Then joy runs riot round the sacred chair, And dignified propriety is gay As gipsy maiden, with her silver bells Tinkling around her heels. At length the dawn Recalls the joyous throng to other scenes; And soon the last gay visiter has bade His warm good-by—and the old house is still. Left all alone, in calm security, Straight in his oaken-chair of antique form, Within his hall, the farmer sits and sleeps, While the fierce house-dog watches at his feet. Sweet hour of plenteous ease, when care puts off His wrinkled brow, and charity and love, The fairest sisters of the heavenly train, Go hand in hand along the faded walks, And sit at evening by the cottage door. There the old soldier, covered o’er with scars, Limping along unnoticed by the crowd, Whose liberties were purchased with his blood, Finds ’neath the whispering elms before the door A welcome seat; and there the little ones, Called from their play by watchful Towser’s growl. And the patched dress that glory gives her sons, Gather round their sire with mute surprise, And list to tales of other days, when war, With iron feet, swept thundering o’er the glade, And reared his bloody altars on the hills. And while they listen, lo! the soldier’s face Grows less terrific, and his tatter’d dress No longer seems to hide a vagrant’s form. With stealthy look and silent step, they seek The festive board, and silently return; Then, while he wipes from his dim eye a tear, They fill the old man’s pack with generous food, Proffer the goblet full to his parched lips, And play at “hide and seek” around his chair. The heart of power may coldly beat when they Who fought for freedom in her darkest hour, In age and penury, appear to claim The boon a monarch never yet refused; But by the hearth-stones of his native land, Where liberal thoughts and generous feelings dwell, The valiant soldier ne’er shall find a churl To bid him trudge, a rude unwelcome guest. On Salem’s hill the Hebrews’ reign is o’er, The silver trump of jubilee is still. Timbrel and harp and soft-toned dulcimer Have ceased their strains in Sharon’s rosy vale; The scattered tribes in earth’s remotest bounds Wander like sheep upon the mountain-side, And Israel mourns her empire and her God. The fisher, solitary, dries his net On the green rock, amid the silver wave, Where, robed in purple, sat imperial Tyre, And through the autumn day beholds no sail, To catch the scented breeze from Cypress Isle. The hills of Judah, crowned with ruins gray, Lift their brown summits to the deep blue air, And cast their cooling shadows on the sea. Hushed is the shepherd’s lute, the reaper’s shout, The bleat of flocks, and patriarch’s song of praise, The Harvester of years has o’er them past, And hung his reaping-hook in Joseph’s tomb.