and sins was lost, and none but an Almighty Saviour could have redeemed him. The sacrifice offered up on the cross demands not the services of the lip only, but the humble acknowledgment of the spirit; -not the hecatombs of the altar, but the hallelujahs of the heart. Have you sorrowed for sin? Have you fled to the only sure Refuge from eternal wrath? If not, clouds and darkness are around you, and death, everlasting death, lies in your path. Give no sleep to your eyes, nor slumber to your eyelids, till the danger is past, the battle fought, and the victory obtained through Christ; for then will you indeed greatly rejoice, and then will you raise your hallelujah.

Hark! There are tidings of great joy. A ransom has been paid for sin; a Saviour has suffered for sinners. There is a crown of righteousness laid up for those who love the Lord. Are you a new creature in Christ? Has faith in his atoning blood been given you, and a holy determination to live in him, and in all things to do his holy will? and are you rejoicing in the hope of eternal life? Then the language of your lip and heart is, and will be,nay, it must be,-Hallelujah! "Praise ye the Lord. Praise God in his sanctuary: praise him in the firmament of his power. Praise him for his mighty acts: praise him according to his excellent greatness. Let every thing that hath breath praise the Lord. Praise ye the Lord:" Ps. cl. 1, 2, 6. Hallelujah!

THE LOSS OF CHILDREN.

THE loss of children is among the heaviest trials that parents have to endure. How many a one who held his head high has been brought down to the very dust by the death of a child!

David, king of Israel, was a mighty man, and he had a heart often bold as a lion; but when the news reached him that his rebellious son Absalom was dead, he went up into his chamber and wept. We may judge by his language of the intensity of his grief. "O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom!" says he; "would God I had died for thee, O Absalom, my son, my son!"

"A voice was heard in Ramah, lamentation and bitter weeping; Rachel weeping for her children refused to be comforted for her children, because they were not:" Jer. xxxi. 15. That must be no common grief that refuses consolation, and this strong figurative description of it is very forcible. A mother carried away into reckless affliction by her agonizing solicitude for her departed child is an affecting picture. But why should we go back thousands of years? Is not death among us now? Is it not in the habitation of our neighbours?—nay, in our own

dwellings? Experience! tell us somewhat of the scenes thou hast witnessed. Memory! let thy scroll be unrolled, bestained as it may be with thy tears.

We know one who carried himself high, and thought much of titles and worldly distinctions: his estate would have lost its value, in his estimation, if he could not have transmitted it unimpaired to his son. High as he was, and wedded to family genealogy, yet was he kind and courteous to an extreme. How was he changed in a moment! His child died; his kindness and his courtesy forsook him; and when we paid him a visit of condolence, a bear robbed of her whelps could hardly have been more irascible. For a season he completely abandoned himself to his grief. Why should we thus rebel against God? "Behold, he taketh away: who can hinder him? who will say unto him, What doest thou?" Job ix. 12.

Well do we remember Jennings, a village blacksmith. He was a man strong, and proud of his strength. Seldom have we seen a broader back than his, or a thicker arm. His iron frame seemed tied together with sinews of wire, and yet for all this we have seen him sit down in his chair and cry like a child. We happened to call in when his poor babe lay dead in its little crib; and the strength of the strong man was brought low, and the pride of the proud man was humbled. Jennings would have borne pain and privation like a martyr, but he could

not bear the loss of the little one that he had dandled on his knee and folded in his strong arms. When we saw such a man as Jennings sobbing and weeping, it was all in vain for us to try to restrain our tears.

It was in a lovely county, studded with beautiful lakes, tarns, waterfalls, and romantic mountains, that we made a call on an aged man whose thoughtful brow wore a gloom in the midst of his kindly attentions. He showed us the goodliest prospects, and took us to the most favourable points from whence we might observe them. He walked with us through the deep seclusions of his delightful abode, and he took us to a bowery alcove, where we seated ourselves beside him. It was here that, conversing on the shadowy past, his voice faltered, and the tears rolled down his time-worn cheeks.

But why was it that the aged man was beclouded with grief? Alas! He had lost a daughter. With her he had gazed on the fair prospect around us; with her he had again and again roamed where we had wandered, and with her he had sat in the leafy bower in which we were then seated. We knew what it was to lose a child, and we could hot be unmoved. It was the Laureate of England who was weeping beside us.

We lately visited, among our Christian friends, a married pair who had lived in a sultry clime, where

the voice of the Lord is heard in the hurricane, and the torn plantations bow beneath the whirlwind. They had pitched their tent in England's milder clime. Peace had taken up her abode with them; and their numerous offspring were as olive plants around their table. The refinements of life were blended with holier hopes; and books, drawing, music, and languages, though enjoyed, were as the dust of the balance compared with the things of eternity. The father looked on his progeny with affectionate exultation, and the mother with conscious pleasure, though she had her solicitude. So it is sometimes with the poor bird that appears to be happy with her young, when, alas! there are thorns in the nest which pierce through the down that lines it, known and felt by her alone. Time passed on, and we again called at that habitation. Death had been among its inmates, and taken away a daughter. Few words were spoken about her by her bereaved parents, but those few told us that grief had been busy at their hearts.

Be comforted, ye afflicted ones, in following your beloved to her heavenly home. "Had she been spared to you, how slowly could you have taught her! and, in the full ripeness of her age, what had she been, when compared with what she now is?" Christian parents of Christian children, take to yourselves consolation.