John Brown

Had he been made of such poor clay as we,

Who, when we feel a little fire aglow 
'Gainst wrong within us, dare not let it grow, 

But crouch and hide it, lest the scorner see 

And sneer, yet bask our self-complacency 

In that faint warmth^__had he been fashioned so,
The nation n'er had come to that birth-throe 

That gave the world a new humanity. 

He was no vain professor of the word^__

His life a mockery of the creed;^__he made

No discount on the Golden Rule, but heard 

Above the Senate's brawls and din of trade 

Ever the clank of chains, until he stirred 

The nation's heart on that immortal raid.