John brown’sbody lies mould'ring in the grave,
It lies amidst the mountains of the Adirondack lone;
A grey rock looms above it and the sighing grasses wave,
But his soul is marching on.
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
He lives forever, though on earth his race is run;
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
His soul is marching on.
They could not chain his spirit nor lay it below the sod;
They freed him from a prison here to mount in joy on high;
“Though worms destroy this body, yet I shall behold my God,”
Was his soul’s exulting cry.
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
He lives forever, though on earth his race is run;
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
His soul is marching on.
The torch by him left smould'ring shall give light in other hands;
His voice which now is silent shall be echoed o’er and o’er;
Till slavery has ceased to be, and freedom in all lands
Shall reign for evermore.
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
He lives forever, though on earth his race is run;
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
His soul is marching on.
He failed, yet as a victor we will crown our hero brave;
Beneath Jehovah’s banner was his duty nobly done,
And we grieve not that his body lies mould'ring in the grave,
For his soul is marching on.
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
He lives forever, though on earth his race is run;
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
His soul is marching on.
More than a thousand leagues of sea,
More than a hundred leagues of land,
There stretch between that Western home and me,
Yet on its porch I stand.
The quiet room, the pictured wall,
Each well-known object on the floor,
‘Neath clustering bitter-sweet, I see them all
Unchanged for evermore.
’Tis eve; through day’s fierce breathless heat
Only the fearless cricket chirred;
But now, while welcome rain-drops pattering beat,
The robin’s note is heard.
Oh, robin! sweetly thou dost sing
Thy simple and unvaried lay.
What gives it such a charm, such power to bring
Thoughts of a bygone day?
Now down the fenced, familiar lane
I wander in my waking dream.
I see Cuyahoga’s calm expanse again,
And Rockrun’s rippling stream;
The meadow path and woodland track,
The rustic bridge and stately trees,
What memories I meet when venturing back
To haunted spots like these!
Through changing seasons, every mood
Of my own restless heart I’ve known
Deep in the shade of this Ohio wood,
With Nature all alone.
Now each bare treetop seems a spire-
The glen to a cathedral turns,
Among whose leafless aisles, an altar fire,
The solemn sunset burns.
But fairyland the woods appear,
When, under winter’s magic hand,
Transformed to groves of shining crystal clear,
And flashing diamond.
Now over crisp white fields I go.
Fresh, keen, transparent as the air,
Heaven’s cloudless blue and earth’s pure sparkling snow
Are wonderfully fair.
Within, old Rockrun’s hearth beside,
We scarcely marked Time’s noiseless tread,
A few more months, and all are scattered wide:
The living Past is dead.
Oh! lay her tenderly away,
For she is fixed as marble now;
Shall she not have a resurrection day?
Strew violets o’er her brow.