JOHN BROWN OF OSAWATOMIE. And Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown, 193 Saw his sons fall dead beside him, and between them laid him down. How the conquerors wore their laurels; how they hastened on the trial; How Old Brown was placed, half-dying, on the Charlestown court-house floor; How he spoke his grand oration, in the scorn of all denial; country o'er. "Hang Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown," Said the judge, "and all such rebels!" with his most judicial frown. But, Virginians, don't do it! for I tell you that the flagon, Filled with blood of Old Brown's offspring, was first poured by Southern hands; And each drop from Old Brown's life-veins, like the red gore of the dragon, May spring up a vengeful Fury, hissing through your slave-worn lands! And Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown, May trouble you more than ever, when you've nailed his coffin down! No More. USHED be the song and the love-notes of gladness For one who returneth, whose chamber-lamp burneth Silent he lies on the broad path of glory, Where withers ungarnered the red crop of war. Grand is his couch, though its pillows are gory, 'Mid forms that shall battle, 'mid guns that shall rattle No more. Soldier of Freedom, thy marches are ended, The dreams that were prophets of triumph are o'er; The bugle shall call thee, the fight shall enthrall thee Far to the Northward the banners are dimming, And faint comes the tap of the drummers before; Low in the tree-tops the swallow is skimming; Thy comrades shall cheer thee, the weakest shall fear thee No more. Far to the Westward the day is at vespers, And bows down its head, like a priest, to adore; Soldier, the twilight for thee has no whispers, The night shall forsake thee, the morn shall awake thee No more. NO MORE. Wide o'er the plain where the white tents are gleaming, When the commander to-morrow proclaimeth A list of the brave for the nation to store, Thou shalt be known with the heroes he nameth, 195 Who wake from their slumbers, who answer their numbers No more. Hushed be the song and the love-notes of gladness That broke with the morn from the cottager's door,Muffle the tread in the soft stealth of sadness, For one who returneth, whose chamber-lamp burneth No more. The Sho-sho-ne Warrior. NCE a noble Indian warrior Chanced to own a matchless steed, Famous far and near for beauty, And for its unrivaled speed. And a Mexican who saw it Sought to purchase it; but gold Tempted not the brave Sho-sho-ne That the proud steed should be sold. Then the Mexican grew angry, And with wily, base design, Said within himself, "By cunning That proud steed shall yet be mine, And that haughty Indian warrior, Mortified and stung with pain, Shall entreat me to return it, But his suing shall be vain." So within a tangled thicket On a lonesome, dreary night, Trusting in his power of cunning, And regardless of the right, Hid he, and, as if in suffering, Uttered forth a piteous moan, For he knew the brave Sho-sho-ne THE SHO-SHO-NE WARRIOR. 197 Then the Indian dismounted, Pitying, to offer aid, While the Mexican, outspringing "O, thou red man, haughty Indian, Now thy steed is lost to thee; "Paleface," then returned the Indian, Truly have conspired against me, I'm a victim to their power; But I pray thee, treacherous paleface, Tell it not among the Indians, Lest, perchance, they learn distrust; "Lest when suffering appealing, Seeks to gain a pitying ear, They shall turn away in coldness, Thinking of thy treachery here. |