They started for the Ferry. In a dozen A score of other sleepy, neighboring towns The same bell clanged, the same militia assembled.

The Ferry itself was roused and stirring with dawn. And the firing began again. A queer, harsh sound In the ordinary streets of that clean, small town, A desultory, vapid, meaningless sound.

God knows why John Brown lingered! Kagi, the scholar, Who, with two others, held the rifle-works, All morning sent him messages urging retreat. They had the inexorable weight of common sense Behind them, but John Brown neither replied Nor heeded, brooding in the patriarch-calm Of a lean, solitary pine that hangs On the cliff’s edge, and sees the world below A tiny pattern of toy fields and trees, And only feels its roots gripping the rock And the almighty wind that shakes its boughs, Blowing from eagle-heaven to eagle-heaven.