The Writings of Bret Harte :: :: University of Virginia Library

The foundry tolls the knell of parting day,
The weary clerk goes slowly home to tea,
The North Beach car rolls onward to the bay,
And leaves the world to solitude and me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And through the Park a solemn hush prevails,
Save, in the distance, where some school-boy wight
Rattles his hoop-stick on the iron rails;

Save, that from yonder jealous-guarded basement
Some servant-maid vehement doth complain,
Of wicked youths who, playing near her casement,
Project their footballs through her window-pane.

Can midnight lark or animated “bust”
To these grave scenes bring mirth without alloy?
Can shrill street-boys proclaim their vocal trust
In John, whose homeward march produces joy?

Alas! for them no organ-grinders play,
Nor sportive monkey move their blinds genteel;
Approach and read, if thou canst read, the lay,
Which these grave dwellings through their stones reveal;

“Here rests his fame, within yon ring of earth,
A soul who strove to benefit mankind—
Of private fortune and of public worth,
His trade—first man, then sugar he refined.

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“Large was his bounty, and he made his mark;
Read here his record free from stains or blots:
He gave the public all he had—his Park;
He sold the public—all he asked—his lots!”