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Stately ball-rooms, where beauty once reigned, are cold and empty and mildewed, and halls, where laughter rang, are silent. Time was when every wide-throated chimney poured forth its cloud of smoke, when every andiron held a generous log, andirons which are now gone to decorate Mr. Centennial's home in New York or lie with a tag in the window of some curio shop.
She comes with shades of days long fled Knee-breeched; long silk-stockingèd; Well-braided queues; bright-buckled shoon That flash with diamonds; gold galloon On rebel uniforms of blue A color that this land found true; Three-cornered hats, and plumes that flew Through conflicts where men dare and do. A patriot throng, a gallant host, Our Dame Centennial's train can boast.
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