Book 10 — OLD TRINITY

FREDERICK D. GOODWIN '95

Placed 'midst the city's busiest life, Not a stone's throw from the deadly strife Of the metropolitan mart, Old Trinity stands; her spire, like a hand, Points ever upward; her chimes demand From the hardened world a heart.

Clustered around her, buried, lie Many whose names can never die, Founders of their country's weal: Patriot churchmen, statesmen, soldiers, There they sleep who were its moulders; Sculptured stones their deeds reveal.

Trinity's self was new-born with the nation; Springing from ashes of desolation, She helped to forge posterity. Now she looks from her chosen station, At pageant, starvation, begg'ry, ovation, Results of her sons' prosperity.

Within, away from the din and crowd And the mendicants' cries and the laughter loud, Of Pleasure in hand with Youth, Is the silent yet eloquent reign of Peace And the utterance of words which shall not cease While the earth has a place for Truth.

When peal on peal the organ's voice Calls the assembled to rejoice For blessings unsurpassed, Or when its milder tones tell Grief, Then e'en Death's triumph is but brief, Old Trinity's charm but half is grasped.

Far sweeter it is in the twilights glim, When the symbolled altar is growing dim, And the wayward shadows dart, To watch the golden light stream in Each lofty window, as though all sin At its entrance must depart.

Saints' and martyrs' pictured graces, Illumined by these heavenly traces, Shine in blue and saffron and red; But in the sun's last traces, above their faces, Beam the eyes which no might from the soul effaces, And the Christ's mock-crowned head.

Literary Monthly, 1894.