A pheasant whirs up from the thicket In the hush that comes after the fall, And the squirrel retires to his wicket, And the bluebird renounces his call; And the panther lies crouched by the bowlder In the gloom of the canyon anear, And the brown bear looks over his shoulder, And the buck blows a signal of fear; But there’s never a pause in your duty, And the echoing ax is not still As you waste with the green temples of beauty For the puncheon and rafter and sill That are wrought in a cabin so lowly The trees will clasp hands over head, But the heart calls it home, and the holy Love-lights on its hearthstone are shed. It is staunch and rough-hewn, and the ceiling Of the fragrant red cedar is made, With an edging of silver revealing A picture of sunlight and shade. And the Word has its place, not a trifle Obscured in a pageant of books, And above the broad mantle your rifle Is hung on accessible hooks. Oh, the freshness of hope and of fancy That illumines the home and the heart, With the grace of a bright necromancy That excels the adorning of art! And you rise and look forth and the glory Of Hood is before you again, And the sun weaves a gold-threaded story In the purple of mountain and glen. · · · · · Stand up, and look out from the mansion That adorns the old scene of the past On the fruitage of hope—the expansion Of the fruits of your vigils forecast! While the shadows of Hood have been wheeling Away from the face of the sun, What a glamour of change has been stealing On the fields that you painfully won! Like the castles that fade at cock-crowing The enchantments arise and advance Where the cities of commerce are glowing Like pearls in the braids of romance; For a state, in the shimmering armor Of the Pallas Athena has come, And her ægis is fringed with the warmer Refulgence that circles our home.