WHEN once this life of wondrous opportunities and awful advantages is over-when the twenty or fifty years of probstion are fled away-when mortal existence, with its facilities for personal improvement and serviceableness to others, is gone beyond recall-when the trifler looks back to the long pilgrimage, with all the doors of hope and doors of usefulness, past which he skipped in his frisky forgetfulness-what anguish will it move to think that he has gambolled through such a world without salvation to himself, without any real benefit to his brethren, a busy trifler, a vivacious idler, a clever fool!-8.

It is possible to be very busy, and yet very idle. It is possible to be serious about trifles, and to exhaust one's energies in doing nothing. It is possible to be toiling all one's days in doing that which, in the infatuation of fashion or the delirium of ambition, will look exceedingly august and important, but which the first flash of eternity will transmute into shame and everlasting contempt.-22.

THEN among those who have really got a work to do, some do it grudgingly. They have not a heart to work; and of all work, least heart for that which God has given them. Instead of that angelic alacrity which speeds instinctively on the service God assigns that healthy love of labour which a loyal and well-conditioned soul would exhibit they postpone everything to the latest moment, and then go whimpering and growling to the hated task as if they were about to undergo some dismal punishment. They have a strange idea of occupation. They look on it as a drug, a penalty,

some

thing very nauseous; and they would gladly smuggle through existence by one of those side paths which the grim giants, labour and industry, do not guard. Oh, happier far to lose health and life itself in clear, brisk, conscious working; to spend the last atom of strength, and yield the vital spark itself in joyful, wakeful efforts for Him who did all for us, than to drawl through a dreamy life with all the fatigue of labour and nothing of its sweetness, snoring in a constant lethargy, sleeping while you work, and nightmared with labour when you really sleep.

TRY what you can make of the broken fragments of time. Glean up its gold dust; those raspings and parings of precious duration; those leavings of days and remnants of hours, which so many sweep out into the waste of existence.-31.

SOME of the busiest men have the least of a busy look. Instead of slamming doors and ringing alarm-bells, and knocking over chairs and children in their headlong hurry, they

move about deliberately, for they have made their calculations, and know what time they can count upon. Those who live without a plan have never any leisure, for their work is never done: those who time their engagements, and arrange their work beforehand, can bear an occasional interruption. They can reserve an evening hour for their families; they can sometimes take a walk into the country, or drop in to see a friend; they can now and then contrive to read a useful book, and amidst all their important avocations they have a tranquil and opulent appearance as if they still had plenty of time. 35.

PREFER duty to diversion, and cultivate that athletic frame of soul which rejoices in abundant occupation, and you will soon find the sweetness of that repose which follows finished work, and the zest of that recreation in which no delinquent feeling mingles, and on which no neglected duty frowns.-37.

LOVE to Jesus is the beauty of the believing soul; it is the elasticity of the willing steps, and the brightness of the glowing countenance.-54.

LIKE a sweet fountain, a fervent spirit is beneficent: its very health is healing; its peace with God, and joy from God, are doing constant good; the gospel of its smiling aspect impresses strangers and comforts saints.-62.

THE heart is "dry as summer's dust," from which the Spirit of God departs; and that is the believing, loving, happy, and energetic heart in which the Holy Spirit dwells.-68.

IT is just as possible to run away from the Lord's service by running into retirement as by running into the world.—87.

SULKY labour and the labour of sorrow are little worth. Whatever a man does with a guilty feeling he is apt to do wrong; and whatever he does with a melancholy feeling he is likely to do by halves. If you could only shed tranquillity over the conscience and infuse joy into the soul, you would do more to make the man a thorough worker than if you could lend him the force of Hercules, or the hundred arms of Briareus. Now, the Gospel freely admitted, makes the man happy. It gives him peace with God, and makes him happy in God.. It gives industry a noble look which selfish drudgery never wore; and from the moment that a man begins to do his work for his Saviour's sake, he feels that the most ordinary employments are full of sweetness and dignity, and that the most difficult are not impossible. And if any of you, my friends, is weary with his work; if dissatisfaction with yourself, or sorrow of any kind, disheartens you; if at any time you feel the dull paralysis of conscious sin, or the depressing in

fluence of vexing thoughts, look to Jesus and be happy. Be happy, and your joyful work will prosper well.-93.

THE industry which is not fervent is not Christian, and, on the other hand, the love which does not come forth in action, the fervour which does not lead to diligence, will soon die down.-96.

OR why, to take the case already supposed, the opulent possessor of estates which the love of another gave him—why is it that, in the midst of luxuries and accommodations as abandant as wealth can purchase or ingenuity suggest, why is it that fruit from trees of his own planting, or from a garden of his own tending, tastes so sweet? Why is it that the rustic chair of his own contriving, or the telescope of his own constructing, so far surpasses any which the craftsman can send him? Why, the reason is, those apples have an aroma of industry, a smack of self-requiting diligence peculiar to themselves. That rustic seat is lined with self-complacent labour, and the pleasant consciousness of having made that telescope himself has so sharpened the maker's eye as greatly to aug ment its magnifying power. God has so made the mind of man that a peculiar deliciousness resides in the fruits of personal industry.-122.

HEAVEN itself, the passport through its gates, and the right to its joys, are the purchase and the gift of Another. Nor is it to the believer the least enhancing element in its priceless possession that it is entirely the donation and bequest of his dearest friend. Looking forward to the pearly gates and golden streets of the celestial city, its love-built mansions and its life-watered paradise, the believer in Jesus delights to remember that they are purely the purchase, and as purely the gift, of Immanuel. To think that he shall yet have his happy home on that Mount Zion; that with feet no longer sin-defiled he shall tread its radiant pavement, and stand on its glassy sea; that with fingers no longer awkward he shall tell the harps of heaven what once he was, and who made him what be is; that with a voice no longer trembling he shall transmit along the echoes of eternity the song of Moses and the Lamb; to think that his shall yet be a brow on which the drops of toil will never burst, and an eye which tears will never dim ; that he himself shall wear a form that years shall never bend, and a countenance which grief can never mar; that his shall yet be a character on which the stains of time will leave no trace, and his a conscience pure enough to reflect the image of Him who sits upon the throne the thought of all this is

amazement, ecstasy. But there is one thought more which puts the crown upon this blessedness-the climax on this Joy :-

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These glorious hopes we owe to Jesus' dying love."—123.

THE HEBREW MOTHER.

THE rose was in rich bloom on Sharon's plain,
When a young mother, with her first-born, thence
Went up to Zion; for the boy was vow'd
Unto the temple service. By the hand
She led him, and her silent soul the while,
Oft as the dewy laughter of his eye

Met her sweet serious glance, rejoic'd to think
That aught so pure, so beautiful, was hers,
To bring before her God.

So pass'd they on,

O'er Judah's hills; and wheresoe'er the leaves
Of the broad sycamore made sounds at noon,
Like lulling raindrops, or the olive boughs,
With their cool dimness, cross'd the sultry blue
Of Syria's heaven, she paused, that he might rest;
Yet from her own meek eyelids chas'd the sleep
That weigh'd their dark fringe down, to sit and watch
The crimson deepening o'er his cheek's repose,
As at a red flower's heart: and where a fount
Lay, like a twilight star, 'midst palmy shades,
Making its banks green gems along the wild,
There, too, she linger'd, from the diamond wave

Drawing clear water for his rosy lips,

And softly parting clusters of jet curls
To bathe his brow.

At last the fane was reach'd,

The earth's one sanctuary: and rapture hush'd
Her bosom, as before her, through the day,.
It rose a mountain of white marble, steep'd
In light like floating gold. But when that hour
Waned to the farewell moment, when the boy
Lifted, through rainbow-gleaming tears, his eye
Beseechingly to hers, and half in fear

Turn'd from the white-rob'd priest, and round her arm
Clung e'en as ivy clings; the deep spring-tide
Of nature then swell'd high; and o'er her child
Bending, her soul broke forth, in mingled sounds

Of weeping and sad song.-" Alas!" she cried,
"Alas, my boy! thy gentle grasp is on me,
The bright tears quiver in thy pleading eyes;
And now fond thoughts arise,

And silver chords again to earth have won me;
And like a vine thou claspest my full heart—
How shall I hence depart?

"How the lone paths retrace, where thou wert playing,
So late, along the mountains at my side?
And I in joyous pride,

By every place of flowers my course delaying,
Wove e'en as pearls the lilies round thy hair,
Beholding thee so fair!

"And oh! the home whence thy bright smile hath parted, Will it not seem as if the sunny day

Turn'd from its door away,

While, through its chambers wandering weary-hearted,
I languish for thy voice, which passed me still
Went like a singing rill?

"Under the palm trees thou no more shalt meet me,
When from the fount at evening I return

With the full water urn!

Nor will thy sleep's low, dove-like murmurs greet me
As 'midst the silence of the stars I wake,

And watch for thy dear sake.

"And thou-will slumber's dewy cloud fall round thee
Without thy mother's hand to smooth thy bed?
Wilt thou not vainly spread

Thine arms, when darkness as a veil hath wound thee,
To find my neck; and lift up in thy fear
A cry which none shall hear ?

"What have I said, my child ?-Will He not hear thee
Who the young ravens heareth from their nest?
Will He not guard thy rest,

And in the hush of holy midnight hear thee;
Breathe o'er thy soul, and fill its dreams with joy?
Thou shalt sleep soft, my boy.

"I give thee to thy God!-the God that gave thee,
A well-spring of deep gladness to my heart!
And precious as thou art,