Fitz-Greene Halleck

[Read at the Unveiling of His Statue in Central Park, May, 1877] 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,   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 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   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. 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   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; 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   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. 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   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; 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   The lines of Halleck’s name.