Yet round their corners lurks an embryo smile, The same on other lips my childhood knew That scarce the Sabbath's mastery could subdue. Him too my lineage gives me leave to claim,-- The good, grave man that bears the Psalmist's name. And still in ceaseless round the seasons passed; Spring piped her carol; Autumn blew his blast; Babes waxed to manhood; manhood shrunk to age; Life's worn-out players tottered off the stage; The few are many; boys have grown to men Since Putnam dragged the wolf from Pomfret's den; Our new-old Woodstock is a thriving town; Brave are her children; faithful to the crown; Her soldiers' steel the savage redskin knows; Their blood has crimsoned his Canadian snows. And now once more along the quiet vale Rings the dread call that turns the mothers pale; Full well they know the valorous heat that runs In every pulse-beat of their loyal sons; Who would not bleed in good King George's cause When England's lion shows his teeth and claws? With glittering firelocks on the village green In proud array a martial band is seen; You know what names those ancient rosters hold,-- Whose belts were buckled when the drum-beat rolled,-- But mark their Captain! tell us, who is he? On his brown face that same old look I see Yes! from the homestead's still retreat he came, Whose peaceful owner bore the Psalmist's name; The same his own. Well, Israel's glorious king Who struck the harp could also whirl the sling,-- Breathe in his song a penitential sigh And smite the sons of Amalek hip and thigh: These shared their task; one deaconed out the psalm, One slashed the scalping hell-hounds of calm; The praying father's pious work is done, Now sword in hand steps forth the fighting son. On many a field he fought in wilds afar; See on his swarthy cheek the bullet's scar! There hangs a murderous tomahawk; beneath, Without its blade, a knife's embroidered sheath; Save for the stroke his trusty weapon dealt His scalp had dangled at their owner's belt; But not for him such fate; he lived to see The bloodier strife that made our nation free, To serve with willing toil, with skilful hand, The war-worn saviors of the bleeding land. His wasting life to others' needs he gave,-- Sought rest in home and found it in the grave. See where the stones life's brief memorials keep, The tablet telling where he "fell on sleep,"-- Watched by a winged cherub's rayless eye,-- A scroll above that says we all must die,-- Those saddening lines beneath, the "Night-Thoughts" lent: So stands the Soldier's, Surgeon's monument. Ah! at a glance my filial eye divines The scholar son in those remembered lines.