The Cadiz sentinel. [volume] (Cadiz, Ohio) 184?-1851, 1844-06-26

his shoulder, and beheld the tall stranger stri-
d ng slowly on along the verge Of yonder hedge,
his calm face upturned to the sky, while his eyes
dilated and flushed, with silent yet mighty
thought.
Who is the stranger?
1t is the happy Sabbath morn, and passing
through the wicket gate, built on the old stone
wall, we enter the rustic graveyard, and stand
before the country church rising gray, and mas
sive into the clear sky; with the old doors and
window sills eaten by decay, clumps of green
moss on the roof, and swallows twittering round
the ancient steeple, with the sunshine glimmer-
ing over the cracked bell and rusted vane.
We enter; we seat ourselves on the steps of
the altar, for the church IS crowded we listen to
the voice of the ancient preacher, whose message
is of life and of peace TO the minds of men, from
the Lord Jesus, the crucfed the risen and the
mediatorial.
Who comes here?
As live 'tis our ancient friend, who stood be-
tween our vision and the dawn not long ago.
Aye, he comes slowly along the aisle, his white
hat, blackened by Grape, in one hand, his cane
in the other, while every eye beholds his lofty
brow, the snowy hair, and the commanding
countenances scanned by the wrinkles of age.
| Silently he takes his seat-all give way at bis
presence-sently he listens to the word of God,
silently the Sabbath morning wears away.
| Who is the ancient man?
! A new scene?
Here, crowding round the banisters Of the cir
cular railing in front of the pulpit, kneeling on
the steps of the altar, bowing the heads low in
lsilent awe, come young and old, rich and poor
come red-lipped youth, blooming maidenhood,
mature matronhood, stern manhood, and silver
haired age.
In the midst stands the preacher, holdingaloft
the cup and bread of God, speaking of the mys-
tic meanings of those divine emblems as he ex-
tends the sacred food to the lips of age, or be-
slows the wine of life on the silent alteration of
| youth
And here, kneeling with a rosy-cheeked mai
den on one side, an aged veteran Of the cross
on the other, here silently bows the stranger his
long white hair hiding the muscular hands held
tremblingly over his visage, as he lowers his
head in voiceless prayer here he prays, thai an
cient man; he extends his hand, receives the
cup and bread of God, and that voice so full so
bold in its slightest tone, trembles with the e'syl-
lables of the Redeemer's name, murmurmgly
speaks the word of hope" Jesus!"
| Who is the stranger, that stood between us
and the red dawn few moments ago, that now
bows, prays, trembles, while he eats the bread
and drinks the wine of God?
| Who is the ancient man with the wrinkled
face and snowy hair?
Come back with me twenty-eight years
through the pathway of time, come back with
me TO strange scene, where our question may
find its answer
A wide city, with temples, mansions, domes
wrapped in heavy pail of smoke; groups Of
Ipaletaced citizens standing at the corners of the
streets, the silence of the night resting on the
place, in broad day, while the thunder Of distant
cannon breaks on the air.
| Now ask, who is the stranger?
Ask the mo ther, secretng her babe in the dim
hooks of her house, on whom next to God, she
relies for protection in this dread hour, when the
red hand of British ravage seems already thrust
before her eyes; ask the aged father, with his
blooming and dark-hared daughter kneeling at
his feet in speechlcss alarm, while she clasps
his knees; ask the gray-haired man, who shall
stay the path of the red-coat hireng, with his
cry of Beauty and Booty" who shall rescue
the pure girl from the polluted grasp of the raw
sher?
The mother; the father, speak one name of
hope--one name of salvation!
People of The wide city of the South, trem-
bling while the thunder of British cannon is at
your gates, clustering at your street corners in
fear, hiding themselves in the hooks and cham
bers of your proud mansions, tell me, tell us,
who is your salvation in this hour? Who leads
your sons, your brothers, your fathers, on to
death without the city walls in this moment of
death and horror?
Again the name of glory breaks on your ear!
Bold Backwoodsman Of the West, speeding
through flame and smoke-speeding over the
dead corpses of your red-coat foes--tell us who
is yon tall warrior mounted on the white war
horse, pointing his sword around to the death he
dares fearless, in the hour horror undsmayed,
while around his horses feet scatter the shot and
rains the death hail?
The question passes from our lips, and yet
again the name of glory comes echoing through
the gloom of battle!
Who is this stranger Of the autumnal meadow
who is the communicate of the church of God
who was the salvation of the fair city of the
South, the hope of woman and the stay of man,
the leader of the Backwoodsmen and the terror
of the British hirelings?
! On the pillow Of our country's history, side by
side with the immortal names of Washington,
Hancock, Adams and Jefferson; side by side
with Wayne, Lee and Gates; with Madison and
Marshall, and an answer is recorded in these
letters of gold-the name ANDREW JACK
SON.
Go down TO your grave, oh, mighty Hero!
go down to your resting place of glory, while in
your ears, ring the fame of a whole world, on
your venerable head of snow falls the sunshine
Of Gods own presence; go down to the grave
full of years, burdened with blessings May the
hand that would fling the dirt of calumny IN
your white hairs, be palsieu may the tongue
that would assail your closing brows with slander
or talsehood, be speechless forever!