twilight of an April morning, he stood on the green beside the
meeting-house at Lexington where now the obelisk of granite with a
slab of slate inlaid commemorates the first-fallen of the Revolution.
And when our fathers were toiling at the breastwork on Bunker's Hill,
all through that night the old warrior walked his rounds. Long, long
may it be ere he comes again! His hour is one of darkness and
adversity and peril. But should domestic tyranny oppress us or the
invader's step pollute our soil, still may the Gray Champion come! for
he is the type of New England's hereditary spirit, and his shadowy
march on the eve of danger must ever be the pledge that New England's
sons will vindicate their ancestry.




SUNDAY AT HOME.


Every Sabbath morning in the summer-time I thrust back the curtain to
watch the sunrise stealing down a steeple which stands opposite my
chamber window. First the weathercock begins to flash; then a fainter
lustre gives the spire an airy aspect; next it encroaches on the tower
and causes the index of the dial to glisten like gold as it points to
the gilded figure of the hour. Now the loftiest window gleams, and now
the lower. The carved framework of the portal is marked strongly out.
At length the morning glory in its descent from heaven comes down the
stone steps one by one, and there stands the steeple glowing with
fresh radiance, while the shades of twilight still hide themselves
among the nooks of the adjacent buildings. Methinks though the same
sun brightens it every fair morning, yet the steeple has a peculiar