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presented to their view in their own immediate neighborhood; but there is enough even in the tamest prospect, to excite the wonder and admiration of the beholder, and to inspire them with emotions of love and gratitude towards the great Creator.

Yet, grand and beautiful and sublime as this world is, God has only fitted it up as a temporary abode for man; he does not consider it a fit dwelling place for his children to inhabit through all eternity. We are told that when the "spirits of the just made perfect" leave this world, they will go to a better world: a more costly and magnificent abode, that God has prepared for them. Yes, costly indeed, since a title to an inheritance in that better world is purchased by the blood of his only Son; and we are told that it is not in the heart of man to concieve of the glory and magnificence of that place, that is to be the home of those who accept of the terms by which it is to be secured; and what are those terms? why, merely to repent and believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and to seek forgivness for our sins through his blood.

To put our trust in God, to love him supremely, and to seek to do his will; and are not these conditions very easy? Can we help loving such a God, so great, so good, and who has been at such infinite pains, and given such a costly sacrifice to secure the happiness of his subjects 1 And can we help loving the Saviour who was willing to be made a sacrifice to secure the eternal happiness of a lost and ruined race; and who left a home of glory, of bliss, and joy inexpressible, to come to a world where he must suffer persecution, contempt, and mockery; where he would be reviled, and spit upon, and taunted, and finally die a cruel and ignominous death upon the cross?

All this he suffered, that sinners through his sufferings might receive a title to the joys of that better world that God has prepared for those that love him. Oh how cold, how hard, how utterly lost to all grateful emotions, must that heart be that could treat with scorn or indifference that dear Saviour who has done so much for them, and prepared for all who will accept, a happy entrance into a world of ineffable light and glory.

Where the sun does not emit its golden beams, nor the moon shed her paler rays, and no golden star spangles the canopy, but God's countenance lights the place, and the Lamb is in the midst; He who was offered for the remission of sin. Who would not enter this world of happiness, where sin enters not, pain or sickness come not, and death is swallowed up in victory? Where the saints of the most high God are clothed upon with the righteousness of Christ, and the "spirits of the just made perfect" join with angels and arch-angels, in singing sweet songs of redeeming love.

But angels cannot appreciate the full rapture of the redeemed soul. We cannot comprehend here, fully, but the mind is overwhelmed when we contemplate the revelations of the Gospel, "Come then expressive silence, muse His praise." ON THE DEATH OF WILLIE WHITE,


How suddenly this opening flow'r
Was borne from earth away;

In sweeter fragrance to unfold
In realms of endless day.

The angel gaz'd with pitying ■eye

O'er all life's devious way;
Then pluming bright his golden wings,

Bore his freed soul away.

Now when you gather round your hearth,
There's Willie's vacant chair;

And Willie's voice of childish mirth,
Is missing every where.

And oft you gaze upon his toys,
'Till weeping eyes grow dim;

You know he cannot come to you,
But you must go to him.


The human heart's a mystery,

That few can understand;
And all its trembling chords should be-

Swept with a gentle hand.

For if we rudely strike the strings
Whence melody should flow,

A harsh, unnatural discord rings,
Of bitterness and woe.

We mingle with the joyous crowd,
Where all is bright and gay,

With music light, and laughter loud,
They pass the hours away.

How oft, amid such scenes, the heart

Is sad, we know not why;
And though a smile the lips may part,

A tear steals to the eye.

And then we quickly turn away

To hide the starting tear,
While the music of their langhter falls

Dirge-like upon the ear.

And we wonder why, when all around

Is song and revelry,
Their joyous mirthfulness should sound,

To us, so mournfully.

And yet, sometimes the simplest thing,

Such happiness affords,
It seems as though an angel's wing

Had swept the trembling chords.

The gushing music of the rill,
The whisp'ring of the breeze.

And the low and gentle rustling
Of the leaves upon the trees.

The sweet, sad sighing autumn winds,

As mournfully they blend, Speak to the heart as if in words.

Of a departed friend.

And as we listen, breathlessly,
To the low, mysterious tone,

We deem some angel spirit
Is whisp'ring to our own.

But suddenly, a careless tone,
Or word in harshness spoken,

Recalls the wand'ring spirit home,
And the spell is rudely broken.

And then a sad, lone feeling steals

Upon the weary heart,
And amid the gloom we only feel

A longing to depart.

A longing to depart and be

Amid the angel choir,
Where perfect love and sympathy

Shall tune each heart and lyre.


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