Orleans County monitor. [volume] (Barton, Vt.) 1872-1953, 1896-04-20

lies from CtEcr laI1tls. Seine Ct Won are
Scotch,71cn. [ see it Ill your high cheek
bones arl III the color that illumines
your face when I mention the land cf
your nativity. Bonny Scotland! Dear
old kirkI Some Of your ancestors sleep
ing in Greyfciars churchyard, or by the
deem lochs filled out of the pitchers Of
heaven. or under the heather, sometimes
SO deep of color it makes one think CT
the blood of the Covenanters who signed
their names for Christ, dipping their
pens into the veins of their own arms
opened for that purpose. How every
| fiber Of your nature thrills as I mention
the names of Robert Bruce and the
Campbells and Cochrane! I bespeak for
this royal exile Of my text the love and
the service of all Scotch eXiles. Some Of
you are Englishmen. Your ancestry
served the Lord. Have l not read of the
| sufferings Of the Haymarlzet, and have
I not seen in Oxford the very spot where
Ridley and Latimer mounted the red
chariot? Some Of your ancestors heard
George Whitefeld thunder, or heard
Charles Wesley sing, or heard John
| Bunyan tell his dream of the celestial
city, and the cathedrals under the shad-
ow of which some of you were born had
in their grandest organ roll the name Of
! the Messiah.
I bespealz for the royal exile Of my ser
mon the love and the service of all
English exiles. Yes, some Of you came
| from the island of distress over which
hunger, on a throne of human Skeletons
sat queen. All efforts at ameliOratiOn
halted by massacre. Procession of fam
ines, procession CT martyrdoms march
ing from northern channel to Cape
Clear and from the Irish sea across to
the Atlantic. An island not bounded as
geographers tell us, but, as every phi
lanthropist knows, bounded on the north
and the south and the east and the west
by woe which no human politics can al
leviate and only Almighty God can as
suage. Land Of Goldsmith's rhythm,
and Sheridan's wit, and O'CoDnelI's
eloquence, and Edmund Burke's states
manship and O'Brien's sacrifice An
other Patnos with its apocalypse Of
blood Yet you cannot think of it today
without having your eyes blinded with
emotion, for there your ancestors sleep
in graves, some of which they entered
for lack of bread. Fer this royal exile of
my sermon [ bespeak the love and the
service of all Irish exiles Yes, some Of
you are from Germany, the land Of Lu-
Their, and some of you are from Italy, the.
land of Garibaldi, and some of you are
from France, the land of John Calvin,
one of the three mighties Of the glorious
reformation. Some Of you are descend
ants of the Puritans, and they were
eXiles, and some of you are descendants
of the Huguenots, and they were exiles,
and some of you are descendants Of the
Holland refugees, and they We're exiles.
"Going Home"
Some of you We're born on the banks
of the Yazoo or the Savannah, and you
are now living III this latitude. Some
of you on the banks Of the Kennebec, or
at the foot of the Green Mountains and
you are here now. Some of you on the
prairies of the west, or the tablelancs,
and you are here now. Oh, how many
of us far away from home. All Of US
exiles. This is not our home. Heaven
is our home. Oh, | am SO glad when
the royal exile went back he left the
gate ajar, or left it wide open. Going
homeP' That is the dying exclamation
of the majority of Christians. have
seen many Christians die. I think nine
out Of ten Of them in the last moment
say, ''Going home. " Going home out of
Punishment and sin and sorrow and sad
ness. Going home to join in the hilari-
ties Of our parents and our dear children
who have already departed. Going home
to Christ. Going home to God. Going
home to stay. Where are your loved
ones that died in Christ? You pity
them. All, they ought to pity you'll You
are an exile far from home. They are
home! Oh, what a time it will be for
you when the gatekeeper of heaven
shall say: "Take off that rough sandal,
the journeys ended. Put down that
saber, the battles won. Put off that
iron coat of mail and put on the robe of
conqueror. - At that gate of triumph I
leave you today, only reading three
tender cantos translated from the Ital-
ian IF you ever heard anything sweet
or, never did, although cannot adopt
all it's theology:
Twas whispered one morning in heaven
How the little child angel May,
In the shade of the great white portal
Sat sorrowing night and day;
How she said to the stately warden.
He of the key and bar:
sob, angel, sweet angel, l pray you
Set the beautiful gates ajar,
Only little, pray you,
Set the beautiful gates ajar.
81 can hear my mother weeping.
She is lonely she cannot
A glimmer of light in the darkness
When the gates shut after
Oh, turn me the key, sweet angel;
The splendor will shine so far
But the warden answered. 81 dare not
Set the beautiful gates ajar,'
Spoke low and answered, ''I dare not
Set the beautiful gates ajar.'
Then up Mary, the blessed
Sweet Mary, the mother of Christ.
Her hand on the hand of the angel
She laid, and her touch sufficed.