Albery Allson Whitman

Morton

Freedom, thy son is dead!
Once more the solemn tread
Of the long, slow cortege echoes to throbs
Of a nation's heart, and a great people's sobs
Around their leader's bier,
Burst on the sorrowing ear.
The lips of mirth are still,
And the eyes of beauty fill
With big tears;
The voice of love is low,
The hands of trade move slow,
And toil wears
A deep grief on his brow.
The tongues of sad bells cleaving
To the roofs of their mouths speak not;
And music's bosom heaving
Beneath its burden is silent.

Fair Indiana weeps,
The central mourner of a group of States,
That come with tears to shed
Around the mighty dead.
Alas! poor Indiana!
Too late in him who sleeps,
Thou see'st a noble son,
So soon "worn out" and done!
His voice is hushed forever in thy gates.
Alas! poor Indiana!
Now is a time for memory and tears,
And lessons that fall from the lips of years.
Sit down in the shadow that like a dark pall
From this sad event doth over thee fall,
With a hand on thy heart, and a hand on thy head,
And mourn thy great loss in the glorious dead.
Thou hast sisters who may with the mourn,
But none for thee, for none thy loss have borne.

Now is a time for reflection.
A star has gone down.
But the light that shone,
Yet lingers on our sight;
And we turn in the direction
In which we last saw it going,
And pensively pause, scarce knowing
That all around is night.

Weep for Indiana!
Ye her sisters who gave
Our flag an arm of help in peril's hour:
And raised the injured slave
From iron heeled oppression's galling power.
Weep, States, for Indiana!
Her Morton saved her, when she strove the awful leap
Into Rebellion's vortex dread to take.
The rocky jaws of ruin gaping deep
Beneath, began her head to dizzy make;
And wild hallucinations that did rise
From slavery's hell of wrongs had sealed her eyes
To danger; on the brink a moment, lost
To Freedom's sweet entreating voice, she tossed
Her tresses back, and in fair frenzy gazed
Upon our glorious flag; a mad cry raised,
And sprang for death; but seized by her great son,
Who to the awful rescue swift had run,
And forced in herculean arms away,
She mourns him, clothed in her right mind to-day.

Toll the bells for a nation's sorrow,
Toll slow, toll slow!
Chant songs of a people's sorrow,
Chant low, chant low.
Behold the great man borne
Towards the waiting tomb!
Open earth! Give him room!
Environed in the gloom
That lowers, mourn, people! mourn!
And with the solemn boom
Of cannon, and the knells
Of sad sorrowing bells,
Proclaim, proclaim his doom!
His glory was to serve his State —
She gave him none; — he was born great.
In his country's woe he found his own,
His weal in his country's weal,
Self in his great works never was known —
A patriot true as steel.
Born to rule, he knew the reins,
And knew the rod, and spared no pains
In using either, when they need be.
As restless as the uncontented sea,
He knew no stand still.
Stronger forever growing he
Was in man will.
He was the lion who could awe the weak
By lying still in massive dread reserve,
Or fly upon the strong opposer's neck
With scornful glare, and blows of iron nerve.
And sun ne'er looked upon a day,
Since our Republic tore away
Her arms from Britain's clutch,
That would not have seen him in front,
As in our times his life was wont;
The elements were such
In him, and so combined
Were all the powers of his vast mind.
His was no warrior's wreath —
He not on cannon's breath
O'er red fields rode to death
And immortality;
But strong for liberty
He rose in dreadful might —
Dreadful because of right —
And with the weapons bright
That genius gave her favorite son,
He dealt dismay and death to foes
Far mightier than those
Who dare the flash of steel and reeking gun.

When human slav'ry struggled to extend
Its snaky coil round California's coasts,
And thro' our trembling land from end to end,
Flaunting Secession made his open boasts,
He met the hissing wrong,
And cool, and brave, and strong,
Drove back its forked tongue.

When loyal heads hung down,
'Neath mad opinion's frown,
And tongues more fearful froze;
His was to oppose
With clearest words of stone,
Hewn from the loyal block,
Whose meaning always known,
With true energy thrown,
Smote like the rock.
When freedom's columns waved,
And friends of the enslaved
Aghast fell back,
His courage knew no lack —
He hurried to the van,
The thickest dangers braved,
And e'er the battle saved;
So nobly he behaved —
The cause lived in the man.
He could endure, rebuke, compel, entreat,
Forbear, defy, but could not know defeat.

First always in the right,
Doing with all his might,
And last to yield the fight,
His friends learned to depend upon him,
And his foes feared to rush upon him,
And both joined to wonder at him,
And slander ceased to thunder at him,
And envy ceased to sneak behind him,
And everywhere applause would find him,
Till rumor held her speech before him;
And now he's gone, we all adore him.

Two there were who fought
Our struggles dire;
One in the battle's hell,
Met by destruction's yell,
And the death rain of shot and shell,
For his country strove;
One the great work of love
With his mind's arms wrought.
While war in the far-off South
Mowed fields of death at the cannon's mouth;
His breath of fire and hail
Was not more dreadful that the wail
Of want in the North, whose shiv'ring blast,
To mothers' hearts, and children's homes laid waste.

When the disconsolate East was blowing,
And not a spray nor leaf of cheer was flowing
With life's heavy stream;
And when the harsh skies hissing, snowing,
And low and dark and sullen growing,
Extinguished sun's last gleam.
When little bare foot want was going
From door to door;
Her withered empty hands a showing,
Her eyes running o'er —
Telling of a father dead,
Who for his country had bled;
And of a sick mother's bed,
Begging a crumb of bread;
When wretchedness her bare arms throwing
Around her children, looked thro' tears
And murmured in her country's ears
To help her in her sore distress
Feed those the war left fatherless;
When this hour came, the darkest hour
That e'er upon our flag did lower,
God called His man, as best He knows,
God called His man, and Morton rose.
Like some vast cliff whose tow'ring form
Awe, strikes but shelters from the storm,
He rose, to us a strong defense,
A tow'r of help, and good immense.

With Indiana on his back,
Her Legislature off the track,
And half the members pulling back,
He rose, the awful advocate,
And on the right road dragged his State.
Tho' wealth hugged his Secession gold,
And with a nod the weak controlled,
Things had to move when he took hold,
And shook to life the feeble souled.

Statesman, patriot, sire, bear him away;
Inter him with a nation's honors to-day!
He has seized slavery with fearless hands,
And thrown her gloomy castle from the sands,
His blows of massive wisdom strong,
Have hurled to earth the tow'ring wrong,
But 'neath its falling columns crushed,
His matchless voice in death is hushed.
Beauty, cover him with flowers of his native shore.
Valor, with unfading laurels cover him o'er.
Freedmen, bring your tears,
And till life's last years
Reach the echoless shore,
Tell his great deeds o'er.
And soldiers, wherever our standard flies;
Or where thou goest neath foreign skies,
Behold thy friend in death low lies!
Friend when you fronted the battle,
Friend when the cannon's rattle
Mowed a harvest of death,
Friend when "worn out" you reeled
Home from the bloody field
To rest beneath
An humble shed,
Scanty of comfort, scanty of bread —
Weep for him soldiers! Weep for your friend!
And forget not till your lives shall end,
To honor the noble dead.