He had the shepherd’s gift, but that was all. He had no other single gift for life. Some men are pasture Death turns back to pasture, Some are fire-opals on that iron wrist, Some the deep roots of wisdoms not yet born. John Brown was none of these, He was a stone, A stone eroded to a cutting edge By obstinacy, failure and cold prayers. Discredited farmer, dubiously involved In lawsuit after lawsuit, Shubel Morgan Fantastic bandit of the Kansas border, Red-handed murderer at Pottawattomie, Cloudy apostle, whooped along to death By those who do no violence themselves But only buy the guns to have it done, Sincere of course, as all fanatics are, And with a certain minor-prophet air, That fooled the world to thinking him half-great When all he did consistently was fail.

So far one advocate. But there is this.