John Greenleaf Whittier

“ Pierced the sharp thrill of Freedom’s cry of pain,
Man of the millions, thou art lost too soon!
Portents at which the bravest stand aghast,—
The birth-throes of a Future, strange and vast,
Alarm the land; yet thou, so wise and strong,
Suddenly summoned to the burial bed,
Lapped in its slumbers deep and ever long,
Hear’st not the tumult surging overhead.
Who now shall rally Freedom’s scattering host?
Who wear the mantle of the leader lost?
Who stay the march of slavery? ”