Monody on the Death of Wendell Phillips

The Sisters' Tragedy

by Thomas Bailey Aldrich

I

One by one they go
Into the unknown dark--
Star-lit
brows of the brave,
Voices that drew men's souls.
Rich is the
land, O Death!
Can give you dead like our dead!--
Such as he
from whose hand
The magic web of romance
Slipt, and the art
was lost!
Such as he who erewhile--
The last of the Titan
brood--
With his thunder the Senate shook;
Or he who, beside
the Charles,
Untoucht of envy or hate,
Tranced the world with
his song;
Or that other, that gray-eyed seer
Who in pastoral
Concord ways
With Plato and Hafiz walked.

II

Not of these was the man
Whose wraith, through the mists of
night,
Through the shuddering wintry stars,
Has passed to
eternal morn.
Fit were the moan of the sea
And the clashing
of cloud on cloud
For the passing of that soul!

Ever he faced the storm!
No weaver of rare romance,
No
patient framer of laws,
No maker of wondrous rhyme,
No
bookman wrapt in his dream.
His was the voice that rang
In
the fight like a bugle-call,
And yet could be tender and low

As when, on a night in June,
The hushed wind sobs in the
pines.
His was the eye that flashed
With a sabre's azure
gleam,
Pointing to heights unwon!

III

Not for him were these days
Of clerkly and sluggish
calm--
To the petrel the swooping gale!
Austere he seemed,
but the hearts
Of all men beat in his breast;
No fetter but
galled his wrist,
No wrong that was not his own.
What if
those eloquent lips
Curled with the old-time scorn?
What if
in needless hours
His quick hand closed on the hilt?
'Twas
the smoke from the well-won fields
That clouded the veteran's
eyes.
A fighter this to the end!

Ah, if in coming times
Some giant evil arise,
And Honor
falter and pale,
His were a name to conjure with!
God send
his like again!