| |
| Somewhere beneath the thundering city’s pave, | |
| An unmarked grave; | |
| Somewhere in the vast spaces beyond Time, | |
| A fame sublime; | |
| And that is all we watchers here below | 5 |
| May dream or know | |
| Of him, the tranquil and intrepid soul | |
| Who died for us among the death-drum’s roll | |
| In Henry Rutgers’ orchard long ago. . . . . . . . | |
| You’ve been, perchance, in Market Street, | 10 |
| Where now the weary, hurrying feet | |
| Of thousands clatter, day by day, | |
| To join the throngs of East Broadway; | |
| Where creak and crash of car and dray | |
| Mingle with children’s voices sweet; | 15 |
| Where poverty and sorrow meet, | |
| And yet where some seem always gay. | |
| |
| Though toil and tumult wrap you ’round, | |
| Tread softly—it is holy ground! | |
| ’Twas in September of the year | 20 |
| When Liberty first lifted clear | |
| Her daring sword, they brought him here, | |
| And slew him as he faced them, bound, | |
| And buried him without a mound | |
| Or yet a blossom for his bier! | 25 |
| |
| Oh, if your heart as mine doth burn, | |
| These tenemental walls will turn | |
| Into a yellowing orchard close, | |
| With redcoat men in silent rows; | |
| And he, in high, serene repose, | 30 |
| Lifts eyes that but a moment yearn | |
| Toward his torn letters ’mongst the fern | |
| As proudly to his doom he goes. . . . . . . . | |
| Somewhere beneath the thundering city’s pave, | |
| An unmarked grave; | 35 |
| But is not the great city o’er him sprent | |
| His better monument? | |
| These mighty sons of Cæsar and of Shem, | |
| He died for them! | |
| The tumult of the hosts he helped to free, | 40 |
| The roar of the wide mart, his elegy, | |
| His solemn and triumphant requiem! | |
| |
