| Hamilton Fish Armstrong, ed. The Book of New York Verse. 1917. | | | | The Grave of Lawrence | | By Clinton Scollard |
| | Trinity Churchyard
MORN and noon of day and even, human ebb and flow; | |
| Overhead, the stars of midnight,—scarce the faintest glow,— | |
| Shrunken into misty marsh-fires by the city’s glare; | |
| Here he sleeps, our sailor hero,—pause and hail him fair! | |
| Here he sleeps where jostling Wall Street merges in Broadway, | 5 |
| And the roar is as a legion leaping to the fray. | |
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| Out from Trinity’s dim portal floats the chanting choir; | |
| Matchless midst the girdling granite lifts the graceful spire. | |
| Many slumberers around him, men of church and state; | |
| Here he sleeps, our sailor hero, great among the great! | 10 |
| Simple lines to mark his slumber; how the letters speak! | |
| “Lawrence” (hark, ye money-getters!) “of the Chesapeake!” | |
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| Stone may call in clearer accents than the loudest lip. | |
| Just a name! What does it cry you? “Don’t give up the ship!” | |
| Aye, there’s something more than millions.—a far nobler aim! | 15 |
| Here he sleeps, our sailor hero, nothing but a name! | |
| Yet (and who can pierce the future?) this may one day be | |
| As a burning inspiration both on land and sea. | | | | |
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