the rose,
The wild bee is flying afar;
While up in the sky a bank of cloud
Seems trying to put out a star.
An avalanche riding to Lawrence-
The horse and the rider as one;
The earth seems to quiver with anguish,
And God holds his breath in the sun
The eagle of Freedom is wounded,
And flieth so heavy and low;
While all of the demons of blackness
Are blowing their trumpets of woe.
The torch was aflame, and the houses
Were turning to columns of smoke;
The crack of the rifles was knelling
The pain of sad hearts that were broke.
Then heroes lay down like the rushes,
So quietly taking their rest;
With red blood the earth became drunken,
Shed by martyrs asleep on her breast.
That day Death laughed out her shrillest,
While devils went mad in their glee
Yet a minor chord in the music
Was, "Kansas is born to be free."
And Lawrence uprose like the Phoenix,
No smell of the fire on her gown;
She triumphed, and now is the victor;
We braid and she weareth a crown.
Barrington, F. H.
(Topeka: Geo. W. Crane & Company. 1892)
February 23, 1999 /
John & Susan Howell /
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