He Built Fourteen--Let Us
(By Harry W. Fitzpatrick)
There is a token that we can give,
Fragrant with friendship for Martin:
A place where the little child may live --
A playground where sorrows hearten.
As the cares of state bore heavier down
On the hours he spent in serving,
He paused now and then, his labors to crown
With achievement super-deserving.
So the best he did, or to do that he tried
Which proved worthy of commendation.
Was the work that proclaimed him far and wide
As the Playground Mayor of our nation.
And many will climb to sit in his place
Mid the plaudits of sundry peoples;
But few will rear spires to match his space
Among glory's stately steeples.
When City Hall totters to parent dust,
In the future of looming ages,
His name will be green in the playgrounds' trust,
And deathless on memory's pages.
Build a cenotaph, that the years shall know,
In Algiers, over the river;
For mayors may come and mayors may go,
But his playgrounds go on forever!