The Irish standard. [volume] (Minneapolis, Minn. ;) 1886-1920, 1892-03-12

pie, for you were baptised in their blooc
Here you turn, and 10! gibbet! Ther'
and a scaffpld stares you in the face
All around you-death- nowher
pity! Now, executioners Of the human
race kneel down, yes kneel down on th
sawdust of the scafold! Lay your per
fumed heads on the block; bless the ak,
as it falls-the axe sharpened for tn
poor mans neck.
! Such is the message Of the declaration
of man to the kings of the world. Anc
shall we falter now? And shall we start
back appalled, when our feet touch the
very threshold of freedom? DO you SEE
quailing faces around you, when oul
I wives have been bucthered; when the
hearthstones of our land are red with
blood of little children? What! are their
shrinking hearts or faltering voices here,
when the very dead of our battle-felds
arise and call upon US to sign that parch-
ment, or be accursed"
"Sign! If the next moment the glib
bets rope is around your neck. Sign!
If the next moment the hall rings with
the echo of the falling axe. Sign! By
all your hopes in life and death, as hus-
bands, fathers-as men, sign your names
to the parchment, or be accursed forever!
Sign; not only for yourselves, but for
all ages; for the parchment will be the
text book of freedom, the bible of the
rights of man forever.
"Sign, tor the declaration will go forth
to American hearts forever and speak to
those hearts like the voice Of Cod And
it's work will not be done until through
out this wide continent not a single inch
Of ground owns the sway If privilege Or
power.
Nay, do not start and whisper with
surprise. 1t is truth. Your own hearts
witness it; God proclaims it. This con-
tinent is the property of a free people,
and their property alone. God, [ say
proclaims it. Look at this strange his.
tory of band of exiles and outcasts sud
denly transformed into people. Look
at this wonderful exodus of the Old
World into the New, where they came,
weak in arms, but mighty in Godlil1e
faith. Nay, look at the history Of your
Bunker Hill, your Lexington, where a
band OF plain farmers nocked and
trampled down the panoply Of British
arms, and then tell me, if you can, that
God has not given America to the free.
It is not given to our human intellect to
climb the skies, to pierce the councils Of
the Almighty One. But methinks I
stand among the awful clouds that veil
the brightness of Jehova's throne. Me-
thinks I sec the Recording Angel~-pale
as an angel lis pale, weeping as an angel
can weep-come trembling up to the
throne, and speaking his dread message:
Father, the Old World is baptised in
blood Father, it is drenched with the
blood of millions, butchered in war, in
persecution, in slow and grinding oppres-
sion. Father look! With one glance Of
Thine eternal eye, look over Europe,
Asia, Africa, and behold evermore ter
rible sight-man trodden down beneath
the oppressor's feet, nations lost in blood,
murder and superstition walking hand in
hand over the graves of their victims,
and not single voice to whisper hope to
man.
"He stands there (the angel), his hand
trembling with the black record of
human guilt. But bark! The voice of
Jehovah speaks out from the awful
cloud: Let there be light again. Let
there be New World. Tell my people,
the poor, down-trodden millions, to go
out from the Old World. Tell them to
go out from wrong, oppression and blood.
Tell them to go out from the Old World
to build up my altar in the New.
''As God lives, Ny friends, believe
that to be His voice. Yes, were my soul
trembling on the brink of eternity, were
this hand freezing to death, were my
voice choking with the last struggle, I
would still, with the last wave of this
hand, with the last grasp of that voice,
implore you to remember the truth
God has given America to the free. Yes,
as sank down IN the gloomy shadows of
the grave, with my last grasp. I would
beg you to sign that parchment in the
name of the One who made the Saviour,
who redeemed you, in the name of the
millions whose very breath is now hush
ed, in intense expectation, they look up
to you for the awful words you are free.
Many years have gone since that hour.
The speaker, his brethren, all, have
crumbled into dust, but the records of
that hour still exist, and they tell us that
it would require an angels pen to picture
the magic Of that speakers look, the
deep, terrible emphasis of his voice, the
prophet like beckoning of his hand, the
MAGNETIC flame shooting from his ewes.