Arthur Upson

PARK ROW and Broadway—rush and din,

Turmoil of men in their strong, brief years,

Conquest, honour, failure and sin!—

Rest for a moment the eyes and the ears;

Step through this gate for a while with me

Where struggles pause, and thought is free.

Look at the words on this little stone

Under the trees of old St. Paul’s.

Ninety summers have flowered and flown,

Round these ivied Georgian walls,

Since they cut in the headstone grey

The name of “Antipass Hathaway.”

Only fourteen! Boy-gladness, his,

Touched—would you say?—by the lips of joy

Into eternal youthfulness—

Spirit abiding forever boy!

“March 29th,”—so they brought him here

In the very bud of the welling year.

Across the walk, quaint-carven French,

Line after line in martial row,

Hinting at bivouac, storm, and trench

Under the Comte de Rochambeau:

Valiant indeed, from far Champagne

Adventured the “Sieur de Rochefontaine.”

Follow me over this stretch of sod;

Mark the shaft with its moral urn;

There, where the red rose-bushes bud,

A few spent petals, you notice, burn

Against the letters chiselled plain:

“Of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane.”

And a name now vague to you and me,

An actor renowned in his day, forsooth;

See how they loved his memory:

“Repaired by” … “Sothern,” “Kean,” and “Booth,”

“And by The Players.”—Such fame’s enough!

“Dreams” made his life: We are all “such stuff!”

Oh, but the schoolboy rolling hoops

Over the grasses of Bowling Green,

And the brave young captain with his troops

Charging into the battle-scene,

And the actor accomplished, praised by all—

Who gathered them here ’neath the churchyard wall?