never punish you for indulging your passions, when passion was most imperious; for draining the cup of pleasure, when pleasure was most inviting. But now that the "summer" of your lives is past,—now that the storms of life do beat around you, now that conscience bitterly upbraids you,— contrasting the obedience required with the obedience paid,—have you, in this your declining day, the confidence that arose with its morning? Do you not rather, with the self-convicted Felix, tremble as we reason with you

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on righteousness, and temperance, and judgment to come?"

"Is then our situation hopeless?" you will exclaim. "Because we have a misgiving at the heart that we are not now in a condition to be saved, may we not so employ the remainder of our days, how brief soever they be, as to recover the lost friendship of God—as reasonably to entertain a hope of ultimate acceptance with him?" Yes! my brethren; there is sprung up a light in the wilderness; follow it stedfastly, and you may yet escape the perils that surround you. To win the wandering Israelite into the path whence he had strayed was the hope and object of the text. To lead the erring Christian into the narrow path that terminates in Heaven is the hope and object of the Christian minister.

With the Gospel, the revealed will of God, in your hands, you cannot for a moment be in doubt as to the right or wrong of your ordinary conduct. You cannot but know and feel when the awakening moral strikes home. Your conscience will whisper to you-"This applies to

me;-1 am the man ;-I see the danger;-this day my soul may be required of me ;-this day I will reform." If, in such fortunate moment of instruction, the warning voice reach your heart; if an unusual impression be made upon you; if your besetting sin be pourtrayed with more than ordinary effect,-do justice to your monitor, by instantly correcting the conduct you admit to be sinful; do not betray the weakness of acknowledging the application of the argument, and at the same time of refusing to profit by it. That impression is most deep, and will be the most permanent, which renders you victorious over a wonted temptation,-which enables you to see danger where you never before have seen it,-which unveils to you the hitherto acknowledged loveliness of virtue, and disrobes of its borrowed fascination the natural deformity of vice.

Thus, though the summer and the autumn of your probationary life be past, you may yet hope for salvation. But for the indulgence of this high hope, you must lean on One that is mighty to save: you must renounce all expectation of forgiveness, but through the worthiness of Him who died for you; you must make his merits your plea for mercy and trusting to his assurance, that he " came to save that which was lost"-to "call sinners to repentance" to "give rest to those that labor, and are heavy laden" to " recover the lost sheep"-to "welcome home the prodigal;"-encouraged by these consolatory as surances, you must exert all your remaining strength to atone for the time you have lost, and exercise those duties

in which you have been most notoriously deficient. In prayer, preceding and following every day's exertion, implore that mercy to which you can prefer no claim: thus coming to Christ in avowed unworthiness, in sincere repentance, and in faithful and humble reliance on his atoning sacrifice, he will in no wise "cast you out.”

If the language of your conviction be, after calm deliberation-"I am not saved!" reflect for one momentwhat your condition is.-If you are not saved-what is the alternative? What then will be your destiny?—There is no medium-Death is not an everlasting sleep-your works will follow you to the grave, and rise with you to judgment. If Christ absolve you—you are saved and you are happy, everlastingly, indescribably happy; if Christ condemn you I dare not follow up that dreadful supposition. Remember-"both good and bad are to grow together until the harvest; and in the time of harvest, Christ will say to the reapers-Gather together first the tares and bind them in bundles to burn them-but gather the wheat into my barn. The harvest is the end of the world-the reapers are the angels.-As therefore the tares are gathered and burned in the fire; so shall it be in the end of the world!" Here, then, I pause to ask you-if this night your soul should be required of you-are you prepared to die?

Be persuaded, then, all of every age and degree,-to make these serious reflections the companions alike of your business and your pleasure, and the essential duty of your hours of retirement. To some it is not given to enjoy

that summer which has shone on others. On so very few is length of days bestowed, that it is a fatal error to trust to the winter, or even the autumn of life, for the opportunity of making your peace with God. But if happily you shall be permitted to accompany the march of time. through its varying seasons, may it please the Almighty to bless you with virtuous happiness in all; that when the latest change it knows, the winter of your little life be past, your sleep of death may be with Christ-with Christ to wake again to that second spring which shall bloom through all eternity.

TRUE HAPPINESS NOT FOUND ON EARTH.

True happiness is not the growth of earth;

The search is useless, if you seek it there:

'Tis an exotic of celestial birth,

And only blossoms in celestial air.

Sweet plant of paradise! its seed is sown

In here and there a plant of heavenly mould!
It rises slow and buds, but ne'er was meant
To blossom here-the climate is too cold.

ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD.

She was even yet in childhood, but she seemed
Wasting in strength like a half opened bud
Bowing upon its stem. She lay at rest,

Her young heart leaning with a perfect faith
Upon the word of God; and thus her eye
Shone with such inward light, and her pale lips
Moved with such smiles, that even those who wept
Felt in their inmost hearts a thrill of joy.

With what a marvellous vigor can the soul
Put forth its hidden strength, looking at Death
As at an angel from the courts of God!
And with what beauty, at the closing hour,
Will childhood's sweet affections blossom out!

There she lay ;-peaceful as if in slumber.
A thoughtful calmness resting on her brow,
And the long silken lashes of her eyes
Pressed meekly to each other; while her heart
Seemed musing upon things that were to come,
Or raised in silent worship. All was still;
There came no sound upon the summer air
Except the bird's faint warble, or the voice

Of the low murmuring stream. Her pulse had stopped,
And those who gathered round, leaned slowly o'er

To see if yet she breathed ;-when suddenly

She started in her bed, upright; spread out her arms,

And fixing upon space her kindling eyes,
As if she saw her glorious home in heaven;
'How beautiful! how beautiful!' she cried,
And sinking on her pillow-passed away.