From "The Voice of Webster"

Silence was envious of the only voice That mightier seemed than she. So, cloaked as Death, With potion borrowed from Oblivion, Yet with slow step and tear-averted look, She sealed his lips, closed his extinguished eyes, And, veiling him with darkness, deemed him dead. But no!—There ’s something vital in the great That blunts the edge of Death, and sages say You should stab deep if you would kill a king. In vain! The conqueror’s conqueror he remains, Surviving his survivors. And as when, The prophet gone, his least disciple stands Newly invested with a twilight awe, So linger men beside his listeners While they recount that miracle of speech And the hushed wonder over which it fell. What do they tell us of that storied voice, Breathing an upper air, wherein he dwelt Mid shifting clouds a mountain of resolve, And falling like Sierra’s April flood That pours in ponderous cadence from the cliff, Waking Yosemite from its sleep of snow, And less by warmth than by its massive power Thawing a thousand torrents into one? Such was his speech, and, were his fame to die, Such for its requiem alone were fit: Some kindred voice of Nature, as the Sea When autumn tides redouble their lament On Marshfield shore; some elemental force Kindred to Nature in the mind of man— A far-felt, rhythmic, and resounding wave Of Homer, or a freedom-breathing wind Sweeping the height of Milton’s loftiest mood. Most fit of all, could his own words pronounce His eulogy, eclipsing old with new, As though a dying star should burst in light. And yet he spoke not only with his voice. His full brow, buttressing a dome of thought, Moved the imagination like the rise Of some vast temple covering nothing mean. His eyes were sibyls’ caves, wherein the wise Read sibyls’ secrets; and the iron clasp Of those broad lips, serene or saturnine, Made proclamation of majestic will. His glance could silence like a frowning Fate. His mighty frame was refuge, while his mien Did make dispute of stature with the gods.