John Brown of Ossawatomie spake on his dying day: <br />'I will not have to shrive my soul a priest in Slavery's pay. <br />But let some poor slave-mother whom I have striven to free, <br />With her children, from the gallows-stair put up a prayer for me!' <br /> <br />John Brown of Ossawatomie, they led him out to die; <br />And lo! a poor slave-mother with her little child pressed nigh. <br />Then the bold, blue eye grew tender, and the old harsh face grew mild, <br />As he stooped between the jeering ranks and kissed the negro's child. <br /> <br />The shadows of his stormy life that moment fell apart; <br />And they who blamed the bloody hand forgave the loving heart. <br />That kiss from all its guilty means redeemed the good intent, <br />And round the grisly fighter's hair the martyr's aureole bent! <br /> <br />Perish with him the folly that seeks through evil good <br />Long live the generous purpose unstained with human blood! <br />Not the raid of midnight terror, but the thought which underlies; <br />Not the borderer's pride of daring, but the Christian's sacrifice. <br /> <br />Nevermore may yon Blue Ridges the Northern rifle hear, <br />Nor see the light of blazing homes flash on the negro's spear. <br />But let the free-winged angel Truth their guarded passes scale, <br />To teach that right is more than might, and justice more than mail! <br /> <br />So vainly shall Virginia set her battle in array; <br />In vain her trampling squadrons knead the winter snow with clay. <br />She may strike the pouncing eagle, but she dares not harm the dove; <br />And every gate she bars to Hate shall open wide to Love!<br /><br />John Greenleaf Whittier<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/brown-of-ossawatomie/
