within us seeds of a rich expectancy, elements

of infinite life a life that makes us akin, not to angels only, but to the immaculate God.

For what is regeneration? To be born again, not as to the body, but the soul. What but fitness for that spiritual life of which the present is the forecast, the imperfect echo, the faint and feeble gleam that precedes the coming dawn? Welcome then, spiritual world, thrice-sacred, enduring eternity! O God, mighty, forgiving, merciful, prepare us for that world; take away these fleshly souls; give us spiritual ones; give us life, the life of life— thy holy, unending peace. Ah sisters, brothers, we cannot, do not love, unless we abate the lustful heart, the gloating eye. For what

oh, what is required of

you

what but your infinite, your enduring welfare? In truth, you have only to open the ready hand, the willing heart, to realise the longing hope, the fond desire. What should we say of one

assailed by direst need, yet refused the golden store which a bountiful benefactor was willing, nay, infinitely desirous to impart? For where is the benefactor like God-where the store

that comes up to his gifts gifts so freely bestowed on rich and poor, old and young, bond and free, which are laid open to the saint, yet not withheld from the sinner?

Holy Ruler, infinite God, who are we whom thou hast so gloriously remembered? Hast dealt by us with no niggard hand, hast put us off with no mean endowment, but a portion, yes, a portion of thy blessed self, thy overflowing spirit, thy eternal love.

Oh, brothers, God hath not so circumscribed us. We are not bound to this scene for ever,

or to possessions, rich though they be and rare, of earth and sky. Hath he not granted us

jewels of all worlds

of life and death, of space

and time? If he have not yielded a lasting heri

tage here, he hath lavished the fuller measure of hereafter, eternal communion with the wise, the good, the holy, the magnanimous, the true!

But oh, we reach not this sacred term, this ineffable consummation, short of spirits pure and stainless, hearts upright and true. We must not hate a brother, despise a sister, wrong or in any wise betray, were it the humblest remnant of human kind; for are we not sanctuaries of the living God, which no one may defile? Truly love is opposed to every evil utterance, degrading impulse, low-born thought, and base desire. Our souls must be as the souls of children - simple, unembarrassed, free. So shall we submit to this pure and elevating affection, in opposition to the empire of sense-in short, unto glorious communion with the angels of God, who love continually, and know not sin.

Were love a possession of time only did it but link us to wife or child, parent or friend,

infinite were its deservings; but, Majesty of Heaven, it follows us for ever, and for ever experiences exaltation and expansion !

Do we love the child that has been snatched away, we shall meet that precious child, perchance a beaming seraph, blooming again. No, the bright eye and sunny cheek shall fade no more in eternity! There, the objects of our so priceless affections, shall flourish and thrive before our enraptured vision for ever. The wife of our bosom shall be there - the young wife so faithful and true; the good brother, the sister, the friend we loved better than life, the devoted mother, the fond father-never, ah never, mercy of God, to part!

There, blighting poverty shall no longer check the grateful effusions of the heart, no longer lack of means drive sons and daughters from the parental bosom ; but circling and encircled in one bright celestial throng, the loving and

the loved shall meet before the throne of their

Maker, in face of the myriads of bright intelligences which it has pleased him to call into existence for ever.

Ah me, what mother cowers in that chill corner, before a hearth that no fire warms? She strains her infant to a bosom wherein the lamp of life burns all too feebly, to foster the lingering, yet perishing vital spark in her attenuated offspring. A faint light throws flickering rays on those pallid, and yet more pallid features. The little lips close all unconsciously; the little fingers play, the head moves to and fro—and, agony of agonies, all is still! That sweetest child shall open eyes no more, no more shall press the breast that would shed heart's blood to nurture it. That stricken face shall respond to no caress: those arms that used to cling so closely now hang for ever loose and motionless!

Hark, what shriek rings through the murky