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.”