TO THE MEMORY OF CHARLES B. STORRS,

By John Greenleaf Whittier

Thou hast fallen in thine armor,

Thou martyr of the Lord

With thy last breath crying “Onward!”

And thy hand upon the sword.

The haughty heart derideth,

And the sinful lip reviles,

But the blessing of the perishing

Around thy pillow smiles!

When to our cup of trembling

The added drop is given,

And the long-suspended thunder

Falls terribly from Heaven,—

When a new and fearful freedom

Is proffered of the Lord

To the slow-consuming Famine,

The Pestilence and Sword!

When the refuges of Falsehood

Shall be swept away in wrath,

And the temple shall be shaken,

With its idol, to the earth,

Shall not thy words of warning

Be all remembered then?

And thy now unheeded message

Burn in the hearts of men?

Oppression's hand may scatter

Its nettles on thy tomb,

And even Christian bosoms

Deny thy memory room;

For lying lips shall torture

Thy mercy into crime,

And the slanderer shall flourish

As the bay-tree for a time.

But where the south-wind lingers

On Carolina's pines,

Or falls the careless sunbeam

Down Georgia's golden mines;

Where now beneath his burthen

The toiling slave is driven;

Where now a tyrant's mockery

Is offered unto Heaven;

Where Mammon hath its altars

Wet o'er with human blood,

And pride and lust debases

The workmanship of God,—

There shall thy praise be spoken,

Redeemed from Falsehood's ban,

When the fetters shall be broken,

And the slave shall be a man!

Joy to thy spirit, brother!

A thousand hearts are warm,

A thousand kindred bosoms

Are baring to the storm.

What though red-handed Violence

With secret Fraud combine?

The wall of fire is round us,

Our Present Help was thine.

Lo, the waking up of nations,

From Slavery's fatal sleep;

The murmur of a Universe,

Deep calling unto Deep!

Joy to thy spirit, brother!

On every wind of heaven

The onward cheer and summons

Of Freedom's voice is given!

Glory to God forever!

Beyond the despot's will

The soul of Freedom liveth

Imperishable still.

The words which thou hast uttered

Are of that soul a part,

And the good seed thou hast scattered

Is springing from the heart.

In the evil days before us,

And the trials yet to come,

In the shadow of the prison,

Or the cruel martyrdom,—

We will think of thee, O brother!

And thy sainted name shall be

In the blessing of the captive,

And the anthem of the free.