The gallows-stairs were climbed, the death-cap fitted. Behind the gallows, Before a line of red-and-grey cadets, A certain odd Professor T. J. Jackson Watched disapprovingly the ragged militia Deploy for twelve long minutes ere they reached Their destined places. The Presbyterian sabre of his soul Was moved by a fey breath. He saw John Brown, A tiny blackened scrap of paper-soul Fluttering above the Pit that Calvin barred With bolts of iron on the unelect; He heard the just, implacable Voice speak out “Depart ye wicked to eternal fire.” And sternly prayed that God might yet be moved To save the predestined cinder from the flame.