|WE cross the prairie as of old
The pilgrims crossed the sea,
To make the West, as they the East,
The homestead of the free!
We go to rear a wall of men
We're flowing from our native hills
We go to plant her common schools
Upbearing, like the Ark of old,
No pause, nor rest, save where the streams
We'll tread the prairie as of old
|BEAR him, comrades, to his grave;
Never over one more brave
Shall the prairie grasses weep,
In the ages yet to come,
When the millions in our room,
What we sow in tears, shall reap.
Bear him up the icy hill,
One more look of that dead face,
Patience, friends! The eye of God
Every deadly threat that swells
We in suffering, they in crime,
While the flag with stars bedecked
Patience, friends! The human heart
Well to suffer is divine;
Frozen earth to frozen breast,
That the State whose walls we lay,
Plant the Buckeye on his grave,
|A BLUSH as of roses
Where rose never grew!
Great drops on the bunch-grass,
But not of the dew!
A taint in the sweet air
For wild bees to shun!
A stain that shall never
Bleach out in the sun!
Back, steed of the prairies!
From the hearths of their cabins,
With a vain plea for mercy
In the homes of their rearing,
Wind slow from the Swan's Marsh,
Strong men of the prairies,
Not in vain on the dial
On the lintels of Kansas
|JOHN BROWN OF OSSAWATOMIE spake on his dying day:
"I will not have to shrive my soul a priest in Slavery's pay.
But let some poor slave-mother whom I have striven to free,
With her children, from the gallows-stair put up a prayer for me!"
John Brown of Ossawatomie, they led him out to die;
The shadows of his stormy life that moment fell apart;
Perish with him the folly that seeks through evil good!
Nevermore may yon Blue Ridges the Northern rifle hear,
So vainly shall Virginia set her battle in array;