Among these worthies was a dame
Of mingled dignity and grace;
Linked with the warrior-statesman's fame
Is Martha's comely, smiling face.
But look around, to right to left;
Pass through these rooms, once Martha's pride,
The dining hall of guests bereft,
The kitchen with its fire-place wide.
See the huge logs, the swinging crane,
The Old Man's seat by chimney ingle,
The pots and kettles, all the train
Of brass and pewter, here they mingle.
In the large hall above, behold
The flags, the eagle poised for flight:
While sabres, bayonets, flint-locks old,
Tell of the struggle, and the fight.
Old faded letters bear the seal
Of men who battled for a stamp;
A cradle and a spinning-wheel
Bespeak the home behind the camp.
Apartments opening from the hall
Show chairs and desks of quaint old style,
And curious pictures on the wall
Provoke a reverential smile.
Musing, we loiter in each room
And linger with our vanished sires;
We hear the deep, far-echoing boom
That spoke of old in flashing fires.
But deepening shadows bid us go,
The western sun is sinking fast;
We take our leave with footsteps slow,
Farewell, ye treasures of the past.
A century and more has gone,
Since these old relics saw their day;
That day was but the opening dawn
Of one that has not passed away.
Our banner is no worthless rag,
With patriot pride hearts still beat high;
And there, above, still waves the flag
For which our fathers dared to die.