John Brown lies dead in his grave and does not stir, It is nearly three years since he died and he does not stir, There is no sound in his bones but the sound of armies And that is an old sound.

He walks, you will say, he walks in front of the armies, A straggler met him, going along to Manassas, With his gun on his shoulder, his phantom-sons at heel, His eyes like misty coals.

A dead man saw him striding at Seven Pines, The bullets whistling through him like a torn flag, A madman saw him whetting a sword on a Bible, A cloud above Malvern Hill.

But these are all lies. He slumbers. He does not stir. The spring rains and the winter snows on his slumber And the bones of his flesh breed armies and yet more armies But he himself does not stir.