The L'Anse sentinel. (L'Anse, L.S., Mich.) 18??-current, 1896-05-02

opened tnat tnoro - uor0 meoy
voluntary exiles from other landA
Some of you are Scotchmen. soc IL
In your high oheek-bones, and In the
color that iilumines your face when /
mention the land Of your nativity.
Bonnie Scotlandi Dear old kirld Some
of your ancestors sleeping In Grey.
frairs churchyard, or by the deep
lochs ufilled out of tho pitchers OF
Heaven, or under the heather some
times 90 deep Of color It makes ono
think of the blood of the Covenanters
who signed their names for Christ,
dipping their pens into the veins OF
their own arms opened for that pur-
pose. How every fiber Of your nature
thrills a. mention the name Of Rob-
ert Bruce, and the Campbells. and
Cochrane. bespesk for this royal ex-
lie of my text the love and the service
| Of all Scotch exiles. Some Of you are
Englishmen. Your ancestry served
the Lord. Have I not read OF the
sufterings Of the Haymarket? and have
I not seen In Oxford the very spot
where Ridley and Latimer mounted
the rcd chariot Some of your ances-
tors heard George Whitefleld thunder,
or heard Charles Wesley sing, or heard
John Bunyan toll his dream of tho
celestial city; and the cathedrals un-
der the shadows of which some Of you
were born had in their grandest organ
roll the name of the Messiah. be-
speak for the royal exile of my ser
mon the love and service of all En-
glish exiles. Yes, some of you came
from the island Of distress over which
Hunger, on throne Of human skele-
tons, sat queen. All efforts at ameliora-
ton halted by massacre. Procession OF
famines, procession Of martyrdoms
marching from North channel to Cape
Clear, and from the Irish sea across to
tho Atlantic. An island not bounded
as geographers tell us, but as every
philanthropist knows-bounded on the
north and the south and the east and
the west by woe which no human poll
tics can alleviate, and only Almighty
God can assuage. Land of Goldsmith's
rhythm, and Sheridan's wit, and O'Con-
nelfs eloquence, and Edmund Burke's
craftsmanship, and O'Brien's sacrifice.
Another Patmos with its apocalypse OF
blood. Yet you can not think Of it to-
day without having your eyes blinded
with emotion, for there your ancestors
sleep in graves some of which they en-
tered for lack of bread.
For 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 Luther,
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 glori-
Gus Reformation. Some of you are
descendants of the Puritans, and they
were exiles; and some of you
are descendants of the Hugue-
nots, and they were exiles; and
some of you are descendants Of
the Holland refugees, and they were
exiles. Some of you were born on the
and you are now living in this latitude.
Some of you on the banks Of the Ken
nebec, or at the foot of the Green
mountains, and you are here now.
OIL how many of us far away from
home. All of us exiles. This is not
our home. Heaven is our home.
Oh! l am SO glad when the royal
exile went back He left the gate
ajar, or left it wide open. "Going
home!" That is the dying ex-
clamation of the majority of Chris
tians. have seen many Christians
die. think nine out of ten in the last
moment say, Going home" Going
out Of Punishment and sin and sorrow
and sadness. Going home to join in
the hilarities Of our parents and cur
dear children who have already de-
parted. Going home to Christ. Go
ing homo to God. Going home to stay.
Where are your loved ones that died
in Christ? You pity them. All! they
ought to pity you. You are an exile
far from home. They are home!
Oil what a time it will be
for you when the gatekeeper of Heaven
shall say: Take Off that rough san
DIAL; 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 leave you to-day, only read
ing three tender cantos translated
from the Italian. If you ever heard
any thiuk SWctItT ucVeT ulu,
can not adopt all its theology:
Twas whispered one morning In Heaven
How the little child-angel May,
In the shade Of the great white portal
Sat serrowing night and day;
How she said to the stately warden |
He Of the key and bar
"Oh angel, sweet angel. pray you
Set the beautiful gates ajar-
Only little, pray you. |
Set the beautiful gates ajar.
II can hear my mother weeping.
She is lonely, she can not see
glimmer Of light in the darkness,
When the gates shut after me:
OH turn me the key, sweet angel. |
The splendor will shine SO fart"
But the warden answered: ~ dare not
Set the beautiful gates ajar;"
Spoke low and answered: II dare not |
Set the beautiful gates ajar"
Then up rose Mary. the blessed,
Sweet Mary, the mother Of Christ;
Her hand on the hand OF the angel |
She laid, and her touch sufYiced.
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