God had turned the trenches to roses again
When they bore him home across the wave
He was true to self, to God, and man
And was leaving a land he died to save.
How quiet on that August morn
The tolling bell gave forth its sound.
In star-draped casket, slowly borne,
A treasure not of earth was found.
Like dew upon a flower sleeping
Or fairest hue of sunset skies
A jewel in the master's keeping
A radiant pearl of greatest price.
Like amber-tinted clouds of May
By many vagrant breezes driven;
That frail form swiftly passed away
To melt and fade in dawn's fair heaven.
Death is but the mist of early morn
Seen rising o'er the placid river,
An open gateway into heaven
Where the pure with God shall dwelt forever.
CHAPTER X
LEXINGTON AND CONCORD
Coming into Lexington from the south one passes Follen church,
where Emerson preached. Farther along on the right is the house
of John Harrington, last survivor of the battle; then, near the
corner of Maple street, the great elm planted by his father.
About a quarter of a mile further, on the left, is the Munroe
Tavern, headquarters and hospital of Earl Percy, now the
property of the Lexington Historical Society. The granite cannon
by the High School marks the site of one of the field-pieces
placed by Earl Percy to cover the retreat of the British troops.
In the town hall is the admirable painting of the Battle of
Lexington, by Sandham; also in the town offices statues of
Hancock and Adams.
The Hayes memorial fountain, with an ideal statue of the Minute
Man, by Henry H. Kitson, sculptor, faces the line of approach of
the British from the easterly end of the common. Behind it a
granite pulpit marks the site of the old church past which
Pitcairn led his men; a boulder to the left locates the position
of the Old Belfry from which the alarm was sounded on its bell,
April 19, 1775. A boulder on the common to the right from the
fountain, together with the old monument, under which the eight
men killed during the battle are buried, marks the line of the
Minute Men. The Jonathan Harrington house, on the corner of
Bedford street, was the scene of a touching incident of the
battle. Across Bedford street is the Masonic Temple. The main
part of this building was erected in 1822 for the Lexington
Academy, and in this building the first normal school in America
was opened on July 3, 1839, with three pupils enrolled.
It is good to be here in this section of country not alone for
its historical associations, with which it is so rich, but for
the association of great minds, from which emanated those
flowers of song "that shall bloom in fragrance and beauty in the
gardens of the human heart forever." We note in journeying here
that the scenery is superb, yet we love the land more for the
noble souls who lived and labored here that humanity might rise
to higher things.
One does not wonder that Massachusetts can boast of so many
illustrious names, for "its lovely landscape and stern climate
seem to have been made for the development of genius," and no
other period of history could have afforded more telling
inspiration than that in which they lived. Their songs had in
them the purity of its crystal springs, the beauty of its autumn
landscapes, the strength of its rock-strewn hills.
How quiet was all the landscape on that Sabbath afternoon as we
stood on the North bridge, where once stood the embattled farmer
gazing up the elm-lined vista at the alert figure of the Minute
Man. As one writer has said, it seemed difficult to associate
this charming spot with strife, and try as we would it ever
remained what its name implies, "Concord."
How peaceful the dark, slow-moving stream glided by the town,
with scarce a murmur to break the serene stillness! How gently
the Old Manse looked from its leafy elms! The noise of
automobiles passing along the highway, the rippling laughter of
our little guide, or the gurgling melody of a red-winged
blackbird scarce disturbed its peaceful slumbers. On the golden
stillness of the hot mid-summer afternoon the almost
imperceptible current seemed more sluggish still. The graceful
foliage of willow, elm and alder, joined in friendly groups by
wild grape vines, leaned over the dark water "as if still
listening for the golden thoughts of Hawthorne, Chinning,
Emerson and Thoreau." It was their spirits that seemed to rule
over the brooding landscape rather than that of the Minute Man,
clothing each rock and tree with a luster the remembrance of
which shall illuminate many a somber-colored day of life.
Yet here was the first battle of the Revolution. The only flag
we saw was the vivid red of cardinal flowers, the blue of the
chicory, and the white of the elder. We heard no gun save that
of the bittern, which savored more of love than war. The calm
skies knew no harsher sound than the explosive boom of the night-
hawk. The only drum was that of the bullfrog, calling raw
recruits from among the lily-pads. The dark waters harbored no
submarine save a great turtle who slipped from a log and
submerged, sending a mass of ripples around a much-frightened
blue heron. The woods echoed to the bold bugle of the Carolina
wren. But there, on April 19, 1775, "murmured the first faint
tide of war" that continued until, as the stone on the right
tells us, "it gave peace to the United States."
Gage sent troops to proceed to Concord to destroy the military
stores collected there, but they, like Adams and Hancock in
Lexington, had vanished.
