are not to be discarded by any means in the christian; they are not filthy rags after regeneration. One of two things then is certain. Either the language in question is to be regarded as an expression of deep penitence in the pious, and thus to be understood figuratively, or as requiring some qualification, a construction which we believe its connexion absolutely demands, or it must be applied to other than christians, to the righteousness of pharisees, hypocrites, and the most abandoned of men, persons whom no one supposes fit subjects for acceptance with God.

6

Why will not men interpret these strong expressions according to nature, as well as revelation? Why will they not explain scripture consistently? Does any one imagine king David the most corrupt of all men? Was he not declared to be a man after God's own heart? Yet in a psalm he has left us, nothing seems too humiliating for him to say of himself. Was St Paul literally the chief of sinners,' 'not meet to be called an apostle,' a wretched man? Does he not say elsewhere, I suppose I was not a whit behind the very chiefest apostles.' Do not all men, even the most holy, experience fluctuations of feeling? Why then seek to build an universal doctrine on casual expressions of good men uttered in an hour of despondency? Why limit and qualify one passage, yet refuse to do thus with another equally requiring it and equally perverted without it?'

Those who regard us as trusting to works alone, as undervaluing a true faith, misapprehend us. Inculcate mere morality! Expect salvation for outward observances alone! Who entertains such opinions?

Believe that God has appointed a day in the which he will judge the secrets of men by Christ Jesus, and yet hold that our actions are to save us, that the state of the heart is unimportant! The scriptures clearly distinguish between those who go about to establish their own righteousness and those who submit themselves to the righteousness of God.' Is it then supposed that we confound all these distinctions, defend all that is or ever has been called right? Let it not be imagined. we have yet to learn that there is a false morality in the world? We know full well that men are often governed in their conduct by a regard to fashion, public opinion, policy, a cold hearted prudence, that have an utter disregard both of final happiness, and the laws of the Deity.

If there be upon earth a form of doctrine adapted to awaken the holiest affections of the soul, to purify human motives, and bind us in spirit to our Saviour and our God, that form is ours. Whatsoever is sublime, enduring, and elevating in piety, whatsoever tends to overcome selfishness, and render our wills conformable to God's will, is comprised in the faith we receive. Be it our care, by the aid and blessing of heaven, to illustrate and extend the inward triumphs of this faith, to exhibit the fruits of joy, peace, and love, to sanctify ourselves body and soul an acceptable offering unto God.

B. Y.

LINES WRITTEN BY A PARENT ON THE DEATH OF HIS

DAUGHTER.

Messrs Editors :-I send with pleasure, as I am permitted, the following lines written by a father upon the recent death of a very lovely and promising child, at an age, when her powers and affections were just developing in their freshness and purity.

They are the warm, but true expressions of a deep sorrow, which will ineet, I doubt not, a ready sympathy in every parental heart. They may help, also, to comfort that numerous company of mourners, who, as it pleases God, for wise though hidden purposes, are never found wanting within even the narrowest circle of human families; and who may be seeking some solace for their grief in the recollection of the virtues or the opening graces of their departed children. Yours, P.

Farewell my darling child, a sad farewell,

Thou art gone from earth in heavenly scenes to dwell.
For sure if ever being, formed from dust,

Might hope for bliss, thine is that holy trust.
Spotless and pure, from God thy spirit came,
Spotless it has returned, a brighter flame.

Thy last, soft prayer was heard-No more to roam;
Thou art, ('twas all thy wish) thou art gone home. *
Ours is the loss, the agonizing grief,

The slow dead hours, the sighs without relief,
The lingering nights, the thoughts of pleasure past,
Memory, that wounds, and darkens to the last.

*The last words, uttered but a few moments before her death, were, 'I want to go home.'

How desolate the space, how deep the line,
That parts our hopes, our fates, our paths, from thine!
We tread with faltering steps the shadowy shore;
Thou art at rest, where storms can vex no more.
When shall we meet again, and kiss away
The tears of joy in one eternal day?

Most lovely thou! in beauty's rarest truth!

A cherub's face, the breathing blush of youth;

A smile more sweet, than seemed to mortal given;

An eye that spoke, and beamed the light of heaven;

A temper, like the balmy summer sky,

That soothes, and warms, and cheers, when life beats high;
A bounding spirit, which in sportive chase

Gave, as it moved, a fresh and varying grace;
A voice, whose music warbled notes of mirth,
Its tones unearthly,,or scarce formed for earth :
A mind, which kindled with each passing thought,
And gathered treasures, when they least were sought,-
These were thy bright attractions: these had power
To spread a nameless charm o'er every hour.
But that, which, more than all, could bliss impart,
Was thy warm love, thy tender, buoyant heart,

Thy ceaseless flow of feeling, like the rill,
That fills its sunny banks, and deepens still.
Thy chief delight to fix thy parents' gaze,

Win their fond kiss, or gain their modest praise.

When sickness came, though short, and hurried o'er,
It made thee more an angel than before.

How patient, tender, gentle, though disease
Preyed on thy life!-how anxious still to please!
How oft around thy mother's neck entwined
Thy arms were folded, as to Heaven resigned;
How oft thy kisses on her pallid cheek,

Spoke all thy love, as language ne'er could speak!
E'en the last whisper of thy parting breath
Asked, and received a mother's kiss in death.

But Oh! how vain by art, or words to tell,
What ne'er was told,-affection's magic spell.

.

More vain to tell that sorrow of the soul,

That works in secret, works beyond control,

When death strikes down with sudden crush and power
Parental Hope, and blasts its opening Flower.

Most vain to tell, how deep that long despair,
Which time ne'er heals, which time can scarce impair.

Yet still I love to linger on the strain—

Tis grief's sad privilege.—When we complain,
Our hearts are eased of burthens hard to bear;
We mourn our loss, and feel a comfort there.
My child, my darling child, how oft with thee
Have I passed hours of blameless ecstacy!
How oft have wandered, oft have paused to hear
Thy playful thoughts fall sweetly on my ear!
How oft have caught a hint beyond thy age,
Fit to instruct the wise, or charm the sage!
How oft with pure delight have turned to see
Thy beauty felt by all, except by thee;

Thy modest kindness, and thy searching glance;
Thy eager movements, and thy graceful dance;
And while I gaz'd with all a father's pride,
Concealed a joy, worth all on earth beside.

How changed the scene! In every favorite walk
I miss thy flying steps, thy artless talk;
Where'er I turn, I feel thee ever near,
Some frail memorial comes, some image dear.
Each spot still breathes of thee-each garden flower
Tells of the past, in sunshine, or in shower;
And, here, the chair, and, there, the sofa stands,
Pressed by thy form, or polished by thy hands.
My home, how full of thee!-But where art thou?
Gone, like the sunbeam from the mountain's brow;
But, unlike that, once passed the fated bourne,
Bright beam of Heaven, thou never shalt return.
Yet, yet, it soothes my heart on thee to dwell,
Louisa, darling child, farewell, farewell.
May 1831.

J. S.