Orleans County monitor. [volume] (Barton, Vt.) 1872-1953, 1898-06-27

never lay down, We discouraged ones
who have been waging a hand to hand
fight for bread, We to whom the night
brings little rest and the morning more
drudgery-oh, ye of the weary hand
and the weary side and the weary foot,
hear me talk about rest
Look at that company of enthroned
ones. 1t cannot be that those bright
ones ever toiled? Yes, yes. These packed
the Chinese tea boxes, and through mis-
sionary instruction escaped into glory.
These sweltered on southern plantations,
and one night after the cotton picking
went up as white as if they had never
been black. Those died of overtoil in
the Lowell carpet factories, and these
in Manchester mills. Those helped
build the pyramids, and these broke
away from work on the day Christ Was
bounded ou5 of Jerusalem. No more
towers to build, heaven is done. No
more garments to weave the robes are
finished. No more harvests to raise, the
gamers are full. Oh, sons and daugh-
tiers of toll, arise We and depart, for that
is your rest
Scovill McCallum, a boy of my Sun
day school, while dying said to his
mother, "Don't cry, but sing, sing,
''There is rest for the weary,
There is rest for the weary.
Then putting his wasted hand over his
heart he said, ''There is rest for me. y
But there are some of you who want
to hear about the land where they never
have any heartbreaks and no graves are
dug. Where are your father and moth
er? The most Of you are orphans. [ look
around, and where I see one man who
has parents living [ see ten who are or
phans. Where are your children?
Where I see one family circle that is
unbroken I gee three or four that have
been desolated-one lamb gone out Of
this fold, one flower plucked from that
garland, one golden link broken from
that chain, here q bright light put out
and there another and yonder another
With such gtiefs how are you to rest?
Will there ever be a power that can at
tune that silent voice, or kindle the
1uster Of that closed eye, or put spring
and dance into that little foot? When
we bank up the dust over the dead, is
the sod never to be broken? Is the Gem
etery to hear no sound but the tire of
the hearse wheel or the tap of the bell
at the gate as the long professions come
in with their awful burdens Of grief?
Is the bottom of the grave gravel and
the top dust? No, no, moi The tomb is
only a place where we wrap our robes
about us for pleasant nap on our way
home. The swellings of Jordan will
only wash off the dust of the way
From the top of the grave we catch
glimpse of the towers glinted with the
sun that never sets.
Glorious Consolation.
Oh, We whose locks are wet with the
dews Of the night of grief; We whose
hearts are heavy, because those we'll
known footsteps sound no more at the
doorway, yonder is your rest! There is
David triumphant, but once he bemoan-
ed Absalom. There is Abraham en-
throned, but once he wept for Sarah.
There is Paul exultant, but he once sat
with his feet in the stocks. There is
Payson radiant with immortal health,
but on earth he was always sick. No
toll, no tears, no partings, 10 strife, no
agonizing cough, no night. No storm
to ruffe the crystal sea. No alarm to
strike from the cathedral towers. No
dirge throbbing from seraphic harps.
No tremor in the everlasting song, but
rest-perfect rest-unending rest.
Into that rest how many loved ones
have gone! Some put down the work of
feeling they could hardly be
spared from the store or shop for day,
but are to be spared from it forever.
Some went in old age. One came totter-
ing on his staff and used to sit at the
foot of the pulpit, his wrinkled face
radiant with the light that falls from
the throne of God. Another having liv-
ed a life of Christian consistency here,
ever busy with kindnesses for her chill
dren, her heart full of that meek and
quiet spirit that is in the sight of God |
Of great price, suddenly her countenance
was TRANSPORTED, and the gate was
opened, and she took her place amid |
that great cloud of witnesses that hover
about the throne
Glorious consolation! They are not |
lead. You cannot make me believe they |
are dead. They have only moved on.
With more love than that with which
they greeted us on earth they watch us ,
rom their high place, and their voices ;
cheer us in our struggle for the sky. Hail, I
spirits blessed, now that We have passed
5he flood and won the crown. With
weary feet we press up the shining
way until in everlasting reunion we
shall meet again. Oh, won't it be grand
when, our conflicts done and our part
ngs over, we shall clasp hands and cry
>ut, ''This is heaven?"
By the thrones Of your departed kin
lred, by their gentle hearts and the ten
lerness and love with which they now
all you from the skies, I beg you start
IN the highroad to heaven. In the ever
asting rest may we all meet.
One of the old writers wished he