such fools as to get there. If we go too fast, then we shall u with the helm and steer to the shore; we will set the mast in the socket, hoist the sail, and speed to the land. Then on, boys; don't be alarmed-there is no danger." "Young men, ahoy there!" "What is it?" "The rapids are below you!" "Ha ha! we will laugh and quaff; all things delight us. What care we for the future! No man ever saw it. Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof. We will enjoy life while we may; will catch pleasure as it flies. This is enjoyment; time enough to steer out of danger when we are sailing swiftly with the current." "Young men, ahoy!" "What is it ?" "Beware! Beware! The rapids are below you ין Now you see the water foaming all around. See how fast you pass that point! Up with the helm ! Now turn! Pull hard! quick! quick! quick! pull for your lives! pull till the blood starts from the nostrils, and the veins stand like whipcords upon your brow! Set the mast in the socket! hoist the sail-ah! ah! it is too late! Shrieking, cursing, howling, blaspheming, over they go! Thousands go over the rapids every year, through the power of habit, crying all the while, "When I find out that it is injuring me I will give it up!" 154..-THE UNBELIEVER. THOMAS CHALMERS. I pity the unbeliever-one who can gaze upon the grandeur, and glory, and beauty of the natural universe, and behold not the touches of His finger, who is over, and with, and above all; from my very heart I do commiserate his condition. The unbeliever! one whose intellect the light of revelation never penetrated; who can gaze upon the sun, and moon, and stars, and upon the unfading and imperishable sky, spread out so magnificently above him, and say all this is the work of chance. The heart of such a being is a drear, cheerless void. In him, Mind, the god-like gift of intellect—is debased, destroyed; all is dark-a fearful chaotic labyrinth-rayless-cheerless-hopeless! No gleam of light from Heaven penetrates the blackness of the horrible delusion; no voice from the Eternal bids the desponding heart rejoice. No fancied tones from the harps of seraphim arouse the dull spirit from its lethargy, or allay the consuming fever of the brain. The wreck of mind is utterly remediless; reason is prostrate; and passion, prejudice, and superstition have reared their temple on the ruins of his intellect. I pity the unbeliever. What to him is the revelation from on high but a sealed book? He sees nothing above, or around, or beneath him, that evinces the existence of a God; and he denies—yea, while standing on the footstool of Omnipotence, and gazing upon the dazzling throne of Jehovah, he shuts his intellect to the light of reason, and denies there is a God. 155.-EXHORTATION TO PRAYER MARGARET MERCER. Not on a prayerless bed, not on a prayerless bed, Nor, though by care oppressed, Or anxious sorrow, Or thought in many a coil perplexed For coming morrow, Lay not thy head On prayerless bed. For who can tell, when sleep thine eye shall close, To thee may e'er return? Slumber control, And let thy lamp burn brightly: Things pure and sightly; Hast thou no pining want, or wish, or care There is no trace of sorrow? Will be like this, and more Abundant? Dost thou yet lay up thy store Thy soul may wing its flight. Hast thou no being than thyself more dear, For whom thou wak'st and weepest? Oh, then on prayerless bed Lay not thy thoughtless head! Arouse thee, weary soul, nor yield to slumber! With the elect ye rest, So lay thy happy head, 156.-RESURRECTION OF ABDULLAH. FROM THE ARABIC. He who died at Azim sends This to comfort all his friends. Faithful friends! It lies, I know, pale and white and cold as snow, Sweet friends, what the women lave, for the last sleep of the grave, 'Tis an earthen jar, whose lid Allah sealed, the while it hid Farewell, friends; but not farewell; where I am ye too shall dwell. He who died at Azim gave This to those who made his grave. Edwin Arnold. 157. HYMNS. ART THOU WEARY? Art thou weary, art thou languid, Art thou sore distrest? "Come to Me," saith One, "and coming, Hath he marks to lead me to him, "In his feet and hands are wound-prints, Is there diadem, as monarch, That his brow adorns? "Yea, a crown, in very surety, But of thorns.' If I find him, if I follow, What his guerdon here? "Many a sorrow, many a labor, If I still hold closely to him, What hath he at last? "Sorrow vanquished, labor ended, If I ask him to receive me, "Not till earth, and not till heaven Finding, following, keeping, struggling, Saints, apostles, prophets, martyrs, ABIDE WITH ME. Abide with me: fast falls the eventide; Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day; I need thy presence every passing hour; I fear no foe, with thee at hand to bless : Hold thou thy cross before my closing eyes: PROVIDENCE. God moves in a mysterious way Deep in unfathomable mines He treasures up his bright designs, Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take! Are big with mercy, and shall break |