JOHN BROWN.

Writ in between the lines of his life-deed

We trace the sacred service of a heart

Answering the Divine command, in every part

Bearing on human weal: His love did feed

The loveless; and his gentle hands did lead

The blind, and lift the weak, and balm the smart

Of other wounds than rankled at the dart

In his own breast, that gloried thus to bleed.

He served the lowliest first — nay, them alone —

The most despised that e'er wreaked vain breath

In cries of suppliance in the reign whereat

Red Guilt sate squat upon her spattered throne.—

For these doomed there it was he went to death.

God! how the merest man loves one like that!