And now a man, erect, and tall, and strong, Whose thin white hair, and cheeks of furrowed bronze, And ancient dress, betray the patriarch, Stands at the window, listening to the storm; And as the fire leaps with a wilder flame-- Moved by the wind--it wraps and glorifies His stalwart frame, until it flares and glows Like the old prophets, in transfigured guise, That shape the sunset for cathedral aisles. And now it passes, and a sweeter shape Stands in its place. O blest maternity! Hushed on her bosom, in a light embrace, Her baby sleeps, wrapped in its long white robe; And as the flame, with soft, auroral sweeps, Illuminates the pair, how like they seem, O Virgin Mother! to thyself and thine! Now Samuel comes with curls of burning gold To hearken to the voice of God without: "Speak, mighty One! Thy little servant hears!" And Miriam, maiden, from her household cares Comes to the window in her loosened robe,-- Comes with the blazing timbrels in her hand,-- And, as the noise of winds and waters swells, It shapes the song of triumph to her lips: "The horse and he who rode are overthrown!" And now a man of noble port and brow, And aspect of benignant majesty, Assumes the vacant niche, while either side Press the fair forms of children, and I hear: "Suffer the little ones to come to me!" PERSONS. Here dwells the good old farmer, Israel, In his ancestral home--a Puritan Who reads his Bible daily, loves his God, And lives serenely in the faith of Christ. For threescore years and ten his life has run Through varied scenes of happiness and woe; But, constant through the wide vicissitude, He has confessed the Giver of his joys, And kissed the hand that took them; and whene'er Bereavement has oppressed his soul with grief, Or sharp misfortune stung his heart with pain, He has bowed down in childlike faith, and said, "Thy will, O God--Thy will be done, not mine!" His gentle wife, a dozen summers since, Passed from his faithful arms and went to heaven; And her best gift--a maiden sweetly named-- His daughter Ruth--orders the ancient house, And fills her mother's place beside the board, And cheers his life with songs and industry. But who are these who crowd the house to-night-- A happy throng? Wayfaring pilgrims, who, Grateful for shelter, charm the golden hours With the sweet jargon of a festival? Who are these fathers? who these mothers? who These pleasant children, rude with health and joy?