CONCLUSION.
"Well, we won't argue the matter now. It's getting late, and we had better break our company," said Warner.
"But first we'll have a toast and a song," replied Hand. "Fill your glasses, friends. Heaven knows if we may ever meet again; and your company has been too amusing and instructive for us to part suddenly."
"The ale has made me feel very drowsy," said Kinnison.
"But you may sip our toast. Gentlemen, this is the Fourth of July; and surely it becomes us, as Americans, to toast the memory of the men who, on this day, pledged their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honors for the support of our independence. I therefore propose, 'The memory of the Signers of the Declaration of Independence. May the brightness of their fame endure as long as patriotism and the love of freedom burn in the breasts of mankind!'" exclaimed Hand. This was drunk standing, and a short silence ensued.
Hand now proposed that they should have a song, and remarked that he knew one appropriate to the occasion, which he would sing, if the old soldiers were not too weary to listen. Of course, they expressed it to be their pleasure that he should sing it, and he proceeded. "The song," said he, "is called 'The Last Revolutionary.'" The words were as follows:—
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O! where are they—those iron men, Who braved the battle's storm of fire, When war's wild halo fill'd the glen, And lit each humble village spire; When hill sent back the sound to hill, When might was right, and law was will! O! where are they, whose manly breasts Beat back the pride of England's might; Whose stalwart arm laid low the crests Of many an old and valiant knight; When evening came with murderous flame, And liberty was but a name? I see them, in the distance, form Like spectres on a misty shore; Before them rolls the dreadful storm, And hills send forth their rills of gore; Around them death with lightning breath Is twining an immortal wreath. They conquer! God of glory, thanks! They conquer! Freedom's banner waves Above Oppression's broken ranks, And withers o'er her children's graves; And loud and long the pealing song Of Jubilee is borne along. 'Tis evening, and December's sun Goes swiftly down behind the wave, And there I see a gray-haired one, A special courier to the grave; He looks around on vale and mound, Then falls upon his battle-ground. Beneath him rests the hallow'd earth, Now changed like him, and still and cold; The blood that gave young freedom birth No longer warms the warrior old; He waves his hand with stern command, Then dies, the last of Glory's band. |
"A very good song, but a very mournful subject," observed Kinnison. "And now, friends, we'll part."
"The carriages are at the door," said one of the young men, as the party arose and prepared to descend. The kindest and best wishes were exchanged between the old and young men; and over and over again were promises made to meet the next year, if possible. At length, the veterans were assisted to descend the stairs. When they reached the door, they found a crowd collected round it. The sound of the fife and drum had drawn these people there, and hearing that the survivors of the Tea-party were in the house, they had become very anxious to see them. As soon as the old men appeared, they jostled around them, and it was with much difficulty that they were safely placed in the carriages by their young friends. Hand and his comrades at last bade the veterans an affectionate farewell, and the carriages drove away amid cheers given by the crowd for "The Boston Tea-party."