MISSIONARY EXCURSION IN FRANCE. read the Word of God, and to quit an infidel Church. When we separated he shook hands with me, saying with emotion, "You are a good young man. God has given you grace," Poor priest, may God now do for you the same by means of the good news which you have heard! On leaving the old priest I went to visit the cathedral. Two peasants were looking at the façades, and one said to the other, " This building is so old that it must have been built at least 500 years before Christ." I politely corrected his error, and as he remarked upon the solidity of the building, I called to mind and repeated the words of Jesus-"There shall not remain one stone upon another." Starting with this, I related to them the history of the temple at Jerusalem, and spoke to them of the judgment to come and the way to escape it. The two men listened with astonishment, and as I left them, having given them some tracts, they thanked me in an affectionate and serious manner, which led me to hope that my words had not been lost upon them. At last I entered the church. And now can you imagine what it is that occupies the first place in this beautiful edifice, and receives the greatest homage from the popes of the city? It is certainly unique in its kind. It is a small, ugly idol of the Virgin, black as a negress. It is so ugly as actually to produce fear. But in return for this it is covered with gold and precious stones, and its altar is ornamented with numerous votive offerings in memory of the miracles which are attributed to it. I approached a sort of priest, who remained seated in front of the altar from morning till evening, and who combined the functions of a reciter of prayers ordered and paid for, and of a seller of medals, little books, &c., relative to the black virgin. The following is the conversation I had with him: "Why is this Virgin black, I pray you?" "It is because it is written in Canticles, I am black, but I am beautiful.'" "Does this statue yet work miracles?" "Rarely, because there is no more faith." "What was the last?" "It was that of 1832. The Virgin then prevented the cholera from coming to the city. On that occasion was struck the large medal of gold which you see suspended at her feet." "Do they leave the medal here at night?" "Oh no, sir! they are afraid of thieves." That, however, would be a fine occasion for working a miracle." "Oh, sir! they do not dare to trust to that." "You must get very tired here." "Yes, sometimes." Well, read these little books, they will do you good;" and I left him some tracts. I have rarely had occasion to see a poor human intellect so stupefied by Romish superstition as was this man's. May God bless the tracts that he has received! But this is a sufficient recital of my visit to Chartres. I left in the evening, and arrived the next day, at eight o'clock in the morning, at the small town of Mamers, the first of the new stations of the Evangelical Society. The inn where the carriage stopped, and in which I had taken lodgings, has an ancient look. It has for a sign written and painted The Black Head; and lo, by a singular coincidence, I found, in perusing the historical notes that I had brought with me, this house, where I found a quiet home, was the same where began, in 1563, the violent persecution which destroyed the Reformed Church of Mamers. "They entered," says Thodore Beza, "into the house of The Black Head, seized the landlord and his wife, and drove the naked children out of the house, then seized four belonging to the reformed faith who were lodged there." Then follows the recital of the massacre. The times are greatly changed. I felt truly grateful to God as, in order to go to my chamber, I crossed the alley of the hotel, 591 where, according to the chronicles, was perpetrated the murder of the Christian, Yves Husson, whose descendants yet live in the neighbourhood. One thing appeared to me a favourable sign. The first object which met my eyes on entering the large hall of the inn, was a large Bible which the infirm landlord was engaged in reading. I said to him, "Do you know what book it is you are reading?" "Oh, sir!" he replied, "it is the most beautiful and the greatest of all books." On the day of my arrival, I commenced my missionary work. A meeting had been appointed, and I had the pleasure of seeing from one hundred and fifty to two hundred persons assembled, whose silence and attention seemed to say, "Behold us ready to hear you." It was the day of the Popish feast of the Saints. I took occasion from this to show them the nature and the end of holiness, and the only way of obtaining it. Notwithstanding the extreme inconvenience and discomforts of the place, nothing disturbed this meeting. A lively and serious interest was marked on every countenance. In the evening at seven o'clock, I went two miles from Mamers, to the village of Courgain, where a meeting was appointed. A considerable crowd of men and women stood waiting at the entrance of the place. I went into a large room, poorly lighted by three candles, and in part stripped of its furniture for the occasion. The people gathered around me, and listened attentively to a familiar discourse upon the constant power of the gospel of Christ, in life and in death. When I had finished, an aged woman, and one who they told me had been until then a zealous Papist, came up to me and said, "Heretofore I have opposed what you preach; now I can no longer resist it." A moment after, like a person greatly agitated, she added, "So, then, our mass is not good." "Judge of it yourself," I replied; and I then explained to her the perfection, and the full sufficiency of the sacrifice of Jesus Christ. On hearing me repeat Hebrews ix. 24-28, she was struck with it, and said with visible emotion, "It is true, sir. Once was enough." I said to a woman who stood near me, "Well, have you understood me ?" "Oh, sir, I am very happy!" and so saying, her eyes were filled with tears. The next day, the 2d of November, I went to Alençon, the chief place in the department of Orne. It being impossible to hold a public meeting the same day, I got together in the evening, in my room at the hotel, some of those who regularly attended the meeting, and conversed with them for a long time on their salvation. Many of them rejoiced my heart, by the eagerness with which they received the word of God. Nov. 3d. Public meeting at Alençon. The hall vacated by the Freemasons is the place where the gospel is preached. When I arrived, not only the hall, but the vestibule, the passage-way, and even the outer stairs, were filled with people. I spoke with great freedom upon John v. 21-24. Observing the silence of the audience, you would have supposed it changed to stone; but on all those faces, in all those eyes, what interest, what emotion! "It is a delightful feast for me," said a poor woman to me at the close, "that I have heard this preaching." A workman speaking in a loud voice, said in leaving, "Yes, it is very true, we are bad within." I appointed another meeting for the next Sabbath morning. The same audience, the same attention, the same seriousness in this meeting as in the former. After preaching at Alençon, I returned in haste to Neuchâtel, where I was expected by the middle of the day. The spot chosen for the meeting at this place, was the shade of a magnificent forest, which reached nearly to the village. As formerly, in meetings in the terially from most of those which I have witnessed in France. Elsewhere I have often seen that what had caused the preaching of the gospel to be received, was far more a violent opposition to Popery than true religious want. Here it is an entirely different thing. They wish to know something truer, more consoling, than the doctrines of Rome; and this it is which brings us hearers. There is nothing of that noisy, excited, light curiosity which we have seen in other places. The hearers are calm, serious, silent. They do not applaud, but they hear in silence, and reflect upon what they have heard. Rarely have I seen such evident proofs of the work of the Spirit of God, and such marked preparation for a true awakening. wilderness, the preacher stations himself at the foot of an old oak, and proclaims God the Creator and the Saviour. When I arrived an abundant rain had compelled the audience to seek shelter under a shed open to the wind on every side. I went in quest of them; and there, less comfortable than Paul by the river side (for it was impossible to sit down), I instructed these dear peasants from the history of Lydia. In the evening I returned to Mamers, where a new meeting awaited me, in which I proclaimed to hearers truly hungry and thirsting for the gospel, the necessity, the completeness, and the certainty of salvation by Jesus Christ. Astonishment and joy were depicted upon their faces as I proclaimed this grace, so consoling, and hitherto to them unknown. One happy effect of this preaching was to lead those who did not possess the Word of God to express a desire for it. Many in leaving begged the colporteur to bring it to them the next day. After the necessary repose of Monday, I left on Tuesday morning for Alençon. A friend who met me on my arrival, came full of joy to relate to me the following fact: One of his neighbours, whom he had invited to come to hear the first preaching at that place, had attended, and afterwards said to him, "I would rather hear it preached that there is no God, for certainly there is none." This same man came Saturday and Sunday to our meetings. Saturday morning he met the "YE DID RUN WELL-WHO DID HINDER friend who told me this, and shaking hands with him with an unusual cordiality, said to him, "Ah, how much I desire that this preaching should continue here! How glad I am at hearing what is said in these meetings! Do not fail to inform me when there will be preaching again." Our friend, who himself is in great anxiety about his soul, and who, as the partially blind man, sees men only as trees, said to me with astonishment, "There must be a great change in that man, whose habit has been to say, 'There is no God; nothing can prove that there is a God."" Encouraged by narratives of this kind, I preached at our meeting in the evening the truth of God. After having read that admirable chapter, the 11th of Hebrews, I spoke of faith, its nature, its objects, its effects on man. The audience was so large, and all the aisles were so filled with people, that a woman fainted during my discourse. A poor workman and his wife, already converts to Jesus Christ, exhorted me to persevere. As they accompanied me to the hotel, the husband said to me, "How could we give up the faith that God has put in our hearts-faith in Jesus Christ? It is all our happiness, and I know not what would become of us if this consolation were taken from us." On Wednesday I returned to Mamers. The colporteur told me that a woman, who at the last meeting had begged him to bring her a New Testament the next day, said to him on receiving it, "I have been many times to mass and to the sermons of the curate, but nothing has ever penetrated my heart like that which I have heard at these meetings. My husband feels the same. That produces an effect on us-an effect -indeed we know not what to call it; but for certain we are done with mass, and will never go to it again." In the evening I preached my last sermon, taking for my text the 32d Psalm. When I had ended, these dear hearers surrounded me, imploring me not to abandon them, but to continue to proclaim to them the truths which did them so much good. I promised to do so, for I could not but believe that God approved of wishes so sincere, and I have the assurance that he will not leave unfinished a work whose beginning is so favourable. The evening of the next day I returned to Paris, fatigued but very happy, as you will believe, from all that I had seen and heard. The movement of Sarthe and Orne differs ma The evangelist who commenced this work returned from it exhausted with fatigue. There are six other localities where the gospel is already welcomed, and many others calling for it, and desiring that some one would bring them the truth. But where are the labourers and the resources for this great and good work? May God provide them, and may we water with our prayers this field! Here may we exclaim with the Saviour, "The harvest is great, but the labourers are few." YOU?" YES, ye did run well. Ye began the Christian race with zeal and spirit. The little band of disciples felt their hearts cheered within them when they saw you starting in the good way, and marked the alacrity and apparent heartiness with which you gave your aid to the cause they so much loved. None were more regular in their appointed place in the sanctuary; none more punctual in the hour of prayer and social intercourse; none more ready to speak a word for Christ. Yes, ye did run well: most cheerfully do we give you this commendation. But, alas! this is all that can be said in your favour; ye did run well. We may not say: "Ye do run well." A change, a sad, fearful change hath come over you. Something hath evidently hindered you, turned you back. Your seat is now often vacant on the Sabbath, and seldom filled at the evening prayer-meeting: and when you do venture in, where those that fear the Lord speak often one to another, you choose a retired seat (is it from humility?) and your voice is no longer heard encouraging your fellow-pilgrims to press onward. Why is this? Who hath hindered you? Who? Was it your brethren? No, they rejoiced when they saw you running well. Was it your pastor? He feels too deeply the need of all the fellow-helpers he can get for the truth, to lay a straw in the way of any, even the weakest, of the flock. Was it good angels? There was joy amid the angelic throng when they saw you set your face heavenward. Was it God the Father? He placed heaven, with all its glories, at the end of the race, and bid you run. Was it Jesus? He died that you might run, and so run as to obtain. Was it the Holy Spirit? He first wooed you from the broad way of destruction into the strait and narrow way of life. O no! the thought is blasphemous: it could be none of these. All good men on earth, all glorified saints and angelic spirits in heaven, and, above all, THE SABBATH CANDLE. the infinite and incomprehensible Godhead, combined to cheer you on in your course, to influence you to continue to run well. Who then hath hindered you? Certainly an "enemy hath done this." No one that desired your happiness for this life, or that which is to come, would have sought to turn you back, or laid a stumbling-block in your pathway to life. Yes, whoever it was, be assured it was an enemy. O, find him out! Give not sleep to your eyes, nor slumber to your eyelids, until you have found out this enemy that is surely compassing your ruin: and, having made the discovery, show him no mercy, for he deserves none. If he hath hindered you in your way to heaven, he is your deadliest foe; whatsoever may be his pretensions, cut him off for ever. And now remember, if you had not stopped to parley with the foe, you had not been hindered: with all good men and holy angels, and God himself, on your side, no one, not the arch-enemy himself, could turn you back without your consent. member this when you begin the race anew. Re Above all, consider how much precious time you have lost while thus hindered. Indeed, what better off are you than if you had never started? You are nearer the judgment; but that you are any nearer the victor's crown may well be doubted. O, arouse thee; start anew in the Christian race? Let nothing hinder, nothing turn you back again: you cannot afford it, you have no time to waste thus. The race is still before you. Time flies with lightning speed. Night, the night of death, comes on apace: soon its shadows will close around you. Fear lest you stumble to rise no more. THE SABBATH CANDLE. IT is historically related that the ancient Jews, at least after the captivity, were in the habit of lighting in each house a candle, just before the sunset that ushered in the Sabbath, called the Sabbath canlle: in token, it is said, of gladness at the approach of God's day, and in happy symbol, likewise, of the eminent agency of that day in perpetuating and disseminating, among the families of man, the only true moral light of the world. The Jews, in this item of custom, as in many others, were scrupulous and punctilious, and, no doubt, not unfrequently highly conscientious and devout. As the last sun of the week hasted to its decline, they also hasted to terminate their secular labours, and to make all needful preparations for a due, decorous, and profitable observance of the appointed period of sacred rest. While the disappearing orb was shooting his last rays athwart the plains and against the hillsides of Judca, the candle in honour of the holy day was lighted. There is much beauty in this simple Jewish custom, and also much force and importance in its moral. How sadly numerous, alas! are the habitations of mankind, even in Christian lands, which enjoy no light of the Sabbath candle! The holy day of rest is possessed, but not observed. The fashion of surrounding society or other circumstances may occasion a kind of outward notice of it, such as is implied in the cessation of the ordinary toil of the week, the putting on of the best apparel, and, possibly, the resort to the public assembly;-but there is no joy, or heart-glad 593 ness, because of the Sabbath; neither any use and improvement of it as a day in which the soul is to find its light, health, prosperity, and salvation. How lamentable the state of such households! How criminal are the heads thereof! And how much to be commiserated is the condition of the multitudes of children that are thus reared, from unknowing infancy to settled manhood, without the light of a Sabbath candle. But even in families where there is a general intention that this light shall shine, there are not unfrequently great and serious faults concerning it. Oh, how late it is, in some avowedly Christian households, ere this candle is lighted! Can it be that there is not gladness there that the Sabbath has come? Is any one of God's weeks not long enough for man to do his necessary work in, and yet get ready for the Sabbath too? Did the great Divider of times and seasons lack counsel ? Oh fie! thou loiterer at Saturday labour, and yet professing to keep all its evening holy unto the Lord! or thou Sabbath morning worker! or thou late riser on the holy day! who seemest to His eyes, if not to thine own, as though sorry that the day of rest and of worship had actually arrived! Let us be persuaded better things of thee, and thine house, hereafter. Again, there are houses in which the Sabbath candle, though lighted, yet burns dimly and darkly. If the familiarism will be allowed, it seems to need snuffing, as though the Sabbath were a dull day, and tedious, and wearisome upon the hands, or as the light of it were not pleasant to the eyes, that it should be much desired. Else, why is the light of this candle so dubious and twinkling? Or why does it, like the lamps of the foolish virgins, so frequently go out too soon? God blessed and hallowed a day when he blessed and hallowed the Sabbath; not some of the twenty-four hours, but all of them. He blessed the whole day, and hallowed it. Oh, Christian families! look to your Sabbath candles. Look well to them. See that they are lighted betimes, that they burn steadily and brightly, and that they are not prematurely put out. Behold, yonder, in a remote hamlet, are collecting a few neighbours and friends under the thickening shades of the Saturday night. Here goes an elder of the church, there a private member; here a lone widow, there a fond father and his child; here a man of advanced age, there a blooming youth; here a cripple on his crutch, there a strong man in his prime: all to lift the latch of the same humble door, and to constitute together one circle. At once they praise, they pray, they read, they hear. They recount the mercies of the past week, and ask the like for the future. They seek a blessing for the day approaching, in their own case and that of others, and pray for the peace and prosperity of Jerusalem in general. How pleasant for them thus to light the Sabbath candle-a type of that "candle of the Lord" which shines upon the heads of the righteous; an earnest of that light which alone can gladden the "eventide" of life. What a darkness succeeds where the candle of the Sabbath ceases to be lighted! Let Ephesus, and Smyrna, and Thyatira, and Sardis, and Pergamos, and Laodicea, and Judea itself, be witnesses. And may not our land, or cities, or towns, or villages, be even added to them? And when we look out into the great world, how extended is the darkness that meets the view And how obvious is the conclusion, at least to the Christian's mind, that the great lack in the house of man, is not so much that of the torch of science, or of philosophy, or of civilisation, as of the simple candle of the Sabbath! THE WRONG END OF THE LEVER. THE other day I came across a man who was tugging with all his might at the wrong end of a lever. He was trying to turn up a large stone in that way. But the stone would not be turned up. It was a very obstinate stone, the good old farmer thought. He had no notion of giving up the project, however. So he pulled off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and went to work in right good earnest. Still the stone did not stir; or if it did, it was only just enough to aggravate the man. What could be the matter? The stone was not a large one. It did not look at all formidable. What was the matter? There happened to be a schoolboy passing that way at the time. He was not much of a farmer, and still less of a mechanic, I should think; but he thought he saw what the trouble was. It did not seem to be so much the lever itself, or the farmer, or the stone to be moved, as in the way the man went to work. The boy ventured to hint this idea to the farmer : "Why, my dear sir," he said, "You are at the wrong end of the lever. You haven't purchase enough." The good-natured farmer (for he was good-natured, and did not get into a passion because a mere boy, young enough to be his grandchild, attempted to help him out of his difficulty), the goodnatured farmer stopped a moment, looked at the matter carefully, and frankly acknowledged that he had gone the wrong way to work. "I wonder what I was thinking of," said he. Of course he shifted his crow-bar immediately, so as to get a good purchase. The trouble was all over. The stone came up easy enough, of course. It came into my mind, while I was thinking about this farmer's mistake in the use of his lever, that certain people-myself included, perhaps might profit by this blunder. A great many, for instance, use the lever of truth-a very good lever, the best to be had in overturning moral evils; but they do not accomplish any thing, because they take hold of the wrong end of the lever. They have no purchase. Here is a man, who, as I think, is in the habit of wrongdoing every day. Well, I settle down in my mind that I will talk to him, and see if I cannot make a better man of him. I call him hard names. Why not? He deserves them. Every body knows that. I do not mince the matter with him at all. But what I say seems to have no good effect upon him. It makes him angry, and he advises me to mind my own business, assuring me, at the same time, that he shall take good care to mind his. I see plainly enough that I have been working half an hour or more to no purpose, and that very likely I have made matters worse. Yet what was my error? Simply this: that I spent all my strength at the short arm of the lever. If I had gone to work with a kind and tender spirit, something as Nathan went to work at David, once on a time, and used the other end of the lever, I should have got a good purchase at least, and I am not sure but the stone would have yielded. As it is, however, the trouble some thing is there yet, and it seems to be settling into the ground deeper than ever. I know some good people, among whom I can count half a score of ministers, who try very hard to keep bad books and periodicals out of the family circle. There is no end to their talk against these things. It is not their fault, if those who look up to them for advice do not understand what they think of French novels, and things of that sort. Still these publications, like the Egyptian frogs in old times, find their way into the families of these people, in spite of all their efforts, and they cannot keep them out. What is the reason the lever they use is not effective? It is a good lever enough. Yes, but those people are bearing down upon the wrong end of it. They seem to forget one of the plainest laws of moral mechanics, if I may so speak. They ought, in their crusade against this evil, to find something to put in its place. Nature, the old philosophers used to say, abhors a vacuum. Whether there is any sense in that or not, it will not answer to have a vacuum in the place of evils to be rooted out of the family circle. The minds of the young abhor a vacuum, at any rate. Why do not these fathers and mothers see this, and make provision accordingly? These very people,' who cry out so loudly against immoral books and periodicals, say they cannot afford to buy books for their children. It was only last week that I heard one of them tell a friend, who asked him to subscribe! for a magazine for his daughter, that he could not afford it. He cannot afford it! Well, if he does not afford to furnish reading for those children, they will afford it themselves. They must have something to read. Give them something-something which you can approve, but readable and entertaining as well as useful. Try the other end of the lever.Evangelist. "IT COSTS TOO MUCH." THAT unkind word-don't utter it-"it costs too much." You remember the last time you allowed it to escape you. How many times you sighed and wished you had never spoken it. Though it took but a moment to utter it, it marred your peace a great deal longer than that. It escaped lightly from your lips, but it came back again, and haunted you, and weighed heavily upon your spirit. It cost your friend too much, too. It went like an arrow to his soul; and like an arrow, with a poisoned point, it rankled there. Ay, that word cost him many sad hours. pay That glass of wine costs too much. You say you only paid a few pence for it. Young man! that paltry sum is not a millionth part of what it will cost you, if you do not take care. You will have to for it in health, cheerfulness, character, friends, credit, peace of mind, life itself. Is that glass worth all these? "You are safe enough?" Nonsense! A man might just as rationally talk about safety, when his boat is beginning to go round and round on the outer circle of the maelstrom, as to say he is safe enough when he begins to tipple his wine. That lance costs too much. You gain something, ALL THINGS EARNEST. it is true. Very likely you gain a whole evening's pleasure. But, my friend, you give too much for that pleasure. It intoxicates you. It unfits you for calmer enjoyments. It renders your daily toils dull and irksome. It drives your better genius from your soul-it brings in one to deceive you, to trifle with you, to ruin you. You tell me, "It is not wrong to dance." I admit that it is not wrong in itself. But can you not see that it is wrong as you practise it, and is there not something within you that whispers "it is dangerous," too? Has it not cost too much already? Are you not losing your relish for sacred things, the Bible, the house of God, the meeting for prayer? You are paying too much for dancing then. I shudder to think of purchasing such a pleasure at such a price. That Sabbath excursion costs too much. The last one cost you dearly. It was as much as you could do, during the day, to banish painful thoughts from your mind. And when the guilty pleasure of the day was ended, and the twilight time arrivedthe still twilight of Sabbath eve-those thoughts rushed in like a mighty flood, and quenched your joys. You thought of the bargain you made, and called yourself a fool for making it. You thought of earlier days, ere your heart had learned to sin so badly. You thought of a mother, once the guide of your erring feet on earth, now an inheritant of the heavenly world. You thought that from her far-off home she came to upbraid you, to plead with you, and to warn you of your danger. Ah! it was no wonder you thought that excursion cost too much. It did cost too much. Take care! The tempter is coming again. Do not parley with him. Do not listen to him for a moment. Sabbath-breaking costs more than it comes to, a thousand times over. That little theft costs too much. It is only a halfcrown I know; and perhaps it would never be missed. But it will cost you as much as a fortune is worth. "I did not take the half-crown," you say. I am glad of it. But I am afraid you will take it, nevertheless. You have been looking at it with a wishful eye for some minutes. You have been trying to settle the question whether you would be found out or not, if you put the money in your pocket. You have been using all sorts of flimsy arguments to your conscience, to drown its voice. You said it was only a half-crown, and nobody would be any worse for your taking so small a sum. You talked about your salary being so small, and your master being so rich. And you guessed you would refund the money, interest and all, when you got to be rich yourself. I know you did not take the money. But while you were gazing into that drawer, and thinking what it was best to do about that half-crown, you were standing on a fearful precipice. Many a youth has yielded to the tempter, as you were on the point of yielding, and thus entered on a career of crime which proved his ruin. It was a little petty theft that first one. But it cost him dearly. It will cost you dearly, my friend. It may cost you every thing worth living for. All sin costs too much. Strange that men, sensible judicious men, should ever need to be reminded of this. Strange that men, who are so sagacious in the 595 main in closing a bargain, should purchase pleasure in any form at the sacrifice of virtue, and principle, and heaven. Yonder broker, standing at the corner of the exchange, has just refused to buy a few shares of stock, because he thought it was too dear. He said it would cost him one-eighth per cent. more than it would be worth to him. He was wise perhaps; certainly he was wise if his opinion of the stock was right. He was careful, at all events. But that very man is throwing away a jewel worth a thousand worlds, for a few ounces of shining dust. That young man behind the counter, that young woman attiring for the theatre, neither of whom will buy the veriest trifle if they deem it too dear, are both bartering away eternal life for threescore years of pleasure!— Ibid. ALL THINGS EARNEST. Drawing nigh. Sinner! wilt thou trifling be? Heaven is earnest : Float its voices Down to thee. O thou mortal, art thou gay, Sporting through thine earthly day? Hell is earnest : Fiercely roll Near thy soul. God is earnest : Kneel and pray Ere thy season Pass away Ere be set his judgment throne, Vengeance ready, mercy gone. Christ is earnest, Bids thee "come! " Priceless sum. Wilt thou spurn thy Saviour's love, Pleading with thee from above? Thou refusest! Wretched one! Thou despisest God's dear Son! Madness! dying sinner, turn! Lest his wrath within thee burn, |