Then came John Brown close On his path,
And boldly passing to his den
Him struck an awful blow, and when
The shackles broke and fell from men
He writhed and roared in demon's wrath.
Eleven slaves are now set free__
A kindly stroke for those who fell__
A just and righteous parallel__
Their freedom won, and strange to tell,
Kansas has gained her liberty.
Not on far Afric's burning sand,
When age on age has come and gone,
And people searching in the throng
Which passing centuries prolong,
Ask for some hero proud and grand,
The theme for master sculptor's hand
Whose ancient glory and renown
The waiting multitude shall crown,
Will there remote appear John Brown;
But will be found in every land
His glory heralded by seers
In marble cut; by poet sung;
And his rude image shall be hung
Round the charmed neck, and every tongue
Shall praise him as the saint of years.
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