This little brown house, so dear to each heart, So famous in history, so free from all art-- Our hearts with emotion always will thrill When we think of the chapel under the hill. But where are the loved ones we met here of yore? Their forms and their faces we'll see nevermore; Their loud, cheery laugh and swift-coming feet No more in the Sabbath-school ever to greet. Some have launched out on the world's busy tide, Some have got married, some have died, Some on the frontier, wading through strife, With the musketry's rattle and the wild scalper's knife. Some by the camp-fires, with their minds on the rack, Eating salt pork with a little hard-tack, Wading through snow or fording a river, Or asleep on the ground without any cover. From the falls of Missouri, with its loud, maddening roar, To the slopes of Pacific, an ever-green shore, To the Atlantic Ocean, with a coast sand-bound, There some of my boys are sure to be found. To the northward, to the westward, and fair, sunny south, Like the dove with the olive-branch of peace in its mouth, Thus they've gone forth their garlands to weave, When they get through they'll return with the sheaves. Some on the Lone Star, quite at their ease, Eating their rations, doing just as they please, Basking in sunshine among the sweet flowers, Whiling away the long, tedious hours. [Illustration: KOSCIUSZKO GARDEN.] From the St. Lawrence River to the Rio Grande, From Puget's Sound to Maine's cold sand, O'er the hilltops, through the valleys, never to lag, Not a spot on this land but they've planted the flag. * * * * * The old village people--where are they, That in the chapel met to pray? The stalwart man and maiden mild, The matron and the little child, The son and sire side by side, As to the village church they hied-- Some are gone and sweetly rest, With their white hands folded on their breast. Under the violet and the rose, The autumn leaves and winter snows, On the banks of the Hudson there to sleep, While the moon and stars their vigils keep. The man of God, with modest mien, With faltering steps and looks serene, As to the sacred desk they knelt And poured forth what their spirits felt, Their hearts went up with pure desire, While on the altar burned the fire; A few still linger on the shore. Veterans of a holy war. May this little brown house, of good constitution, Built on the classic grounds of the old Revolution, The Stars and the Stripes, the blue and cadet grey, Be the last things to perish when time's passed away. SUPPLEMENT. _Lines addressed to the Fourth Class of '78-'79._ To the young gentlemen that are here with us now-- To you and the rest I make my best bow. Now listen, young men; take heed what I say; Your time is coming, it's not far away.