not seen, within a few years past, thousands of converts flocking around the standard of a vulgar, ignorant, and vile leader, whose pretensions to prophecy would be most contemptible, had they not been so mischievous? Have we not also been astonished at the defection of grave and educated men, from the simple Gospel as it is written in God's own word, to the authority of shadowy tradition; who, while they insist upon a church in a priesthood of doubtful genealogy, would revive the aristocracy of ancient Pharisaism, which accounted the common people as little better than profane? The growth of Mormonism among the vulgar, and of this perversion of Christian doctrine, which has no name of sufficient dignity for utterance here among the more refined, show us.too plainly that the human mind, in no circumstances, can be preserved from superstition, except by the Spirit of God.

We are not then safe from Romanism. Every eastern wind wafts hitherward its priests and adherents, laden with gifts to corrupt our people. Already has the cry been heard, arousing Christians to defence of truth and freedom. But whence do they come? Why stand we only on the defensive? Why may we not cross the sea and besiege Carthage? Why not plant our vanguards on the passes of the Alps, send our spies into the very camp of the enemy, and await the happy moment (which, if it please God, is not distant), when, like Attila, though with better weapons and higher aims, we may thunder at the gates of Rome itself? When ancient Rome fell, the empire was broken into fragments. When papal Rome falls, popery will soon be no more. One blow on the head is worth a hundred at its extremities. One thrust to its heart, and all the convolutions of its myriad folds will relax in death. Are there no smooth stones in " the brook that flows fast by the oracles of God?" Is there no shepherd boy nor herdsman's son among those mountain Christians to wield a sling?

Christian brethren, I have done.

I congratulate you on your high vocation to abound in every good work.

I congratulate you on the infinite resources of your charity, the sufficiency of the grace of God.

I congratulate you on the vast rewards which await your certain

successes.

I congratulate you on the present opportunity to prove your belief in the promise, that though you give all you have, the wealth of God will supply you with abundance more.

"Now He that ministereth seed to the sower, both minister bread for your food, and multiply your seed sown, and increase the fruits of your righteousness."

Amen.

SERMON CCCLXVI

THE LAMENTATION.

"The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved."-JER. VIII. 20.

"WHO can conceive the emotions with which this sentiment will be uttered, when it comes from the heart agonized with despair? Many, who have read it again and again without feeling, who have perhaps slept in insensibility when it has been pronounced from the pulpit, have uttered it in tones of terror in a dying hour, and have been overwhelmed in view of it at the judgment seat. The figure of a harvest appears to be a favorite one with the sacred writers, to illustrate the condition of man. The world is the field. The messengers of God are now abroad, gathering in the harvest. The children of the kingdom will soon be all gathered to their heavenly home; and the impenitent cast out for ever, like the weeds and tares which are burned. It will be but a short time before the angels in Heaven will welcome the harvest home; and but a few more suns will rise and set, before the lost will exclaim, in hopeless despair; "the harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved."

There are but few, if any, who now think that they shall be left at the time of ingathering. They feel that, though their safety be not now ensured, they will soon be led to the Christian's hope and joy. Thousands have, on a dying bed, acknowledged that this false hope deluded them to neglect the immediate duties which God has enjoined. They have been struck with amazement and despair, when they found that they were dying; and that, after all, the harvest was actually past, the summer ended, and they not saved.

Probably no one ever really expected to be left in this condition. There is no one who believes that he shall ever feel the horrors of eternal wo. And yet one after another is continually leaving us with no hope to cheer a dying hour. Can any language describe the feelings of such an hour?

But, says one, "I have no fear that this will be the case with me.” The very fact that you have no fear is the source of the greatest danger, that you will not escape this awful doom. As long as Satan can keep you from fear, he is sure of your destruction. He asks for nothing more than that you should cast away fear. He exults in your composure, and rejoices day after day, as he sees that the harvest is drawing to a close, that the summer is nearly ended.

But who are they, who shall hereafter take up the sad lament of the text? Look at the profligate man. He says it is no matter how

I live in this world; all the punishment I have to fear, I shall receive here. This idea keeps him quiet and indifferent now; but in a dying hour conscience bites like a serpent, and stings like an adder. He cannot silence its compunctious visitings. He writhes upon his bed in mental agony, shrinking from the awful presence of his Judge. He goes before the judgment seat, from the midst of his sins; and in the anguish of his despair he exclaims, "The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and I am not saved." Satan claims him as his own. Like Judas, he goes to his own place; " and the smoke of his torment for ever ascendeth," as he exclaims, "I am not saved! I am not saved!"

Accompany me to the bedside of this dying youth. He has heard the pleadings of a father's prayers, and has witnessed a mother's tears for his salvation from his childhood. He has been affectionate in feeling, and amiable in life. He has always resolved that he would, at some future period, attend to the subject of religion. The Spirit has striven with him and he has said, "go thy way for this time." To the urgency of pious friends, he has replied, "wait for a more convenient season." But look at him now. He is pale and emaciated with sickness. He is dying.

"His quivering lip hangs feebly down,
His pulse is fa.nt and slow."

"The harHe speaks hell and de

Hark! he faintly speaks! what does he say? Listen! vest is past, the summer is ended, and I am not saved." again; it is in the sad moanings of delirium. He raves of mons and endless wo. Look at his distracted mother. Look at his broken-hearted father. Their son is lost, and they are weeping that he ever was born. He would not heed their prayers; he would not attend to their counsels.

Whose history is this that I am describing? Yours, my young friend. It is this young lady who is in danger of thus dying-it is this young man, who is hastening to this appalling death-bed. Oh! the madness, the inconceivable madness of sin!

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Do you see this man who looks so solemn and humble? His countenance is dejected and depressed. He walks as if heavy anxiety preyed upon his heart. What is the matter? He is anxious for his soul. He is an inquirer for salvation. He goes to his pastor, and says, "I feel that I am a lost sinner. I have lived without prayer-I have neglected the Saviour-oh! what shall I do to be saved!" His heart is full. The Holy Spirit has convinced him of sin, and now urges him to surrender himself to God. He hesitates-he loves the world-and the struggle against sin is hard.

Look at him again. The Spirit is grieved away, he is thoughtless as ever. He has forgotten all his fears, and hardly thinks of heaven or of

hell.

Follow now this man to his dying hour. The minister of God sits at his bed-side. "Have you any hopes of recovery ?" he asks. "No,

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sir," says the dying man; "the physician has told me that I cannot live more than a day or two, at most." "Do you feel prepared to die?" "I know I am not a Christian, sir, but I have no feeling upon the subject." "Have you never felt interested in the subject of religion?" Yes, sir: some years ago, I felt very anxious, but I had not resolution to brave the ridicule of the world, and now it is too late for me to make any efforts." "No, my friend, it is never too late to repent." "Perhaps not, but I feel no disposition to think of the subject; at any rate, I am too weak now to entertain such agitating thoughts.'

A few days pass away, and look at him again. He is pallid and lifeless; a stiffened corpse. The shroud is wrapt around him. He is in his coffin. Open the lid. Look at those thin lips, the sunken eye, the emaciated cheek, the cold brow. The day of probation is gone. The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and he is not saved.

"There are no acts of pardon passed
In the cold grave to which we haste;
But darkness, death, and long despair,
Reign in eternal silence there."

Fellow immortal, whose history is this? Whose name might be written under this biography? Reader, may it not be yours?

"Life is the time to serve the Lord,
The time to ensure the great reward:
And while the lamp holds out to burn,
The vilest sinner may return."

How important is this sentiment! How true! We are all familiar with it. Almost every child can repeat it. And yet we live as if death were the time to serve the Lord, the grave the place to ensure the great reward. There is madness in the heart of man.

"Ah! but," says one, "thank the Lord I am safe. I experienced religion ten years ago, and joined the Church. I am a professor of religion. I have nothing to fear. I have the pleasure, while I read, of feeling that this discourse all belongs to my neighbors." "But," God says, "that there are sinners in Zion who shall be horribly afraid." There is no earthly sinner, who will more bitterly cry out, in the lamentation of the text, than the unfaithful, insincere professor of religion. While the messengers of God are endeavoring to gather in the harvest and to save immortal souls, he, in fancied security, says, "my soul is already saved. I have already entered the ark. There is nothing for me to do." Sin reigns around him, and he utters no earnest prayers, and makes no Christian effort. The opposers of religion exult in his unfaithful walk, and say religion is but a name. He loves not the society of Christians on earth, and will be repelled from the joys and the anthems of the blest on high.

He dies as he lives, deluded by a false hope. But it is too late. The harvest is past. He But it is of no avail. The summer is ended.

Then he sees his folly. cries out in despair. He looks upon the glo

ries of the heavenly world, beaming in golden splendor in his view. But, oh! the scene only aggravates his wo. He hears the cold repulse, "I know you not." He trembles at his doom, "Depart, ye cursed." As he goes away to the eternal prison, he exclaims, "The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and I am not saved."

Whose history is this? Perhaps every individual who reads or hears this can point to some professing Christian, whose history he fears it will be. But the sincere, humble, prayerful Christian, will apply it to his own heart. With deep emotion he will inquire, "Lord, is it I ?" With unfeigned humility he will say, "It would be just if the Lord should leave me thus to perish." With most earnest supplications he will pray, "Lord, hold thou me up, and I shall be safe." But the professing Christian who has but a name to live, will say, "These remarks have no application to me; I experienced religion many years since." He will not even ask himself, now, if the words of the text have application to him, but then, he will utter them in accents of undying des pair.

This subject introduces to the reflecting mind, a train of thought the most solemn and impressive. Oh! what is this transient life! It is stealing noiselessly, but most rapidly away! How soon shall we all sleep in death! We now look forward to the dying scene, knowing that it must come; and in a few days it will come. We shall feel that we are dying; we shall go through the scene now shrouded in so much mystery. What, then, will the remembrance of earthly joys or woes avail to us?

How soon shall time sweep away in its wrecks every vestige of our earthly existence-crumbling these houses to the dust-burning up the earth on which we tread-and rolling away the blue firmament which canopies it! Ah! how soon shall we be looking back from the remote periods of eternity, through the long lapse of ages, to the few moments we passed in this rebellious world, in this infancy of our being. Oh! man, man-are you a thinking, rational, immortal being! And can you be regardless of such awful truths? Can you cling to this world, and chain your soul to earth, and clog it with all the vanities of time, when it struggles to be free from such trammels, and soar to its native skies?

Oh! what will touch the heart of man? What will convince him that eternity is worth more than the fleeting moments of life? that the redemption of the soul from endless sin and suffering demands a thought? Oh! God, serd, send thy Spirit; interpose in mercy, or he is lost for

ever!

Time rolls on! centuries glide away. Ere long, we shall look back from our remote position in the eternal world, as the associates of Noah now look back to the scenes they witnessed while on earth. Think of these spirits now in prison; think what must be their reflections in view of the fact, that they have bartered eternal joy for the sins of a moment on earth. Oh! how must remorse prey upon them as they at