The service done, they seek their cheerful hearths To spend the hallowed day in feasts of love. The feast is set—and joy’s wild burst is o’er— The mother’s eye has marked the vacant chair— The father’s ear has missed his first-born’s step— And where the church-yard sleeps, so still, they look With hearts of grief, and eyes suffused with tears. Evening with smiles and tales has come, and round The social circle blind-man’s buff is played. Wisdom and years are straightway laid aside, And manhood lives its childhood o’er again, Seeking the golden shadows of the days Long passed away. And now the youngest having sought repose, Friend after friend drops in with cheerful heart; The merry dance succeeds the merry game, And the light foot with lighter heart keeps time. Music is also there, with gentle tone, Singing the favorite tunes of other days. Age with its wrinkle, childhood with its smile, Youth with its hope, and manhood with its care, Joy blends with high esteem, and admiration Kindles into love. The old clock ticks the drowsy hours along— The midnight comes—the joyous throng disperse— Full many a head on sleepless pillow lies, Till wearied out, with thinking o’er the past, The mind surrenders to the body’s guide And dreams of fancy dance before the eye. Blest labor! thou dost fringe the poor man’s lids With gold: and drive remembrance of his wrongs Away—hang o’er his drowsy visions scenes Of pleasantness, where round a cheerful cot Wind paths of peace. Oh, Night! to him what are The ills of day, if thou but shelter him With brooding wing.— Earth without labor—what a dreary waste! Sadder to view than Asia’s barren plains Or Afric’s sea of sand. He that would strike Thy arm of sinews down, would make the field A solitude, and crowded mart a den Of thieves.— When the moist sickle rests upon its hook, And the rich stores of earth are gathered in, The fair is held—a feast of fruits and flowers— Of art’s fine workmanship and labor’s yield. From the dark pines that fringe Aroostook’s wave To the wild chapparal that rudely turns The martial foot from Rio Bravo’s bank, From the Atlantic’s many-peopled shore To the Columbia’s vales of living green, The joyful mandate rings, and man pours forth His richest treasures to the gaze of day. The nation sits in judgment on her arts, Her choice productions and her fruitful glebes, And cheers the laborer’s toil with voice of praise. Thus man is dignified by honest toil, And the dread curse pronounced in Time’s young spring Becomes a blessing in its autumn day. So may the laborer stand amid his race— Taught that true knowledge elevates the soul, That the poor carpenter of Galilee Once worked his task—then in the temple taught— Then gave redemption to a guilty world— And then resumed his station by his God!