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,

And the roar is as a legion leaping to the fray.

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!

Simple lines to mark his slumber; how the letters speak!

“Lawrence” (hark, ye money-getters!) “of the Chesapeake!”

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!

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.