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| WHEN State Street homes were stately still, | |
| When out of town was Murray Hill, | |
| In late deceased “old times” | |
| Of vast, embowering bonnet shapes | |
| And creamy-crinkled Canton crapes | 5 |
| And florid annual-rhymes, | |
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| He owned a small suburban seat | |
| Where now you see a modern street, | |
| A monochrome of brown: | |
| The sad “brown brown” of Dante’s dreams, | 10 |
| A twilight turned to stone that seems | |
| To weight our city down. | |
| |
| Through leafy chestnuts whitely showed | |
| The pillared front of his abode: | |
| A garden girt it ’round, | 15 |
| Where pungent box did trim enclose | |
| The marigold and cabbage rose, | |
| And “pi’ny” heavy-crowned. | |
| |
| Yea, whatso sweets the changing years, | |
| He most affected. Gone! but here’s | 20 |
| His face who loved them so | |
| Old eyes like sherry, warm and mild; | |
| A clear-hued cheek as cheek of child; | |
| Sleek head, a sphere of snow. | |
| |
| His mouth was pious, and his nose | 25 |
| Patrician; with which mould there goes | |
| A disaffected view. | |
| In those sublime, be-oratored, | |
| Spread-eagle days, his soul deplored | |
| So much red-white-and-blue! | 30 |
| |
| In umber ink, with S’s long, | |
| He left behind him censure strong, | |
| In stiffest phrases clothed! | |
| But time—a pleasant jest enough!— | |
| Has turned the tory leaves to buff, | 35 |
| The liberal hue he loathed! | |
| |
| Of many a gentle deed he made | |
| Brief simple record. Never fade | |
| Those everlasting flowers | |
| That spring up wild in good men’s walks; | 40 |
| Opinions wither on their stalks, | |
| And sere grow Fashion’s bowers. | |
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| Erect, befrilled, in neckcloth tall, | |
| His semblance sits, removed from all | |
| Our needs and noises new; | 45 |
| Released from all the rent we pay | |
| As tenants of the large To-day, | |
| Cool, in a background blue. | |
| |
| And he beneath a cherub chipped | |
| Plump, squamous-pinioned, pouting-lipped, | 50 |
| Sleeps calm where Trinity | |
| Points fingers dark to clouds that fleet; | |
| A warning, seen from surging street, | |
| A welcome seen from sea. | |
| |
| There fall, ghost glorified of tears | 55 |
| Shed for the dead in buried years, | |
| The silver notes of chimes; | |
| And there, with not unreverent hand | |
| Though light, I lay this “greene garland,” | |
| This woven wreath of rhymes. | 60 |
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