Hamilton Fish Armstrong, ed. The Book of New York Verse. 1917.
At TrinityAndrew E. Watrous
W
Takes portions of the surge and spray,
By silent night, and roaring day,
Its graves it guardeth.
Profounder far their peace doth seem,
For tossing drift that from their dream,
The still close wardeth.
And Murray Hill as is to us
Champlain, Au Sable; when this fuss
And fret were quiet;
To date in 18—; when all here,
In brief, was up-town—in the year,
Say ’08,—I spy it.
Turned down his Sunday buckled shoes,
Knight Lawrence—ere that latest cruise—
The stainless sinner!
Had he a thought? The rector’s hand
He pressed, most like. Just back to land,
And drove to dinner.
Some stopped to chat of the new man
In Portugal, and his great plan
For Boney brewing.
Young Irving made abroad great head,
And how of Gallic power the spread
We’d all be ruing.
The swift aids churn the mud—needs must,
The troops, from off Long Island thrust,
Are marching nor’ward.
All slain—the field was but a pen
Of slaughter: we’re the King’s again
From this time forward.
Steel-fringed the scarlet ribbons come,
Strong silence through the sullen hum
St. George back bringing.
In step that tells upon the miles,
They wheel—cling, clang, upon the aisles
Their muskets ringing.
Roar street and slip! We greet to-day
Primmest of patres patriæ,
Great George!—it endeth.
The reaper closely harvested;
A gesture here, a word there said,
Are all he lendeth.
They lived, and unlived; like a slate
Their old place is—our names the late
Their places borrow.
To me, and plain to you—we’ll change;
The old thought and the new will range
This time to-morrow.
You hear, and comforts life in death
As death in life, you’ll wish for breath
To make me know it.
It seemed to nourish more the grace
Of kinship than did all the space
Above, below it.
Our place is taken, yet may I,
And you, find some day time to die—
A rest remaineth.
Where shade and shine make pipe and book
To idlers pleasant: thither look,
Where peace sole reigneth.