Whose smile, benign in age, was joy to me,

As my loved Father, at our fire-side spake

To him, as the true Patriot speaks to those

Who win a nation's homage by their toils.

Here even now, on an age-colored pane,

The letters, diamond-cut, show Hancock's name.

The war had found the host of the Ford Inn

A happy man; no idler round a bar;

For his chief calling was upon his farm,

With rich fields open to the sun, amid

The dense surrounding forests, where the deer

Still lingered by the homes of laboring men.

He bore arms for his country. And he heard

The last guns fired at Yorktown for the free.

One little daughter played around his hearth;

Oft tracked his steps far in the furrowed field;

Looked up with guileless eye in his true face.

After each absence short, her merry shout

Of greeting at his coming, rose as sure

As sounds from those dark cedars on the shore,

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