AMONG their graven shapes to whom | |
| Thy civic wreaths belong, | |
| O city of his love! make room | |
| For one whose gift was song. | |
| |
| Not his the soldier’s sword to wield, | 5 |
| Nor his the helm of state, | |
| Nor glory of the stricken field, | |
| Nor triumph of debate. | |
| |
| In common ways, with common men, | |
| He served his race and time | 10 |
| As well as if his clerkly pen | |
| Had never danced to rhyme. | |
| |
| If, in the thronged and noisy mart, | |
| The Muses found their son, | |
| Could any say his tuneful art | 15 |
| A duty left undone? | |
| |
| He toiled and sang; and year by year | |
| Men found their homes more sweet, | |
| And through a tenderer atmosphere | |
| Looked down the brick-walled street. | 20 |
| |
| The Greek’s wild onset Wall Street knew, | |
| The Red King walked Broadway; | |
| And Alnwick Castle’s roses blew | |
| From Palisades to Bay. | |
| |
| Fair City by the Sea! upraise | 25 |
| His veil with reverent hands; | |
| And mingle with thy own the praise | |
| And pride of other lands. | |
| |
| Let Greece his fiery lyric breathe | |
| Above her hero-urns; | 30 |
| And Scotland, with her holly, wreathe | |
| The flowers he culled for Burns. | |
| |
| O, stately stand thy palace walls, | |
| Thy tall ships ride the seas; | |
| To-day thy poet’s name recalls | 35 |
| A prouder thought than these. | |
| |
| Not less thy pulse of trade shall beat, | |
| Nor less thy tall fleets swim, | |
| That shaded square and dusty street | |
| Are classic ground through him. | 40 |
| |
| Alive, he loved, like all who sing, | |
| The echoes of his song; | |
| Too late the tardy meed we bring, | |
| The praise delayed so long. | |
| |
| Too late, alas!—Of all who knew | 45 |
| The living man, to-day | |
| Before his unveiled face how few | |
| Make bare their locks of gray! | |
| |
| Our lips of praise must soon be dumb, | |
| Our grateful eyes be dim; | 50 |
| O, brothers of the days to come, | |
| Take tender charge of him! | |
| |
| New hands the wires of song may sweep, | |
| New voices challenge fame; | |
| But let no moss of years o’ercreep | 55 |
| The lines of Halleck’s name. | |
| |
