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REMAINS 
 
 / 
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 REV. CARIiOS WlliCOX, 
 
 i.\Tt PAOTOfi OF THK NORTH CONGRF.ti ATIO.V Al, 
 CUl'RCH IS HARTFOBB. 
 
 jHemott of \\X% ILife, 
 
 HARTFORD, 
 
 PUBLISHED BY EDWARD HOPKINS. 
 
 MDCCCXXVIII. 
 
DISTRICT OF CONNECTICUT SS. 
 
 Be it MLMEMiiLRED, That on the seventeenth day of June, in the fifty sec- 
 li. S« ond year of the Independence of the Unit»d States of America, Edwahd 
 Hopkins, of the said District, hath deposited in this office the title of a 
 Book) the right whereof he claims as Proprietor, in the words following, to wit ; — 
 " Remains of the Rev. Carlos Wilcox, late Pastor of the Nc-th Congregational 
 Church in Hartford, with a Memoir of his Life " In conformity to the net of Con- 
 gress of the United States, entitled, " An act for the encouragement of learning, 
 by securing the copies of Maps, Charts and Books, to the authors and proprietors 
 of such copies, during the times therein mentioned." — And also to the act, entitled, 
 " An act supplementary to an act, entitled ' An act for the encouragement of 
 learning, by securing the copies of maps, charts, and books, to the authors and 
 proprietors of such copies during the times therein mentioned,' and extending the 
 benefits thereof to the arts of designing, engraving, and etching historical and 
 other prints." 
 
 CHAS. A. INGERSOLL, 
 Clerk of the District of Connecticut. ^ 
 A true eopv of Record, examined and sealed by me, 
 
 CHAS. A. INGERSOLL, 
 Clerk of the District of Connecticut. 
 
 i' C'anfifid, Printer. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 The desire has been expressed by many of the 
 numerous friends of Mr. Wilcox, that some memo- 
 rial of him might be collected from his writings. 
 Though these Remains may fall below the expec- 
 tations of those who knew the distinguished excel- 
 lencies of the writer, still it is believed that they 
 will prove a valuable memento of departed worth, 
 and promote the cause of truth and piety, now 
 he who so ably advocated this cause while liv- 
 ing, has finished his course on earth and passed in- 
 to a better and more glorious world. It must be 
 expected that there will be some disappointment, 
 among those who shall peruse this volume, after 
 having heard some of the sermons from the lips of 
 the writer. Much of his excellence as a preacher, 
 depended upon what cannot be discovered in ser- 
 mons from the press. The sweet voice, the em- 
 phatic pronunciation, the eloquence of looks and 
 gesture, which have sent a thrill of deep feeling 
 through many a listener to the man, cannot be 
 transferred to the book. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 MEMOIR 9 
 
 POETRY. 
 
 THE AGE OF BEx\EVOLENCE. . Book I. 95 
 
 Extracts from Book II. . . 147 
 
 Extracts from Book III. . . 157 
 
 Extracts from Book IV. . . 171 
 
 THE RELIGION OF TASTE 177 
 
 Pronounced before the Society of Phi Beta Kappa, at Yale College. 
 
 SERMONS. 
 
 SERMON I. DUTY OF MI.VISTERS 211 
 
 /. Peter, 4, 11. — If any man speak, let him speak as the orac'.es of God ; 
 if any man minister, let him do it as of the ability which God giveth ; 
 that God in all things may be glorified, through Jesus Christ ; to whom 
 be praise and dominion forever and ever. Amen. 
 
 SERMON II. DIVLNITY OF CHRIST PROVED FROM HIS BELNG 
 
 THE FINAL JUDGE 229 
 
 John, 5, 22. — For the Father judgeth no man, but hath committed all 
 jud;:ment unto the Son, that all men should honour the Son, even as 
 
 they honour the Father. 
 
 SERMON m. DEVOTEDNESS TO GOD. ... 248 
 
 Psalm 57, 7.— My heart is fixed, O God, my heart is fixed : I will sing 
 and give praise. 
 
 SERMON IV. REPENTANCE 267 
 
 Job, 42, 5, 6. — I have heard of thee by the hearing of the ear ; but now 
 mine eye seetb thee. Wherefore I abhor myself, and repent in dust 
 and ashes. 
 
 SERMON V. MOTIVES TO EARLY PIETY 283 
 
 Ecclesiastes, 12, 1.— Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy voutb, 
 while the evil days come not, nor the years draw nigh, when thou 
 •halt say, I have no pleasure in them. 
 
VI CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 SERMON VI. INFLUENCE OF EDUCATION. ... 297 
 
 Luke, 1, 66.— What manner of child shall this be .' 
 
 SERMON VII. LOVE TO GOD 311 
 
 Mark, 12, 30.— Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and 
 with all thy soul, and with all thy mind, and with all thy strength. 
 
 SERMON VIII. THE DISCONSOLATE CHRISTIAN. , 324 
 
 Isaiah, 50, 10. — Who is among you that feareth the Lord, that obeyeth 
 the voice of his Servant, that walketh in darkness and hath no light .' 
 let him trust in the name of the Lord, and stay upon his God. 
 
 SERMON IX. COMING TO CHRIST 337 
 
 Matthew, 11, 28. — Come unto me, all ye that labour, and are heavy la- 
 den, and I will give you rest. 
 
 SERMON X. W^ILLINGNESS TO DIE, NO EVIDENCE OF PREPAR- 
 ATION FOR DEATH 353 
 
 //. Corinthians, 5, 8. — We are confident, I say, and willing rather to be 
 absent from the body, and to be present with the Lord. 
 
 SERMON XI. THE HOPE OF MAN 367 
 
 Job, 14, 19. — Thou destroyest the hope of man. 
 
 SERMON XII. FAITH 383 
 
 Hebrews, 11, 1. — Faith is the substance of things hoped for, and the evi- 
 dence of things not seen. 
 
 SERMON Xni. FORGETFULNESS OF GOD. ... 401 
 
 Jeremiah, 2, 32. — Can a maid forget her ornaments, or a bride her attire i* 
 Yet my people have forgotten me days without number. 
 
 SERMON XIV. THE KNOWLEDGE POSSESSED BF SAINTS IN 
 
 HEAVEN 417 
 
 Job, 8, 9. — For we are but of yesterday, and know nothing, because our 
 days upon earth are a shadow. 
 
MEIHOIR. 
 
HIEJ^OIR. 
 
 Some account of the author may reasonably be expected 
 to accompany this volume. The materials for a biography, 
 such as his friends would desire, are very few. No diary has 
 been found among his writings, and most that can be collected 
 from himself is contained in the few letters which he wrote 
 to his friends. Some of his early correspondents, with whom 
 he was in the habit of exchanging thoughts most freely, are re- 
 moved from the earth, and the letters he wrote to them are 
 not to be obtained. The late Solomon M. Allen, professor 
 in Middlebury College, the Rev. Sylvester Lamed, who died 
 at New-Orleans, and the Rev. Joseph R. Andrus, who died in 
 Africa, were among the number of his early, intimate friends ; 
 and from their letters to him, found among his papers, it is 
 evident that he was on terms of intimacy with them, to which 
 few, and perhaps no other of his correspondents have been 
 admitted. The materials from which this Biographical Sketch 
 is taken, are a letter by his mother, respecting his early years, 
 his own letters, and the recollections of a few friends. 
 
 Carlos Wilcox was born Oct. 22d, 1794, at Newport, N. 
 H. His father, Mr. Ebenezer Wilcox, was the son of Dea. 
 Abel Wilcox, of North Killingworth, Conn. He is a respect- 
 able farmer, attentive to his duties, and distinguished for hab- 
 its of punctuaUty and order in the management of his concerns. 
 The original name of his mother was Thankful Stevens, daugh- 
 ter of Josiah Stevens, Esq. of Newport, N. H., for a number 
 
 2 
 
10 MEMOIR. 
 
 of years deacon of the church in that place. He was after- 
 wards licensed to preach, and employed as a Missionary on 
 the Isle of Shoals, where he died. His daughter, the mother 
 of the subject of this memoir, was well educated, and is pos- 
 sessed of an unusual share of tenderness of feeling, and of ma- 
 ternal excellencies. These parents are both pious ; and Car- 
 los, their first born, M'as early dedicated to God in baptism. 
 The care of his education in his early years devolved prin- 
 cipally on his mother. The following account of his childhood 
 from her own pen may be read with interest. " As soon as he 
 began to talk, I began to teach him to repeat the Lord's prayer, 
 the Assembly's Catechism, and devotional Hymns. He was 
 very active, and appeared much dehghted with receiving in- 
 struction. He early showed a great fondness for books. 
 When only two years old he would often ask me to instruct 
 him. When I was engaged in necessaiy domestic avocations, 
 and informed him that he must wait, he would stay by me, 
 or follow me with his book in his hand until he had repeated 
 his lesson. The winter after he was two years old, while sit- 
 ting by liis father, and seeing him at work, after watching him 
 a considerable time in silence, with great earnestness he ex- 
 claimed, ' Papa, what are you doing ? Making all tilings out 
 of nothing by the word of your power V He could read and 
 spell correctly before he attended any school. He was 
 healthy, active, persevering m every thing he did, whether at 
 his lessons, work, or amusement." 
 
 When he was about four years of age, his parents remov- 
 ed to Orwell, Vt. where they still reside, and sustain with 
 christian resignation, their bereavement of a son, who com- 
 forted them in his childhood, and by his affectionate conduct, 
 his distinguished talents and devotedness to the cause of Christ, 
 gave indications of future usefulness most cheering to the pa- 
 rental breast. 
 
 The subject of this Memoir was, from his earliest infancy, 
 amiable and lovely, dutiful to his parents, and affectionate to 
 his younger brothers. Among his first efforts in the school 
 room he gave indications of talents, capable of making rapid 
 
MEMOIR. I'l 
 
 progress in knowledge. The writer of this Memoir has 
 heard from the school companions of Mr. Wilcox, anecdotes 
 of his childhood, when the little stripling took and retained a 
 station at the head of the school, while his competitors were 
 far his superiors in age. 
 
 Until between the ninth and tenth year of his life, he had a 
 good constitution, and was unusually active and efficient in af- 
 fording that assistance to his father, which could be expected 
 from such a youth. At this period he gave himself a wound 
 in his knee with an axe, which was followed by consequences 
 felt to the day of his death. By taking cold in his wounded 
 limb, it was seized with a violent inflammation, and for ma- 
 ny months his pain was intense. 
 
 During the months and years of suffering that succeeded, 
 he discovered a mildness of temper, maturity of reflection, 
 and manliness of conduct, which made lasting impressions 
 on the minds of those who saw him ; and one of his physi- 
 cians, though he saw him only occasionally, was so interested 
 in his demeanour and in the nobleness of mind which he ex- 
 hibited, that he named his first son after this youth, who had 
 so won his affections. Twenty years aftervvards, though he 
 had removed into the western country, he could not speak 
 of the scene which passed in the sick room of that httle suf- 
 erer, without deep emotion. There was something so marked 
 in his temper and manners, so mature and judicious in his 
 conversation even in that early period of his life, that time 
 could not efface the impression which had been made. 
 
 The years of feebleness which followed, he spent in the 
 pursuit of knowledge ; and under all his disadvantages, he 
 made rapid and honourable progress. When he became 
 able by the use of crutches to make his way to the school 
 house, though often with extreme suffering, his place was 
 generally at the head of his class. 
 
 His inability to perform agricultural labours, and his attach- 
 ment to books, which disease and infirmity rather increased 
 than abated, determined his father to assist him in obtaining a 
 public education. When between twelve and thirteen yeai's 
 
12 MEMOIR. 
 
 of age, he was sent to an Academy at Castleton, where he 
 soon took among youth, who had enjoyed the best privileges, 
 the same place that he had taken at the coniimon school. At 
 fourteen, he acquitted himself with honor in an examination 
 in all the studies which were required for admission into col- 
 lege ; and but for his youth and feeble health, would have 
 presented himself for admission. About this time he was 
 afflicted with a cough and a hectic fever, which in the opin- 
 ion of his friends threatened his speedy dissolution ; but in 
 the summer following, his health was so far improved, and his 
 desire to pursue his favourite employment, and to enter col- 
 lege, so ardent, that his parents consented to allow him to re- 
 view his preparatory studies. Accordingly, in September, 
 previous to his fifteenth year, he was received a member of 
 Middlebury College. 
 
 This Institution was then in its infancy, but there was a 
 spirit of enterprise in its officers and students, which rendered 
 it on many accounts a peculiarly desirable place for youth 
 to prepare themselves for public life. It was favourable to 
 that aspiring, determined perseverance, by which self-made 
 men rise above those who rely upon the celebrity of estab- 
 lishments, libraries, and the literary renown of teachers. 
 Here was nothing to foster the impression, that a diploma 
 would be a passport to the high places of the earth ; but there 
 was a consciousness, that reputation must stand upon indi- 
 vidual enterprise and personal character. This gave an in- 
 dependence to the character of the student, and in the pur- 
 suit of his studies, he felt that the reputation of a youthful col- 
 lege was to be raised by liis own. Such was the principle that 
 operated upon the minds of the students of that Institution, 
 and its influence on them was similar to its influence on the 
 founders of our republic. They were roused to deeds of en- 
 terprise, which men under other circumstances rarely at- 
 tempt. 
 
 While a member of College, Mr. Wilcox distinguished him- 
 self in all the branches of study, but excelled principally in the 
 languages and belles-lettres. His conduct was irreproach- 
 
MEMOIR. 
 
 IS 
 
 able, and though his constitution was very delicate, he was 
 never willing to excuse himself from a lesson, or from a col- 
 lege exercise. Every thing was performed with strict punc- 
 tuality, and it is believed that while he was a member of col- 
 lege, no censure was ever passed upon him. Early in his 
 collegiate life, his composition began to be noticed for original- 
 ity, neatness of expression, purity and elevation of style. 
 During his junior year, he wrote a poem and pronounced it 
 at a public exliibition. This was among the first efforts in 
 this species of composition, that he had ever submitted to the 
 eye of any of his friends. 
 
 He graduated with the highest honors of college, and in a 
 valedictory oration " On the reputation of greatness in the 
 cause of humanity," showed himself capable of writing with 
 distinguished excellence. He begins by saying, " It is hum- 
 bling to the pride of man, to know that when he dies he 
 may be mentioned no more. The heart is chilled at the re- 
 flection that when its motion ceases, all its affections may be 
 forgotten ; and the tongue falters to own, that when silenced 
 in the grave, its accents may never be repeated. It would 
 seem then, that no one susceptible of the blandishments of 
 fame, no one alive to the laudable love of character, could rest 
 contented with sporting awhile on the spot which gave him 
 birth, and then disappearing forever, unknown and unlament- 
 ed. It is affectation in man to pretend to disregard the es- 
 teem of others. Self-approbation can seldom answer the de- 
 mands of vanity, and virtue herself may taste with inward 
 relish the honey of applause. Respectability in life, may be 
 gained with little exertion, and friendship is often purchased 
 with a toy. But the attention of the community, and the grat- 
 itude of ages, can be won only by vigorous, and unceasing 
 activity." 
 
 He then points out some of the different fields in which the 
 reputation of greatness may be acquired, and concludes with 
 addresses to the president and officers of the college, and 
 to his classmates. A few sentences from the last, are so char- 
 acteristic that they may be interesting to the reader. 
 
14 
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 " The meeting which we have never been able to contem- 
 plate without emotion, has at length arrived. That moment, 
 the anticipation of which has so embittered the draught of 
 enjoyment, is none other than the present. Every thing be- 
 speaks an interesting occasion. Else, why such nameless ex- 
 pressions in the countenance, why such struggles in the heart ? 
 Our circles Avere not wont to be overcast with such gloom. 
 The agonizing solicitude betrayed in each feature, witnesses 
 that this is a crisis of no common moment. In one word, 
 and that big with meaning, we have assembled for the last 
 time. 
 
 " It would seem that some sequestered grove best befitted 
 a scene like this. There, the enthusiasm of grief would repine 
 under no restraint. There, nothing would check the effu- 
 sions of the heart. Yet, before this assembly, the event lo- 
 ses none of its solemnity. 
 
 "We have all remarked, that the traveller, while ascending a 
 hill, is generally busied in anticipating the prospect which 
 the brow is to command. He sketches a valley in which he 
 crowds together the epitome of every grace. In the back 
 ground of his picture, he draws a villa with romantic environs. 
 With an eye pursuing the path before him, eager to greet the 
 rising spire, he hastens to the summit. But his scene, so love- 
 ly, suddenly shrinks into a dreaiy waste. With a curiosity 
 unabated, he speeds his way over the barren heath to the 
 eminence beyond it. Here his ideal promises meet a second 
 failure. Thus he follows this beauteous phantom, and thus it 
 eludes his grasp. 
 
 " This, my brethren, is the miniature of our journey through 
 life. We have reached the first station whence the world, 
 deformed as it is, instead of the comely creation of fancy, 
 opens before us. Man chases some favourite show to the 
 confines of the grave. He plays his part in some imaginary 
 drama, till he passes from the theatre of life. The happiness 
 of to-day is to dream of the happiness of to-morrow. 
 
 " Yet the desert would be smoothed of half its ruggedness, 
 were our road through it one and the same. But we are now 
 
MEMOIR. 
 
 at the centre, whence all our paths proceed, continually diverg- 
 ing. Were the ills of men seven-fold, were every tear mul- 
 tiplied without end, still the worst could be endured were we 
 not to be separated. — There is an hour in which man is him- 
 self, and in which he couples himself with dearer selves, in 
 which he holds sweet converse with those that are far away. 
 It is the midnight watch when the hum of day hath ceased, 
 and sleep fallen heavy on the lids of mortals. Then shall our 
 spirits be commmgled, and scenes long past be revived. What 
 time the temple of nature is lit up for her nightly orison, our 
 widowed spirits shall pay their devotions at the tomb of bu- 
 ried joys. 
 
 " But we shall soon have other cause to mourn than mere 
 separation. Our number must dwindle away by death. 
 Tidings will soon reach us that a class-mate is gone. The 
 Grand Archer may have already chosen the place to take his 
 aim. Then must that eye so vivid, be covered with an im- 
 pervious film. Do I gaze on the form which must soon be 
 hid under the clods of the valley ? And can nothing avail ? 
 No. The amenity of disposition, the fascination of address, 
 never won the king of terrors from his cruel purpose. 
 
 " Religion may rob the arrow of its poison, but she cannot 
 evade its point. Some of us may be denied the sole comfort 
 of dissolving nature, that of having our last wants relieved by 
 the hand of a brother. Companions of my youth, ye inmates 
 of my soul, how gladly would I fly to earth's utmost bounds 
 to cheer the dying moments of one, to catch his last breath, 
 and to plant the wild flower on his tomb. Should it be my 
 unhappy lot to live when ye were all dead, I would visit this 
 village and mark the place of each endearing incident. 
 While watching for some well known face, I should weep to 
 see none but strangers, and exclaiming, the world is to me 
 but a wilderness, I would fall asleep to wake with you be- 
 yond the sky. 
 
 " 'Tis done, 'tis done. The tumult of passion is now a drea- 
 ry calm ; yonder orb of day is shedding his last beams on our 
 collected view ; but may our eternity be where God and the 
 
16 MEMOIR. 
 
 Lamb are the light thereof. A long farewell to this academic 
 grove, a longer farewell to you. Yon bell shall assemble us 
 no more ; but, O remember, our next meeting will be at the 
 summons of the last trump, to rehearse to the Judge of the 
 Universe the long lesson of life." 
 
 It was soon after he entered college, that his attention 
 was turned to the subject of personal religion. His native 
 amiableness, his refined and delicate feelings, and his uniform- 
 ly irreproachable conduct, had been such as might have seem- 
 ed to many, satisfactory evidence that he needed no great 
 change ; but when the Spirit of God visited his heart, it pro- 
 duced the same impressions, uniformly produced in those who 
 are led to Christ and fitted for heaven, — a deep sense of his 
 own sinfulness. From that time till the day of his death, he 
 viewed himself a helpless sinner, unworthy of any favour, 
 and entirely dependent on the sovereign grace of God. The 
 following letter, written soon after this change in his feel- 
 ings, contains some particulars respecting his views of him- 
 self and of divine things. 
 
 Middlehury, Dec. 14, 1809. 
 Honoured Parents, 
 
 It is with a heart filled with gratitude to that Being who 
 has supported my life, that I now write to you. It will un- 
 doubtedly afford you some consolation to hear that I have 
 some hope that I have experienced a change of heart, though 
 I am not without many doubts and fears, lest it should prove a 
 delusion. But I will relate to you some of my feeUngs. 
 When this revival first began in Middlebury, I felt somewhat 
 opposed to it, and indeed, I thought I would concern myself 
 nothing about it, so I paid little regard to attending confer- 
 ences and other exercises of public worship. I considered 
 that it would intrude upon my classical studies at college. I 
 felt desirous to obtain an immense stock of earthly knowl- 
 edge, and my heart glowed with fei-vent anxiety for worldly 
 honours and emoluments. But alas, they last but for a mo- 
 ment and then vanish away. Though I sometimes thought of 
 
MEMOIR. 19' 
 
 the importance of striving to obtain something which would 
 exist beyond this life, as I knew for a certainty I must soon 
 die and leave all my earthly knowledge, yet I was for having 
 a more convenient opportunity. " Go thy way for this time," 
 was the language of my impenitent heart. At times, I suf- 
 fered my thoughts to roam on things concerning a future 
 state. A heaven of eternal happiness, and a hell of eternal 
 misery, would often be the subjects of my serious contempla- 
 tion ; and though I had no sensible alarm, yet sometimes I 
 thought I must attend to religion before it was too late. At 
 other times, I thought I would delay repentance until old age. 
 " I heard many solemn sermons, and very many warnings 
 and invitations, but rejected them all. I continued in this 
 condition until Friday, Dec. 1st, when I thought I would 
 leave college and go home. Then the thought rushed into 
 my mind, that perhaps I was going directly away from my 
 eternal salvation, and that my conduct might so offend a 
 just and holy God, that he would come out in judgment 
 against me, and "swear that I should never enter into his 
 rest ;" yet this thought I soon shook off, resolving to go 
 home, provided I could get away. Accordingly, I went to 
 
 Professor H . Scarce had I made my errand known 
 
 to him, when he began to question me upon the subject of 
 religion. He asked me whether I had attended to it or not. 
 For a moment I stood speechless, thinking what reply to make. 
 I answered him in the negative. He then conversed with 
 me in a manner so affecting to my feelings, that words cannot 
 express it. He seemed unwilling to let me go, until I had at- 
 tended to the one thing needful. He proposed to let me re- 
 turn home in a fortnight, if I would inform him in plain 
 terms, that I had resolved to persist in the ways of sin, and at 
 last go down to destruction. This seemed like an arrow 
 that pierced into the very recesses of my soul. I returned to 
 my room, and thought that from that time, I would seek for 
 religion with an intense desire to obtain it. I took my Bible 
 and turned to the 32d chapter of Deuteronomy, and the 1st 
 chapter of Proverbs. I thought the 35th verse of the former, 
 
 3 
 
18 MEMOIR. 
 
 and the 25th of the latter, applied to my situation. I attend- 
 ed a religious meeting in the college on Saturday evening, 
 was much impressed with a sense of my own guilt, and won- 
 dered at the mercy of God in sparing the life of such a sinner 
 as I was. I admired that God had not cut me off, and assign- 
 ed me a portion among devils and damned spirits. After the 
 meeting was closed, I went into a class-mate's room, who had 
 recently experienced religion. He seeing me look serious, 
 said, ' what do you think of these things V I told him that 
 it seemed to me the revival was about to close, and I was to 
 be left. He conversed with me awhile, and then I retired. 
 I attended meeting on the Sabbath, and a conference in the 
 evening, at the Court-House. On Monday evening, I at- 
 tended a meeting of youth, at a dwelling house in the village. 
 While I was walking to it, I felt so impressed with a sense of 
 sin, it seemed like a burden, and I could hardly support my- 
 self under the heavy load. When I entered the room where 
 the meeting was held, I found those who had assembled, were 
 singing praises to God. I wished that I might be one of the 
 happy number. I was sensible, that all that hindered me 
 from it, was the opposition of my own heart. I was endeav- 
 ouring to do something to merit salvation. This I found 
 I could not do. The meeting was attended with great so- 
 lemnity, such as I never before witnessed. After the close 
 of the meeting, some of the students accompanied me to my 
 room, conversed and prayed with me, but I was so over- 
 whelmed with grief for my sin, which I had committed against 
 my Maker, that I scarcely knew what was passmg around 
 me. Afterwards, while I sat musing on my situation, it seem- 
 ed plam to my mind that life and death were set before me. 
 On the one hand, Clu'ist was inviting me to come to him 
 that I might have hfe, on the other, the devil seemed to be 
 tempting me. Late at night I went to bed, but not to sleep. 
 1 thought I could exclaim, ' The sorrows of hell compass- 
 ed me about.' I spent the greatest part of the night in 
 meditation ; sometimes I had half a thought to give up the 
 subject and think no more about it : then this passage came to 
 
MEMOIR, 
 
 10 
 
 my mind, ' Remember Lot's wife.' I was in this situation, 
 musing wiiat it was best to do, when this thought occurred 
 to my mind, that all I had to do was to give up myself into 
 the hands of God, and these lines expressed my feelings, 
 
 * Here Lord I give myself away, 
 'Tis all that I can do.' 
 
 I felt that I was willing to surrender myself into the hands of 
 the Saviour, to humble myself at his feet, implore his 
 pardon for my past offences, and solicit his protection for 
 the future. I arose from my bed, and attended prayers in 
 the chapel as usual, and for the fost time, I felt a heart to 
 pray. My burden was gone. 
 
 " I have enjoyed myself very well since, only I have had 
 some dark hours, fearing lest my hope was not founded on a 
 rock. I believe I can say as much as this, that every thing 
 appears different to me : the word of God, religious worship, ~ 
 christian people, religious conferences, and prayer, which 
 before appeared to be gloomy, now appear quite the reverse. 
 It now seems to me that if there is any happiness in this life, 
 it is in living near to God. I have tried the pleasures and 
 amusements of this world, and found them vain. There are 
 some things which the natural heart calls happiness, but such 
 as always leave a guilty conscience. I think I can enjoy 
 more happiness, in one hour, in reading my Bible, and contem- 
 plating the character of God, than in a whole Ufe of sirt 
 and rebellion against him." 
 
 As an exhibition of his ability to express his thoughts in 
 sentences, this letter might not be deemed worthy of preser- 
 vation ; but as containing his own views of himself, and of 
 the change which he hoped God had wrought in him, it will 
 be read with interest by all who value the exhibition of piety 
 in others, or are conversant with their own hearts. 
 
 From this time, a new direction was given to his mind, and 
 he resolved on devoting liimself to the service of Christ, in the 
 work of the ministry. After leaving college, Mr. Wilcox 
 
2^ MEMOIR. 
 
 spent part of a year in Georgia, with a maternal uncle : he 
 then returned, and entered upon the study of theology, at the 
 Institution in Andover, in the fall of 181-1. Through the 
 delicacy of his health, he was unable during the severity of 
 the w^inter months, to attend upon some of the public exerci- 
 ses, yet he never neglected preparation for any of the requir- 
 ed duties. 
 
 In the spring after he entered the Institution, one of his 
 classmates,* a very interesting and lovely youth, sickened 
 and died. His class made choice of Mr. Wilcox to deliver an 
 address on the occasion, and the manner in which he perform- 
 ed this office, will long be z-emembered by all who heard him. 
 The tenderness of feeling he exhibited, the chaste and eleva- 
 ted style in which his Eulogy was written, and the eloquence 
 with which it was pronounced, were such as to make it man- 
 ifest that he possessed talents of superior order. While a 
 member of the Institution, he had seasons of suffering from 
 depression of spirits. They who were admitted to an intima- 
 cy with him, thought much less of his dejection, than others 
 who only knew that he chose to be retii-ed, that he was reserv- 
 ed in conversation, and tliat the features of his face often 
 bespoke something preying upon his mind. But when he was 
 required to perform any duty that called forth his talents, 
 there was no indication of neglect in his studies, or want of 
 tone and strength in his intellectual powers. Two of the ex- 
 ercises assigned him while at the Seminary, have appeared 
 in the Christian Spectator.f 
 
 But the fact must not be concealed, that he really suffered 
 from depression of spirits. There was some things in con- 
 nexion with these sufferings, eminently illustrative of his char- 
 acter. While a member of college, he was " smit with the 
 love of sacred song," and a propensity of heart more dearly 
 cherished than any other, was to serve Christ by composing 
 a lofty song of praise to him — " Benevolence" the theme. 
 He ardently desired to engage in writing upon this favom-ite 
 
 *Philanthropos Perry, 
 t Vol. I. p. 613. Vol. II. p. 404. 
 
MEMOIR. 5« 
 
 subject, as an employment most congenial to his feelings ; 
 but there were formidable obstacles in the way. He was in 
 debt to nearly the whole amount of his college bills. They 
 who knew his trials on this account, have had seasons of de- 
 pression too ; they have mingled tears, when they thought 
 how much his delicate mind suffered, at times, from a burden 
 of debt which he saw little prospect of discharging, while a 
 love of the muses led him to cast many a wistful look to 
 wards their enchanting bowers. The following extract from 
 a letter written by him in a season of dejection, will best dis- 
 close his trials. 
 
 " I dread the sight of my pen and half written sermon. 
 Sometimes I sit for whole days without advancing a single let- 
 ter. I sit with my cheek leaning on the palm of my hand, and 
 scarce a day passes in which I do not weep — walk my room 
 with my hands clasped in anguish, and my eyes streaming 
 with tears — sit for hours and gaze into the fire, or on vacan- 
 cy, or out of the window, without noticing any particular ob- 
 ject, or having any particular train of thought, but a deep feel- 
 ing of indescribable wretchedness. 
 
 " I have such a disheartening consciousness of mv unfitness 
 for the ministrj", that I cannot engage in it. I have studied 
 nothing but poetry, am fit for nothing but poetry. 
 
 " I dare not look at the setting sun, the placid and beautiful 
 moon, the mild planet of the west, the pure blue heavens, the 
 white flying clouds, the lofty mountain with its waving for- 
 ests, the valley with its green meadows and crystal streams : — 
 I dare not listen to the sweet bird that comes to the tree be- 
 fore my window, and sings from the fulness of its heart, pour- 
 ing forth a stream of melody. 
 
 "When the clouds gather round and shut out the beauties of 
 the natural world, especially when the storm rages, and beats 
 against my window, I seem ready to wish that they would re- 
 main so forever. It suits the gloom of my soul, I feel a great 
 relief, a burden taken off. And when the hour of sleep comes, 
 and I wrap myself up in the drapery of my couch, I am al- 
 most ready to wish that the sleep of the grave had come, or 
 
22 MEMOIR. 
 
 that I might never wake again. What will become of me ? 
 The heart knoweth its own bitterness. 
 
 " I spend my days in sighing, but no sigh heaves off its load 
 from this o'erburdened breast. 
 
 "My mind is unstrung, relaxed till it has almost lost the pow- 
 er of reaction ; every little labour, seems an Herculean task, 
 every little obstacle, a mountain of difficulty. I have lost all 
 self-controul, all discipline of the thoughts and affections, and 
 become the passive slave of circumstances. I feel borne 
 along in despairing listlessness, conforming to the current in 
 all its windings, and varieties of motion, without resolution 
 enough to raise my head, and look about me, and see where I 
 am ; or forward, to see whither I am going ; the roaring of 
 a cataract before me, would rather lull me to a deeper sleep, 
 than rouse me to a mighty effort for my escape from destruc- 
 tion." 
 
 This extract exhibits, at least, one of the causes of the con- 
 flict which was passing in his mind, when to his friends, he was 
 so evidently the subject of exquisite suffering. To those who 
 are mere spectators of such a conflict as is rendered visible in 
 the countenance, it undoubtedly appears a mark of imbecility ; 
 but they may be incompetent judges in such a case. They, 
 whose thoughts always flow in dull prose, know not the move- 
 ments of a mind, under the conduct of the muse. One who 
 had poetic reveries, and seasons of exquisite feeling, in which 
 only the initiated can sympathize, but who was an entire 
 stranger to that sweet rest of the soul which Mr. Wilcox en- 
 joyed, has expressed something of this internal anguish, not 
 indeed in his finest strains of poetry, yet in language which 
 poets can understand. 
 
 " When from the heart where sorrow sits, 
 Her dusky shadow mounts too high, 
 And o'er the changing aspect flits, 
 In clouds that darken all the sky. 
 Heed not the gloom ; they soon shall sink ; 
 My thoughts their dungeon know too well, 
 
MEMOIR. 23 
 
 Back to my breast the captives shrink, 
 And bleed within their silent cell." 
 
 While at the Institution, as divine truth was unfolded to 
 his mind, Mr. Wilcox had eminent christian enjoyment, inter- 
 mingled with hours of conflict between his own inclination, 
 and the advice of others. 
 
 His inclination was very strong to devote himself to the ser- 
 vice of Christ, in writing poetry. The friends to whom he 
 disclosed his feelings, were almost unanimous in the opinion, 
 that the cultivation of fine writing should be subordinate to his 
 greater object, the work of the ministry. One, whose judg- 
 ment he highly valued, and whose early death he deeply 
 felt, wrote to him as follows : " I have no objections to your 
 drinking occasionally at the fount of Hehcon, but I have 
 great fears that you will tumble in and be drowned." 
 
 Such were some of his sufferings, and such the causes ; but 
 there is evidence that the soul had found its rest and was com- 
 forted, as may be learned from the following letters. 
 
 Andover, March 22d, 1815. 
 Dear Parents, 
 
 Your letter surprised as well as affected me, beyond any 
 thing I ever experienced. What ! were all the family awa- 
 ked from sleep with the expectation of seeing my beloved 
 Mother breathe her last, and I still in bed ! O who can suffi- 
 ciently admire that hand which restored you ? Affliction is not 
 sent in vain. O the happiness of that soul, which has a refuge 
 in the hour of death ! The world is poor indeed, for it cannot 
 purchase a moment of comfort, when comfort is most needed. 
 " If I should not visit Orwell within two or three years, I 
 must expect to see it sadly changed ; many will be born, and 
 many die. Gray hairs will drop away ; blooming youth will 
 fade. Many faces I shall not see again, till I meet them 
 at the dread judgment-day. Who knows, but one of my dear 
 parents, or brothers, may be of the number. Let us trust in 
 God, and then all will be well. 
 
u 
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 " My health is extremely good. You never saw me as 
 fleshy and ruddy as I am now. This I attribute to the mode- 
 rate weather of past March, and likewise to my regular 
 hours of exercise. Two or three times in the day I am in 
 a washing sweat, and it would do you good to see me then. 
 I am told by my fellow-students, that I have grown fleshy 
 remarkably fast within a month ; and indeed I take some 
 pleasure in looking at my face in a mirror, but I often check 
 myself, with the thought that health is a vain thing for secu- 
 rity. 
 
 " I am delighted with the study of the Hebrew language. 
 My class recite one day in Hebrew, and the next in Greek. 
 Thus, we are reading the Bible in the words in which it was 
 written. Oh ! there is no book like the Bible ! I am now 
 reading the Psalms in Hebrew, and they are most sublime 
 and beautiful, 
 
 "In the following letter, is an exhibition of his fraternal affec- 
 tion. 
 
 Andover, August 17, 1815. 
 
 Horace, My Dear Little Brother, 
 
 "I thank you, that you remember brother Carlos, though he 
 has been gone a long time, and a great way off". Alonzo, and 
 Seneca and Stevens remember me too, 1 hope, though they 
 do not or cannot write to me. I wish I could send you and 
 my other little brothers, some more good books. But you 
 must read those I sent to you, a great many times ; and you 
 must pray to God, that He will make them do you much good, 
 make you love him and obey all his commandments. You 
 must mind your parents, and love them, for they love you, and 
 work hard all the time for you. You must read the Bible of- 
 ten, and ask your mother to tell you what you cannot under- 
 stand. When you say the catechism, you must ask what it 
 means, if you do not know. When I was a little boy, I used 
 sometimes to dread the time when I was to say the catechism. 
 Now I am very sorry ; and if you should live to be as old as 
 I am, you will be sorry if you do not love to say the catechism. 
 
MEMOIR. 25 
 
 You must not play on the Sabbath, you must not look out of 
 the window and be glad when the sun is down, that you may 
 play. God will see you, and be very angry with you and all 
 little boys, who do not love the Sabbath, and the Bible, and the 
 catechism, and other good books, and their parents, and all 
 good people. When you go to meeting, you must look at 
 the minister and mind all he says. There is a pretty, lovely 
 boy here, about as old as Stevens, who always looks at the 
 minister, and when he comes home, can tell a great deal of 
 what he said. Good bye, Horace. 
 
 Carlos. 
 
 Dear Parents, Andover, March 14, 1816. 
 
 I have received your letter and the money. I have much 
 to write in answer, for my heart is full. Whence have I de- 
 served such kindness ? Surely, if we did but know it, we 
 have no friends on earth like our parents. You heard that I 
 was unwell : I am not ; I have had the best health all win- 
 ter. Every day I work an hour and a half at the wood-pile, 
 and walk half an hour besides. I never touch a book after 
 breakfast, until I have laboured an hour ; so that the sweat 
 runs off my face. Thus by exercise, my constitution is re- 
 newed. So my dear father always told me, but like many 
 other of liis precepts, I little regarded it. 
 
 You say you have heard that I was dejected for want of mon- 
 ey, &c. True, I have not been very high in spirits for some time, 
 but the want of money is but a very small part of the cause. I 
 have not been suffering for want of any thing. I have learnt 
 a few things since I came to Andover, about the real value 
 of money. In a letter from my mother, written last spring, 
 soon after the sickness of herself and my brother, she says — 
 *' Your honoured father is almost worn out with cares and 
 hard labour." — This went to my heart. " Worn out with 
 hard labour" — thought I, and for whom ? for me, me who 
 never earned a cent for myself, and who am now living in 
 ease, upon that property, which he has gained by a long 
 course of industry and economy. The idea, that probably 
 
 4 
 
36 
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 my dear father's days might be shortened by his exertions to 
 support his children, and me in particular, who had been of 
 less service to him, than any of them, sunk deep into my 
 heart, and I have constantly kept it in mind since. It was 
 then, I formed the resolution never to ask him for another 
 cent of that property, which ought to be preserved to sup- 
 port my parents in the decline of life, and to train up the 
 younger children. I am now, thought I, better able to sup- 
 port myself, than my parents are to support me — why should 
 I trespass any more on their goodness ? The money you 
 have now so kindly sent me, I thank you for, and I wish to con- 
 sider it as borrowed. 
 
 With regard to my support at this excellent Seminary, I 
 can speak freely, and to your satisfaction. My board and 
 washing bills, are paid out of the funds. Wood, candles, &c. 
 we all have to find for ourselves. There is a society of la- 
 dies in Boston, who furnish poor students with all the clothes 
 they wish. And should I barely send in my name, and a 
 list of the articles I wanted, I might have any thing free. 
 But though I have been urged to do it, I have not ; for when 
 I see so many around me, more needy than I, and far more 
 likely to be useful ministers, I have not had the face to do it. 
 The bare possibility, that I may not answer the expectations 
 of benefactors, is more than I wish to endure. * * * I have 
 no thought of leaving the Seminary, unless I should be sick, 
 or some other reason persuade than want of support. 
 
 The office of the ministry, looks too arduous and too sa- 
 cred for me. Since I have been here, I have learned some 
 of the trials and duties of a faithful minister. From these, I 
 seem to shrink, and dread the responsibility of the station. 
 I begin to find, that a minister has something more to do, 
 than merely to enter the pulpit and pronounce a fine ser- 
 mon. He is to watch and labour for souls in private, as well 
 as in public ; to have an answer for every question of infi- 
 del effrontery, or inquiring penitence. He is to look after 
 the strayed ones of the flock ; to bind up the wounded, &c. 
 Is he to do all this, or is it God through him ? 
 
MEMOIR. 
 
 J87 
 
 Besides, it rings in my ears every day, that a man is not 
 fit to be the spiritual guide of others, unless he be eminently 
 pious himself. I dare not claim this character of eminent 
 piety. No, I dare not, I have rather to fear and tremble, 
 lest I have no piety at all. What then shall I do ? How- 
 can I do the most good ? Heaven direct me. I would 
 rather remain in a private, humble sphere, and do little good, 
 than appear in public, and do much harm. It is my con- 
 stant prayer, that I may be led in the path of duty. I hope 
 it will be yours also, my dear parents. 
 
 I have many, very many melancholy hours, in meditating 
 on this subject. I can never be sufficiently thankful for the 
 blessing o{ pious parents. Little children are apt to think it 
 hard for parents to be always instructing them in religion, 
 and restraining them from vanities ; but when they come to 
 maturity, they will look back cmd bless them. 
 
 Andover, May 30, 1816. 
 
 My Dear Mother, 
 
 You have been sick again it seems. I tremble when I 
 think of your feeble health and my great distance from you. 
 I may not even have time to hear that you are sick, before I 
 hear that you are gone. I cannot come home in a moment, 
 but if you, or my dear father, should be dangerously sick, I 
 beg that you will let me know immediately, that I may fly 
 to your arms with all possible speed. May heaven prepare 
 us for the day of affliction, for come it must, sooner or later. 
 Were there no hope of meeting friends in a happier world, 
 I could almost wish to have no friends in this ; for the bit- 
 terness of separation, and that forever, would be so much 
 the more severe, as the friendship was more ardent. 
 
 Perhaps there is no direct evidence from the scriptures, 
 that friends will know each other in heaven, but there are 
 circumstances, which render it in the highest degree proba- 
 ble. The rich man in the parable is represented as knowing 
 Lazarus and Abraham ; and surely if the inhabitants of the 
 two states have knowledge of each other, those of each state 
 
28 
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 separately may be supposed to know each other. We are 
 naturally led by reason, to think that much of the misery of the 
 wicked, will consist in mutual accusations — that the unfaithful 
 parent will writhe with keenest anguish when reproached by 
 the child as the author of his ruin — that the ungodly minister 
 will feel the sharpest stings of remorse when his people shall 
 rail at liim as the cause of their undoing. And if this be so, 
 why may not much of the happiness of the blessed, consist in 
 recounting the many instances of faithfulness in each other ? 
 the child thank the parent for his godly example and pious 
 instructions ? the church welcome their pastor and bid him 
 rejoice in the fruit of all his labours of love ? How could 
 such employment be inconsistent with God's being all in all. 
 
 My health is excellent. I suppose you will think so, when 
 I tell you that I walk ten miles every day, as steadily as the 
 day comes. Four weeks of our six weeks' vacation have 
 expired. I room at College and board one mile and a half 
 off ; and I go and return at every meal, which makes nine 
 miles. I visit the post-office, or the mineral spring we have 
 here, once a day, which makes more than another mile. In- 
 stead of feeling fatigued, I grow stronger and stronger, so 
 that I verily believe I could walk home, after practising upon 
 this plan a number of months. 
 
 I long to see you all, and to enjoy again those pleasures 
 that I found in rambling over your lovely farm. Believe 
 me, you have a happy spot — a spot where I could almost 
 wish to spend my days. The great and noisy world, you 
 only hear about at a distance. You know little of the trials 
 and temptations of public life. You have the Bible — you 
 have the preaching of its holy truths — you have kind and 
 pious friends and neighbours, and what more could you ex- 
 pect in this vale of tears ? 1 almost, I do quite envy you the 
 happiness of a retired life — a public station has no charms 
 for your Carlos. 
 
MEMOIR. 29 
 
 Andover, August 5, 1816. 
 My Dear Parents, 
 
 i have been considerably unwell for a week or two, and 
 have about concluded that it is best for me to comply with 
 your request made last spring, when you heard that I was 
 "depressed" and "outof heahh ;" that is to come home. Our 
 present ferm is fast drawing to a close, six weeks only re- 
 maining ; then comes a vacation of six weeks. The ex- 
 pense of a journey home on horseback will be very 
 little more than the expense of residing here. A jour- 
 ney on horseback (if I can sit on a horse, for I have 
 hardly tried since I left home) will be the very best thing for 
 my health and spirits. Say, my beloved Parents, shall I 
 again find a home under your generous roof .^^ Can I doubt 
 it ? I feel like a pilgrim and a stranger on the earth ; and 
 am sometimes ready, almost, to lay me down and die. 
 
 I want very much to see my little brothers. I think 1 
 should delight to teach their young and tender minds to love 
 their Creator and Redeemer ; to pray to him morning and 
 evening ; to love their Parents and obey them in all things. 
 I thank you, my Parents, a thousand times, for the religious 
 instruction you gave me in childhood. It will never be for- 
 gotten. One of the most wicked and abandoned men in our 
 country, has been known to observe that had it not been for 
 the religious principles instilled into his mind by his father, 
 he should have been a downright atheist. Of so much im- 
 portance is early instruction. How ought I to bless my God 
 for pious parents. But I have reason to lament that I so 
 misimproved these blessings. What have you seen, what 
 has any body seen in my life, since I professed to love God 
 supremely, that gave any evidence of my sincerity ? I may 
 yet be deceived. " Ye shall know them by their fruits," says 
 the blessed Saviour. Where are my fruits ? All my hope 
 must be in the atonement of Christ. " Other refuge have J 
 none." 
 
 If I come home, I shall probably see you the last of next 
 week. Do not expect me very strongly, for I may possibly, 
 
30 
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 after all, be disappointed in my plan. If T do not come, then, 
 you must not conclude me sick till you hear from me. I 
 think I derive consolation from the reflection that you are 
 daily praying for me ; and I am never on my knees without 
 praying that you may live to see your prayers answered. 
 Farewell. Conclude me safe, whether at home or abroad. 
 
 Carlos. 
 
 Andover, June 21, 1817. 
 
 Honoured and Dear Parents, 
 
 You will doubtless be surprised to see that I am again at 
 Andover. I hasten to let you know the reasons and to give 
 some account of my vacation. You already know the cause 
 of my going to Connecticut. I spent three or four weeks 
 with our friends in North Killingworth. A class-mate of 
 mine came to Killingworth, and insisted on my spending a 
 few weeks with him at his mother's house in Saybrook. I 
 stayed with him till the close of the vacation, the twelfth of 
 this month. 
 
 By giving up study entirely, and passing the whole time in 
 bodily exercise, I recovered my health so far as to deem it ex- 
 pedient to return to this place, and try to stand it this sum- 
 mer. I may be disappointed ; for my complaint has fre- 
 quently disappeared during a vacation of activity, but return- 
 ed with double violence upon being again shut up in a study. 
 How it will be now, time only can determine. I am at pres- 
 ent hardly fit for study, being very poor in flesh, and troubled 
 with pain in my breast. Indeed I have long been convinced 
 that hard study will never agree with my constitution. Look 
 at my health since I first went to Castleton Academy. How 
 often have I been apparently near the consumption with a 
 cough. Every cold that I take, unless peculiar care be taken, 
 will, as long as I am unhardened by exercise and constant ac- 
 tivity, endanger my life. If I should enter the ministry, un- 
 less my constitution should first undergo a great and radical 
 change, I should not expect to live many years. My dear 
 Parents, I had no idea of the labour of writing sermons until 
 
MEMOIR, 31 
 
 very lately. To write one sermon in a week is here thought 
 to be doing extremely well. It would require harder study 
 than I have been accustomed to, and than my present health 
 would endure, to write, in one week such a sermon as would be 
 expected from one who has enjoyed my advantages. I have 
 seen so many lamentable effects from the bad health of clergy- 
 men,that I dread them. I willgive you one example that I have 
 seen this vacation. An excellent minister has a weak consti- 
 tution, and is subject to many complaints that keep him al- 
 most constantly indisposed. After hard labour in writing his 
 sermons during the week, frequently, on the Sabbath, his 
 health is so poor that he cannot preach more than half of the 
 day. Monday morning he is seen riding out for his health. 
 His people who are at work by the way-side, say, " Ah ! he is 
 well enough to ride out and take his ease ; but he cannot 
 preach — a fine story, &c." They think him not worthy of his 
 hire ; and instead of treating him with tenderness and sympa- 
 thy, even the members of his church talk together about him 
 as though he were to be blamed — as though his sickness were 
 all a whim, or a fit of spleen. In short, a minister must preach 
 if he is able to be off his bed, or be charged with neglect of 
 duty. Such treatment would throw a person of my feelino-s 
 into the lowest state of dejection — it would kill me outright. 
 I cannot think of it without tears. Several students who 
 have completed their studies at this Seminary, have not ven- 
 tured to take upon them the arduous work, the immense 
 and responsible charge of the minister and pastor of a peo- 
 ple, on account of their feeble health ; but have conscien- 
 tiously gone into some other more active employment. 
 
 I make these remarks with no direct reference to my case 
 at present, but only to prepare your minds for what mio-ht 
 happen. I think if I know my own heart, that I desire to 
 hve to the glory of God, and the good of my fellow men. 
 I wish to keep in mind the day of death and the awful 
 scenes of eternity. What is there worth living for but reli- 
 gion ! 
 
 It is my present intention, if Providence permit, to stay 
 
32 MEMOIR. 
 
 here my time out, till the last of September ; and to make 
 a trial at preaching as the Professors advise me. 
 
 What destruction has death made in Orwell since I left 
 it. I expect to have a solemn time if I ever live to enter 
 your meeting house again. May God preserve my dear 
 Parents and brothers, or prepare them for death. Your 
 
 Carlos. 
 
 When Mr. Wilcox appeared before the public as a preach- 
 er, the expectations of those who had enjoyed the opportu- 
 nity to appreciate his talents, were fully realized ; and they 
 who had viewed him as subject to melancholy, and had form- 
 ed their opmion from his enfeebled bodily constitution, were 
 surprised at the elevated stand which he was enabled to take 
 and maintain. In his sermons a classic purity of style was 
 conspicuous. His thoughts were mature and elevated, 
 adorned with elegance of diction, and in the delivery pro- 
 nounced with eloquence. In his highest flights, no hearer 
 was ever startled with a harsh or unintelligible word. Some 
 passages may be faulty from a redundancy of words, and an 
 exuberance of epithets, but w^hen they were delivered, the 
 hearers had rather the impression, that the mind by which 
 they were composed, was filled to overflowing with rich 
 thoughts and sweet expressions, than labouring to attain 
 them. These characteristics of his early attempts in wai- 
 ting sermons and in preaching, did not vary essentially from 
 those of his last. They were filled with poetic thoughts, yet 
 the expressions and the collocation of words, were always 
 pure and chaste prose ; and if any appearance of eftbrt is 
 discernible in his composition, it is to come down from the 
 poetic elevation in w hich his thoughts most naturally soared, 
 and speak wdth the simplicity of a child in plain prose. 
 
 It should however, be added, that it is not in the beauties 
 of fine writing, that the chief merit of his sermons consists. 
 They are plain and impressive exhibitions of the great truths 
 of the gospel, and appeal to the conscience and the heart. 
 
 After having finished the regular course of Theological 
 
MEMOIR. 63 
 
 studies at Andover, he chose to prolong his residence for a 
 few months at that favoured place. In the spring of 1818, 
 he returned to his father's house, where he spent a year. It 
 was during tliis period, that he laid his plan for a Poem enti- 
 tled the " Age of Benevolence." At the expiration of the 
 year, his health being improved, he commenced preaching, 
 and continued for about twelve months, failing scarcely a 
 Sabbath. The first three months, he preached in Pittstown, 
 N. Y. performing the various duties of a clergyman with 
 great acceptance. He then visited the western part of Con- 
 necticut, and preached in the towns of Huntington, New- 
 Stratford Society^, now Monroe, Newtown and Norwalk. 
 
 Extracts from some of his letters, written during this pe- 
 riod, are submitted to the public. 
 
 New-Stratford, in Huntington, Sept. 24, 1819. 
 
 Having wandered from place to place without letters of 
 introduction and without friends, in search of employment, 
 till I had spent almost my last cent of money, I was under 
 the necessity of stopping and of denying myself the pleasure 
 of attending commencement. You recollect your promise 
 of writing me at New-Haven, by that time. I requested a 
 man from this town, who went to that place on the day after 
 Commencement, to enquire at the Post-Office for letters. 
 No letter there. The week following, I sent again and re- 
 ceived the same intelligence. I conclude therefore if you 
 wrote at all, you must have written by some person who ex- 
 pected to see me in N. Haven. Be that as it may, I have 
 not heard a whisper directly or indirectly from you since I 
 
 left S . Nor do I expect to hear now till you know 
 
 where I am. To give you this information is the object for 
 which I have taken up my pen ; but since I have a large 
 sheet before me, I may as well blot it over with something, 
 as make you pay postage for white paper. 
 
 After I parted with you at the division of the roads, the 
 burden which I had felt all the morning, in consequence of 
 being obliged once more to sally forth without any particular des« 
 
 5 
 
34 MEMOIR. 
 
 tination, and without any letter of recommendation or introduc- 
 tion, literally to seek my fortune, was soon removed by that 
 freedom from all restraint, which being left on a sudden to 
 one's self gives to the bosom swelling with feelings long re- 
 pressed. When I had got off my horse at a shaded rock by 
 the way-side, about a quarter of a mile from the place of our 
 parting, and given myself up to the luxury of weeping a while 
 over my situation, I then mounted again and rode on, as con- 
 tented and happy as if my way was clear before me. 
 
 I arrived at L. an hour before sunset. Put up at Mr. 
 
 C — ^'s, a good house — landlord pious. A gentleman mentioned 
 
 at the table that L. ought to congratulate itself on being 
 
 the birth-place of the prince of American poets. Upon hear- 
 ing this speech, I, who had hitherto minded nobody but my- 
 self and nothing but my plate, suddenly looked up, and en- 
 tered into a long conversation with the author, on subjects 
 relating to his singular speech. He said he had lately read 
 a foreign Review, in which was a critique on Mr. P's poetry, 
 containing much about there being no poets in this country, 
 and then placing Mr. P. at the head of them, mentioning 
 
 likewise that we had no divines of note, except Mr. C. 
 
 &c. So Mr. Reviewer, whoever you are, it is very manifest 
 what you are, and how much your opinion is worth on such 
 subjects. After tea, I took a walk up the west side of the 
 street running North. I met Mr. B. in company with an- 
 other gentleman. We passed as near each other as possi- 
 ble. He looked at me but did not recollect me, and I felt 
 so much inclined to be alone, that I passed without introdu- 
 cing myself I saw no more of him while in L. I continued 
 to pace the side-walk to and fro, from one end of the street 
 to the other. The evening was one well calculated to de- 
 light the pensive mind. At sunset and after, the western 
 sky was richly beautiful. L. is one of the most pleasant vil- 
 lages in the country ; my walk was in the pleasantest part of 
 it, the evening was one of the pleasantest in the year, and 
 why should I go to my lodgings till the fear of being shut out 
 of doors compelled me ? Next day I proceeded onward as 
 
MEMOIR. 3ft 
 
 far as N., the day after to S. Mr. D. was still unable to 
 preach and his pulpit unsupplied. I offered to preach a Sab- 
 bath for him which was gladly accepted. I busied myself 
 till Sabbath in reading the Christian Observer and Christian 
 Spectator, with a design of comparing their merits in several 
 particulars, and in reading Buchanan's Life, from which I 
 hope to receive material benefit in some respects, especially 
 from his maintaining while in college the spirit of devotion in 
 a high degree, in the midst of the closest attention to mathe- 
 mathical studies; and from the energy and perseverance 
 with which he pursued every good object that came in his 
 way till death. After having preached on the sabbath, the 
 next day I rode to N. and called at the house where those 
 who had supplied the pulpit had boarded. The man of the 
 house, one of the Society's Committee, being absent from 
 home, I conversed with his wife who is a very intelligent 
 and interesting woman. She observed that they were a 
 large people, that they were pretty particular, and expected 
 something above mediocrity, that they were already divided 
 in consequence of having several candidates, and one in par- 
 ticular who came and offered to preach, thus pressing him- 
 self into the pulpit uninvited, that Messrs. O. and H. had 
 been recommended to them, and finally, that the Committee 
 had written to Mr. S. to recommend some one from the 
 next class, having understood that there were young men of 
 talents in it. So you see I had got out of my latitude. I 
 had nothing to do but to back out with as good a grace as I 
 could, and be off with myself. Ah me ! I am in a strange 
 land without a pass. 
 
 " Be hushed my dark spirit, for wisdom condemns 
 
 What the faint and the feeble deplore, 
 
 Be firm as the rock of the ocean, that stems 
 
 A thousand wild waves on the shore." 
 
 On returning to S. I went five miles out of my way to 
 visit G. It is indeed a delightful place, and I almost thought 
 
36 MEMOIR. 
 
 of settling down there and turning poet. I went so far as 
 to enquire the price of board. I then turned my face 
 northward again, deeming it high time to retreat into the 
 woods and hide myself I came to this place and preached 
 a Sabbath and received a request to continue three months. 
 I consented out of necessity; and here I am, labouring at the 
 rate of 350 dollars a year, when I am in debt 630, 100 of 
 which must be paid in two months, and the remainder as fast 
 as possible. At this rate, I may possibly be free from debt 
 some three or four years hence, should providence spare 
 my life and health and reason. 
 
 As a man and his wife are but one, this letter must be con- 
 sidered as addressed to both of you, one complex person. 
 Again, If a man and wife make but one, then either of you 
 alone is but half a one. Consequently a letter from either 
 of you alone will be but half a letter. Therefore if either 
 of you write alone, you must write twice to my once, other- 
 wise I shall not consent to balance accounts. 
 
 Yours with much respect and affection, 
 
 C. W. 
 
 Huntington, Nov. 2, 1819. 
 Dear Brother and Sister, 
 
 Your letter came to hand just in time to relieve me 
 from the fear of being forgotten, and from the fear that all 
 was not well with you. I am permitted to call you brother 
 and sister. That word sister sounds very novel and sweet 
 in my ear. I was never before permitted to call any one 
 by the tender and endearing appellation. 
 
 Permit me to congratulate you with all my heart on the 
 birth of a young poetess. Does not the little stranger already 
 begin to sing? Do not the bees begin to light on her lips to 
 sip honey while she sleeps in the cradle ; as according to 
 fable they did upon those of Pindar? Have you never yet 
 dreamt, as Socrates did respecting his pupil Plato, that you 
 had embraced a young swan, which nestled in your bosom 
 till its feathers were full grown, and then stretching out its 
 
MEMOIR. 37 
 
 wings, soared to an immense height in the air, singing all 
 the while with inexpressible sweetness? 
 
 I begin to look back upon the period which I spent with 
 you as a golden dream, too bright to be forgotten, and too 
 happy to be remembered without pleasure, but too transient 
 to be remembered without pain, "pleasant but mournful to 
 the soul." 
 
 I regret to hear that your trials continue. I hope that God 
 will enable you to maintain your ground, and continue to 
 blow not a "ram's horn," but the silver trumpet of the gospel, 
 till the sound ring through all the rallies, and echo on the 
 mountains, so long and so loud, as to wake the dry bones 
 to life. 
 
 Have you seen Mr. S — 's letters to Mr. C? They are ad- 
 mirable. The spirit with which they are written is altogether 
 new in the history of controversy. The book is in this re- 
 spect, as well as in others, the best piece of controversial di- 
 vinity that ever I read. 
 
 My engagements in this place extend to the first Sabbath 
 in Dec. inclusive. What will become of me then is uncer* 
 tain. I trust the Lord will direct me, and provide for me. 
 Yours most affectionately, 
 
 C. W. 
 
 Norioalk, January ^Q, 1820. 
 1 have very strong reasons for not settling in the min- 
 
 istry at present. In the first place, I am in debt six hundred 
 dollars ; and the experience of other ministers has convin- 
 ced me that unless I pay the debt before I settle, I shall 
 never pay it. In the second place, I grow more and more 
 confirmed in the belief that I can do more good in some 
 other capacity than that of a settled clergyman. I said the 
 same, years ago, but was advised and urged to make the tri- 
 al as fairly as practicable. I have now preached about a 
 year, and performed all the duties of a settled clergyman, 
 except that of administering the ordinances. I have preach- 
 ed, and lectured, and visited ; but while I have endeavoured 
 to feed others, I have been starving my own soul. When I 
 
38 MEMOIR. 
 
 hear others preach and pray, I am happy, I hope 1 am 
 sometimes devout ; but when I preach and pray myself, I 
 am neither devout nor happy. Solemn, alarming confes- 
 sion ! What shall I do ? Where shall I go ? 
 
 I have thought very seriously of v^^hat you said to me res- 
 pecting a connexion with the Christian Spectator. The di- 
 rection of my former studies and my present inclination, ap- 
 pear in favour of such a connexion. But I know not wheth- 
 er the thing can now be brought about. Let the subject rest 
 for the present. I have my head full of a previous project, 
 a project not just now started, but nearly completed. Now 
 for a great secret. The year ending with March 1819, I 
 spent at my father's house, exclusively employed in writing 
 a didactic jJoem in the school of Young and Cowper. Now 
 you may laugh at me, and pity me, and pray for me, but you 
 must not advise me to give it up. Such advice will only 
 distract me for a little while without persuading me. I have 
 gone too far to go back. Five thousand lines are finished ; 
 one thousand more are wanting to complete the plan. The 
 subject is "The age of Benevolence ;" and you who know 
 so well what is doing at the present day for the extension of 
 Christ's kingdom, know the subject is a great and good one, 
 and one that will do much towards saving the work from 
 contempt. I have done nothing to it since last April, at 
 which time I left it in its present state in order to pay some 
 debts, that could remain unpaid no longer. I find that I can do 
 nothing to it while 1 continue to perform all the various du- 
 ties of preaching, lecturing, visiting, &c. I M^ant my time all to 
 myself, that 1 may have my mind all to myself. I am now re- 
 solved to devote five or six months to finishing, correcting, 
 copying &c. &:c. that 1 may get the work oflf my hands. I 
 want some place for utter seclusion. Where shall 1 find it ? 
 Dare I ask for a home under your roof? I mean as a boarder, 
 not as a beggar. Will it be convenient and agreeable ? Can I 
 have a little lonely chamber ? Do write me a speedy answer 
 to this singular request. Refusal will be less intolerable than 
 suspense. I wish to know which way to turn. And now 
 
MEMOIR. ay 
 
 since I have thus committed myself to your mercy, do not 
 betray me nor despise me. It is not without a great strug- 
 gle, that this secret is wrung from me. While I was with 
 you I was a hundred times upon the very point of letting it out; 
 but I had not resolution enough to meet the cold encourage- 
 ment of mingled pity and affection. Remember me in those 
 hours when a poor erring mortal most needs to be remember- 
 ed. C. W. 
 
 P. S. I shall probably repent that I have written tliis let- 
 ter as soon as it is gone. 
 
 Norwalk, March 1, 18'20. 
 Your kind letter was indeed a reviving cordial to my droop- 
 ing spirits. My health has been failing for some time past, 
 and with it my mind has felt its usual sympathy. The palpi- 
 tation of the heart, a complaint which has afflicted me, more 
 or less, for four or five years, has increased during the past fall, 
 and the present winter, to an alarming degree. I have long 
 been accustomed to pass it off with a laugh, but it has been gain- 
 ing ground so long that it has become no laughing matter. It 
 was brought on at first, by the weak consumptive state of 
 health, with which I was afflicted during the whole of my fii'st 
 winter at Andover. Medicine appears to have no effect to- 
 wards removing it. I have worn a strengthening plaster for 
 a month or two, and have taken wine-bitters, prepared with 
 various bracing ingredients. I have also taken the oxid of 
 iron, together with various other infallible cures, but all to no 
 purpose. Last week I was bled, because a young man in this 
 place, who almost died with the same complaint, was cured 
 by bleeding. But he was -a person quite fleshy and full of 
 blood. The very reverse is the case with me. I had no blood 
 to lose, and fainted away before half a pint had been taken 
 from me. I continued to faint during the day, so soon as I 
 attempted to sit up. My disorder serves to weaken me in 
 several ways ; directly, by its violence, and indirectly, by in- 
 juring my appetite and disturbing my sleep. I am troubled 
 with it some days, almost incessantly, and on none, am I en- 
 
40 
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 tirely free from it. It is much the most violent on the Sab- 
 bath. When the hour for pubhc worship draws nigh, my 
 trembling diffidence increases it to such a degree, as to pros- 
 trate my strength, and render my task almost insupportable. 
 I have not preached for six weeks past, without suffering the 
 most violent palpitation, during the greater part of the exer- 
 cises. Several times, I have felt as if I should fall down 
 with faintness, even in time of prayer. It is very disagreea- 
 ble, as well as painful to preach, when I feel so. Last Sab- 
 bath I was not able to preach at all. My physicians advise 
 me to give up preaching for the present. I have not written 
 a sermon for ten weeks. If I preach any longer, I must write, 
 but I cannot endure the labour of composing two sermons a 
 week, without taking a great share of bodily exercise, and I 
 cannot take any at all without bringing on my complaint. If 
 I sit still, indigestion brings it on. Thus am I straitened on 
 every side. But I hope that a little relaxation and systematic 
 exercise, together with the opening spring, will enable me to 
 study so much as not entirely to forget the use of my books and 
 my pen. The beauties of your mountains on which I 
 hope to take many a delightful ramble, and the beauties of 
 your lakes and streams, together with the care of your garden ; 
 and above all your own sweet company, will restore my 
 health and spirits, if any thing can restore them. I hope to 
 grasp your hand, ere this month is at an end. Pray that I 
 may be directed, and healed, and supported by Him who do- 
 eXh all things well. C. W. 
 
 These letters have been inserted, because they contain 
 more full disclosures than could otherwise have been made, 
 of his plans and feelings at the time they were written. — 
 Though he had disclosed his intention of devoting some time 
 to the writing of poetry, to two of his most intimate college 
 friends, as appears from their answers to his letters, it is be- 
 lieved that this was the first time he definitely made known 
 his design to write the " Age of Benevolence." 
 
 He left Norwalk about the first of April, 1820, and through 
 
MEMOIR. 41 
 
 relaxation and exercise, attended by the blessing of Divine 
 Providence, he gradually increased in strength, and obtained 
 a temporary relief from the disease with which he was so se- 
 verely afflicted. 
 
 The two following years, with the exception of a few 
 weeks, were employed at the house of a friend in Salisbury, 
 Con. upon the above mentioned poem. On sitting down to 
 this labour, he found it greater than he had anticipated, or at 
 least we may draw this inference from the fact, that instead 
 of getting it off his hands in a few months, only the first book 
 was prepared to make its appearance after the lapse of two 
 years. These years were not wasted m idle musings. His ha- 
 bits of study were such as become every student. His time was 
 carefully divided between close application, efficient exer- 
 cise, and relaxation of mind by devotional and literary read- 
 ing. He wrote and corrected with great care, and endeav- 
 ored to add a definite number of lines every day. On some 
 days he wrote many more than he proposed to himself as his 
 task, and in the review he examined, and re-exammed, every 
 word with nice discrimination. 
 
 He seemed to find high enjoyment in social reading, inter- 
 mingled with fi'ee conversation upon the merits of the book 
 read, the signification and power of words, and the philoso- 
 phy of language. The North American Review was a fa- 
 vorite literary work. Foster's Essays, and Baxter's Saint's 
 Rest were always on his table, and it is believed that scarce- 
 ly a day passed in wliich he did not read some pages of one, 
 or both of them. But the Bible was the book, upon the 
 pages of which he delighted most to dwell. From all other 
 books he would turn to this, with a glow of feeling, and with 
 a cheerful expression, which made it manifest that he had 
 chosen this for his heritage forever. 
 
 These two years were spent in uniform cheerfulness. He 
 lost no time "weather-bound," or suffering under mental de- 
 pression. Like every other writer, he saw days in which, 
 from some indescribable cause, his mind was less fitted for 
 
 originating thought, yet those days were not spent in despair- 
 
 6 
 
42 
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 ing complaints. They were employed in transcribing what 
 he had previously corrected, or in select and judicious read- 
 ing. He chose to see but little company, that he might pros- 
 ecute his work without interruption: yet he evidently en- 
 joyed society in a high degree, and was never more happy 
 and eloquent, than when in the social circle he expressed 
 his thoughts on literary subjects, or on practical religion. — 
 His conversation was characterized by good sense, correct 
 and dehcate taste, and ardent piety. Of himself he spoke 
 little, and always with humility. Before strangers he was 
 reserved, especially on every thing relative to his own em- 
 ployment or feelings on the subject of poetry. Indeed, du- 
 ring these two years, he was never known to exhibit a line 
 of poetry, of his own composition, to his most intimate friends. 
 He preached a few times, but never without suffering for a 
 day or two, and sometimes for a week afterwards, with the 
 palpitation of the heart. 
 
 For a respite from study, he spent about ten weeks in the 
 spring of 1821, at East-Haven, in the family of the late Dea. 
 Morris. Of these days he often spoke as among the happiest 
 in his life. The delightful scenery, the retirement, and the 
 friends he there found, rendered them peculiarly exhilarating 
 to his mind : and by that circle of friends, made happier by 
 his company, he will never be forgotten. 
 
 At the expiration of the second year, he had written, or rath- 
 er re-written, as appears from his letter of Jan. 28, 1820, about 
 nine thousand lines, and prepared the first book for the press. 
 To the friends with whom he resided, he read the first book 
 and part of the fourth, and what may be added as exhibiting 
 a trait of his character, he began by reading a number of un- 
 poetic lines from Cowper and Milton, which he had tran- 
 scribed for that purpose. He read the first book to two 
 other friends, and it is not known that any other ever saw or 
 heard a fine of the production of these three years labours, 
 until they saw the first part of his work from the press. 
 
 The plan of publishing the first book by itself, was adopt- 
 ed through the advice of one of the friends to whom he read 
 
MEMOIR. ♦S 
 
 the manuscript, in whose judgment he placed great confi- 
 dence, though all his other acquaintance, whom he is known 
 to have consulted, thought it better to publish the whole at 
 once. Had the state of his finances allowed him to have 
 pubhshed the whole at his own expense, this course he would 
 have preferred. It is deeply to be regretted, that the whole 
 work, when thus prepared, or nearly so, for the pubhc, was 
 not sent forth under the author's own care. The reception 
 which the first book met with, ought not to have discouraged 
 him. The thousand copies printed, found as ready sale as 
 could have been expected, considering it was but a frag- 
 ment. 
 
 His own views and feelings, while his little work was in 
 the press, and afterwards, are expressed in some of the fol- 
 lowing letters to his friends. 
 
 New-Haven, Ajiril 29, 1822. 
 " O that mine enemy had written a book !" This is the 
 saying of an author, who thought it right to hate his enemy 
 and to wish him all manner of evil. You may think this a 
 sad beginning. I have just returned to my room from the 
 book-store, where I saw the first hundred out of my thou- 
 sand copies brought in ; when lo ! and behold ! the three first 
 copies which I laid my hands on, were bound all helter-skelter, 
 the beginning in the middle, and the last end first. The book- 
 seller snatched them up, and ran to the binders, then in came 
 the binder, and we began to look them over one by one. — 
 Soon there came in a man, and took up one and began to 
 read. I trembled and hurried out of the house, but heard 
 before I reached the door, the very comforting enquiry, — 
 " WTio is this Carlos Wilcox ?" I will now go back to the 
 beginning of my dealmgs with printers and booksellers, for 
 as you perceive, I have begun this letter in the true epic 
 style, that is, in the middle of my story. After I had recov- 
 ered from the illness of which I informed you, I went to see 
 
 Mr. C . He had too much work on hand to print my 
 
 thing. I then went by the advice of Mr. F , to A. H. 
 
44 MEMOIR. 
 
 Maltby &, Co. and made a bargain for printing and doing up 
 the work in the style in which you see it. This form was 
 declared by every one, to be much more saleable than any 
 other for a work of the kind and size. When I saw the 
 printer's boy come into my room with the first proof sheet, 
 I felt almost inclined to throw it into the fire at once, with- 
 out looking at it ; so painful was my solicitude respecting the 
 appearance of my ideas in print. My agitation, together 
 with my familiar acquaintance with every line, rendered me 
 quite unfit to do the business of correction. But the worst of 
 all was to find in the second proof, after some dozen of sheets 
 had been struck oflf, that the printer had spelt " plough," 
 " plow," and not because it was so in the manuscript, but be- 
 cause he thought it was sometimes spelt so, and would thus 
 save turning up the end of the line. This you may well sup- 
 pose was not very favourable for the palpitation of the heart. 
 I went into the printer's office and had the press stopped for 
 the correction of this error and several others. You know 
 nothing about the pleasure of being in such a place, and hear-- 
 ing your poetry groaning beneath the press, and chinking in 
 the type-setter's fingers. You never thus listened to the mu- 
 sic of your OM^n numbers. 
 
 The Rev. Mr. S. has just called upon me and object- 
 ed to the price of the poem ; and I have been to the book- 
 seller, and altered it from thirty-seven and a half cents to 
 twenty-five. About fifty had been sold, but the buyers of 
 these are to receive back the difference. Many of my friends 
 have come to me and remonstrated against the change in' the 
 
 price. Mr. H tells me, it had been better to raise it to 
 
 fifty. And Mr. D , who has some acquaintance with the 
 
 book-selling business, says it will not sell half as well in the 
 city, as it would at a higher price. In a multitude of coun- 
 sellors there is . I can bear complaints about too low, 
 
 but not about too high, so the price must stand at twenty-five, 
 though it will leave me, even if the m^ioIc edition be sold, 
 
MEMOIR. 45 
 
 next to nothing, after deducting the expenses of printing, and 
 the thirty-three and a third per cent of the bookseller. 
 
 Yours affectionately, 
 
 C. W. 
 
 New-Haven, Maij 31, 1822. 
 1 have lately received a very interesting letter from my 
 
 mother, from which I have the happiness to learn, that two 
 
 of my brothers have lately become hopefully pious. 
 
 My friend, I must preach the gospel, though 1 have much 
 reason to believe that my health will fail, and my life be 
 cut short. I shall endeavour to complete the " Age of Be- 
 nevolence," but perhaps at the rate of one book in a year. 
 For the present I must do nothing but write sermons. O, 
 pray for me. I have not preached yet, but I expect to at- 
 tempt next sabbath. Where I shall spend the summer, is 
 uncertain. 
 
 July 18. — If I can have my health, I must preach, or do 
 something to enable me to pay my debts. I cannot write 
 poetry while I am thus embarrassed. A young brother of 
 mine has written, that he has begun to fit for college with a 
 view to the ministry, and that our father has told him, that 
 he must stop now, unless I can pay him very soon. He has 
 written me a pleading letter, the thought of which, makes me 
 weep. 
 
 August 27. — Your letter I did not receive till this morning, 
 in consequence of being absent for a week. To some part 
 of your plan 1 have strong objections. 1 wish you not on 
 any account, to collect your money with the expectation of 
 loaning it to me. I thank you a thousand times for your of- 
 fer, but I cannot consent to accept of it. 1 cannot, because 
 if 1 should die before 1 became able to refund the loan, you 
 might lose it ; whereas, if I should die without paying my fa- 
 ther, the debt would be discharged by that event. At any 
 rate, 1 cannot bring my feelings to accede to this part of your 
 plan. 
 
 With respect to "' The Book," you judge correctly in say- 
 
46 MEMOIR. 
 
 ing, that I shall not be able to do much towards it wliile engaged 
 in preaching. I know very well that I shall not. The la- 
 bour of preaching, with my palpitation of heart, produces 
 such an exhaustion of strength and spirits, that to re-write 
 an old sermon, or make out a new one, takes up the whole 
 week, besides the many hours consumed by necessary and 
 unnecessary interruptions. But as I have undertaken to 
 preach again, I feel it my duty to continue, while my health 
 will permit. The cold weather of winter, will perhaps put a 
 stop to the business." 
 
 New-Haven, Dec. 6, 1822. 
 My Dear Brother Alonzo, 
 
 I have been informed by a letter from H , that you 
 
 have been dangerously sick, but are now on the recovery. 
 I hope that this letter will find you quite well again. You 
 are now, perhaps, better qualified to estimate aright the val- 
 ue of an interest in the salvation of Christ, than ever you were. 
 When you lay on a bed of anguish, and appeared to be near 
 the eternal world, did not all beneath the sun seem less than 
 nothing and vanity ? Did not the worth of the imperishable 
 soul, then seem greater than that of the whole world ? Do 
 not forget what you then thought of sin, of the vain amusements 
 and vain emoluments of earth. Do not forget what you then 
 thought of the friendship, the company, the conversation, and 
 the immoralities of the wicked. Continue to estimate things 
 as you then estimated them, and to feel respecting them as 
 you then felt. I hope that God has brought you to love him, 
 and will now giv^ you a heart to love him more fervently. 
 Live near to God, my dear brother, and you will be happy 
 here and hereafter. All things wall work together for your 
 good, in life, in death, and in eternity. God has designed by 
 this sickness to show you how frail you are, how entirely de- 
 pendent on him. What is our hfe, but a vapour that appear- 
 eth for a little while and then vanisheth away ? On Tues- 
 day of this week, I saw a girl thirteen years old, breathe her 
 last, in the midst of weeping parents and sisters. She prayed 
 
MEMOIR. 47 
 
 earnestly to Christ to have mercy on her, and on all around her. 
 She prayed almost with her last breath, though in the greatest 
 distress. It was to me a solemn, and I hope a profitable scene. 
 Pray for me, write to me, and give me an account of your 
 religious views and feelings. 
 
 January 7, 1823. 
 I have lately read Scott's Life, and I think it has done me 
 good. It is truly a valuable book. It far exceeded my ex- 
 pectations. What an example of strength of purpose, and in- 
 defatigable industry ! Wliat self-denial and what singleness of 
 aim ! What apostolic devotedness to the great work of the 
 mmistry ! There is likewise, in my opinion, much evidence 
 of a great and original mind, much more than in his Commen- 
 tary. There is a vividness of conception and expression, 
 which we do not find in any of his works before pubhshed. 
 Pray for me, my friend, that I may possess, not the greatness 
 of Dr. Scott, but some of his self-denial, industry and devot- 
 edness. 
 
 You probably expect me to say what I intend to do in re- 
 gard to the poem. Why really I cannot tell. I do not give 
 up the intention of finishing it, at some future period. The 
 
 first book will soon be forgotten ; and let it. At some 
 
 future period of my life, if it should be prolonged, and circum- 
 stances should permit, I may re-write the first book, and finish 
 the rest, and then send abroad a volume, instead of a primer 
 pamphlet. 
 
 Strafford, Feb. 16, 1823. 
 My Dear Mother, 
 
 By a letter from brother H. I hear that you are quite 
 sick, and have been so for a considerable time. I have long 
 waited in vain for a letter from you. Your sickness accounts 
 for your silence. Were it not for the cold weather and un- 
 pleasant travelling, I think I should immediately start for Or- 
 well. As it is, I feel it my duty to wait, at least till I hear 
 something further respecting you. In the mean time, I 
 
48 MEMOIR. 
 
 would gladly say something for your consolation, and some- 
 thing to show that I tenderly love you, and pray for you dai- 
 ly. You know well that the only source of true comfort, 
 even in health, is the God and Father of our Lord Jesus 
 Christ. He is the overflowing and inexhaustible fountain of 
 light, and life, and joy, even in the vigour of our days,^and in 
 the sunshine of worldly prosperity. What then must He be 
 in our days of pain and affliction. In such seasons, the ques- 
 tion may be asked with double force, " To whom shall we 
 go but to Him V We need not go to any other. He is enough 
 for the soul's eternal portion. If it be filled with all the ful- 
 ness of God, it surely cannot want any thing more. Though 
 your heart and flesh should fail, my dear mother, may God 
 be the strength of your heart, and your portion forever. It 
 is my continual and earnest prayer, that you may be speedily 
 restored to health, that you may live to see all your children 
 ornaments in the church and blessings to the world, and that 
 you may enjoy an old age clearer than the noon day, with- 
 out a cloud, bright with the visions of an approaching Heav- 
 en. May God spare you, that you may recover strength, 
 before you go hence to be here no more. But should it not 
 be the will of Heaven to restore you to health, I trust you 
 will have strength of faith to support you in the sinking hour 
 of death, and brightness of hope to cheer you in its darkness. 
 I have lately seen a copy of the last letter, that my dear 
 friend, Levi Parsons, dictated to Mr. Fisk. It was written 
 only three days before his death. At the close of the letter, 
 he breathes out his soul in a strain like the following. ' My 
 mortal frame grows weaker every hour, but my imperishable 
 spirit becomes more and more vigorous. The world fades 
 away and recedes from my view ; while heaven comes near- 
 er and grows brighter. The world will soon vanish forever, 
 and all will soon be heaven.' With such a view of the world 
 of glory opened before liim, did this ethereal spirit bid fare- 
 well to all below, clap his wings in triumph, and take its up- 
 ward flight. I often think of him as walking in white among 
 
MEMOIR. 49 
 
 the glorified immortals, I often think of him in connexion 
 with his favourite hymn, beginning, 
 
 * When I can read my title clear 
 To mansions in the skies, 
 I'll bid farewell to every fear 
 And wipe my weeping eyes.' 
 
 I often think of him as among the ransomed of the Lord, 
 who have returned from all their earthly wanderings, and 
 come home to the heavenly Zion, with songs and everlasting 
 joy upon their heads, and have obtained joy and gladness, 
 where sorrow and sighing shall forever flee away ; where the 
 Lamb, which is in the midst of the throne shall lead them to 
 living fountains of water ; and where God himself, with his 
 own right hand, shall wipe away all tears from their eyes, 
 and fill their souls with his own fulness of purity and bliss. 
 O, is it not enough, my dear mother, to die such a death as 
 that of this dear servant of God, after having lived a life 
 like his ? What more can we desire ? If we are thus pre- 
 pared to leave the earth, in the high triumph of faith, or with 
 the peace of humble and holy resignation, what matter is it, 
 whether the summons for our departure come in youth, in 
 middle life, or not till old age ? A few years, more or less 
 than those appointed to us, in this world of darkness and sin, 
 of sorrow and death, would hardly be remembered in that 
 world where all is bright, and pure, and happy, and everlast- 
 ing. While, therefore, I cease not to pray that you may be 
 spared for the sake of your family and the church, I do not 
 forget the more important petition, that you may abide in 
 Christ while here, and that hereafter you may be a joint heir 
 with him to an inheritance, incorruptible, undefiled, and that 
 fadeth not away. I know that this has always been your 
 prayer for me. Let it be so still. Pray also that 1 may have 
 strength and grace to perform the duties of a faithful minis- 
 ter of Jesus. This you have long done ; and with regard to 
 strength of body at least, I feel confident that your prayer is 
 answered. Ever since the date of my last letter, I have been 
 
50 
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 able to preach twice on the Sabbath, and twice during the 
 week. My health is now quite good, though I am obhged to 
 be very cautious respecting my diet. — 
 
 March 3, 1823. 
 
 I received your last just as I had taken my pen to write a 
 singing lecture to preach at Derby, from the follow ing text : 
 " My heart is fixed, O God, my heart is fixed. I w ill sing and 
 give praise." I suppose you will regard this coincidence as a 
 providential intimation, that it is my duty to give up preach- 
 ing, and go to sinking with a fixedness of heart. Your ad- 
 vice accords with that of a man of no less note than Mr. 
 
 F , who recently enquired of me when another number 
 
 was coming out ; to which I gave answer that I did not know, 
 as I felt it my duty to preach while I was able. His reply 
 was in the following words : " Yours is a high kind of preach- 
 ing ; you get at people that we preachers cannot reach. The 
 amount of good that Cowper has done, and will do, is incal- 
 culably more than he could have done as the minister of a sin- 
 gle parish." Yes, added Br. B , who was standing by, 
 
 " a thousand times." 
 
 The truth, my friend, requires me to confess that your ad- 
 vice and the opinion of these eminent christian friends, are 
 pleasing enough to my heart. All my wishes, as well as my 
 tastes, my studies, my habits of thinking, feeling, and acting, 
 incline me to pursue the course recommended. I might 
 mention others, who have concurred in the opinion which you 
 have expressed on this subject. Even Mr. T., who is no great 
 lover of poetry, as such, remarked to me some months ago, 
 that he thought I could not do better than to continue wri- 
 ting for the public ; and Mrs. T. added that she was afraid the 
 Age of Benevolence would not come, if I became settled in 
 the ministry. The news-papers, as you may have obsei-ved, 
 have at various times said enough to encourage me to pro- 
 ceed in my undertaking. I mention these things to convince 
 you, that I have not hung up my harp in a pet of disappointed 
 pride. I love it as well as ever I did ; and would continue 
 
MEMOIR. 61 
 
 to manifest my attachment as I have begun, if my conscience 
 and the christian pubhc, instead of a few individuals, would 
 bear me out in it. You may think that my conscience ought 
 to operate in a different manner, in view of the tacit pledge of 
 more books to come, given to the purchasers of the first. But 
 if the first book alone is not worth twenty-five cents, I am sor- 
 ry that any arguments of yours, should have prevailed on any 
 person to purchase it. In saying this, I would not deny the 
 greatness of my obligations to you , for all the pains you have 
 taken to promote its circulation. For this I hope to be al- 
 ways grateful. But will not all the reaction you speak of, 
 pass by you and light on my single head ? If it will I shall be 
 glad, for I have so many greater troubles, that this will 
 scarcely be regarded. Some of these greater troubles are, 
 my past neglect of theological studies for those merely lite- 
 rary — my past and present unfitness of constitutional temper- 
 ament for the active, and public duties of the ministry — my 
 total destitution of books, and my debts, which will keep me 
 thus destitute for years to come, so that I must make ser- 
 mons entirely out of my own head, filled as it has long been, 
 with only poetical images, instead of divine truth. Another 
 tiling ; the few sermons that I have on hand, written for the 
 most part, at leisure, and among commentaries, lexicons, 
 and systems of divinity, have given me more reputation, than 
 in my present circumstances, I can possibly support under 
 the weight of labours devolving on a settled minister. At 
 least, the effort necessary to support it, increased as it per- 
 haps is by my authorship, will leave me no time to count syl- 
 lables on my fingers, and will probably break down my health 
 and spirits, which are now sufficiently low. But notwith- 
 standing all the disheartening circumstances in my situation 
 and prospects, I am fixed in my determination to preach the 
 
 gospel, while God gives me strength. 
 
 Here are Presbyterians, Episcopalians, Baptists, Metho- 
 dists, Antinomians, Arminians, Triangulars, Hopkinsians, 
 Universahsts, Socinians, and Nothingarians, huddled together 
 ih one fomenting mass, in this little town, containing only 
 
53 
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 1600 souls. A few years ago, all these sects had their rep- 
 resentatives in the congregational church, and many of them 
 have to this day. 8ome of each are generally at meeting 
 on the Sabbath, one half of the day, at least, provided it has 
 not stormed for a week past, and does not look likely to 
 
 storm for a week to come. 
 
 It is unpleasant enough to preach to such a mixed audi- 
 ence. But this is one of the trials, that I must endure with 
 patience and fearlessness. Forget not to pray, that I may 
 be supported, and guided by the Spirit of all Grace. 
 
 Your friend and brother, C. W. 
 
 Neic-Haven, May 28, 1823. 
 With respect to my own affairs, I am to preach here 
 
 one Sabbath more, and beyond that I have no definite plan. 
 I hope that by next Nov. I shall have something in the shape 
 of a home, of some kind or other. How it can be brought 
 about, is more than I can possibly discover. I cannot de- 
 scend to reason on the subject, and obtain the desired object 
 by ordinary means ; I can only wish for it, and dream about 
 it, and imagine it just at hand, and of course, it is likely to be 
 as far from me as ever. Would that I could break through 
 the enchantment of a fond imagination ! But 1 have not the 
 strength, and health, and resolution to do it. I need the grace 
 of God, I need the prayers of my friends, I need their sym- 
 pathy and encouragement. 
 
 Southbunj, Nov, 15, 1823. 
 You have another daughter for me to name. Let 
 
 me see, — Julia and Adeline. — What next ? Caroline ? No. 
 That is too much like Adeline, to come next to it. We will 
 lay that aside for the present. Shall it be Amelia ? No. 
 That is too much like Julia, to come so near it. You have 
 now one of two classes of pretty names, you want one of an- 
 other class. Elvira and Almira come into a third class. In 
 a fourth, may be included Charlotte, Antoinette, Juliet. But 
 the last is too much like Julia. Thev would look and sound 
 
MEMOIR. 53^ 
 
 sweetly together for twin sisters. Eniihj, Irene, Mart/, arc 
 sweet names, belonging to no class. If I were to choose 
 among all these smooth liquid names, perhaps I should say 
 that Charlotte, will come in well after Julia and Adeline. So 
 
 much for names. Yours, &c. 
 
 C. W. 
 This last paragraph has been transcribed from his letters, 
 because it is an exemplification of the author's taste. He 
 loved to dwell upon smooth, sweet-sounding words. 
 
 New-Haven, June 18, 1823. 
 Ten thousand thanks for your delightful letter. It was 
 
 put into my hands by H , at a moment when I needed 
 
 something to exhilarate my spirits. I had just been gazing in 
 solitary pensiveness, over the beautiful elms of this city, as 
 their thick and fresh foliage slept without motion in the light 
 of a golden sun-set. I had looked till the city, with its deep 
 green groves, was left in the shade, and only the spire of its 
 loftiest tower, was shooting up into the region of brightness. 
 I had watched the last beams, till they had climbed the glitter- 
 ing pinnacle, and vanished in mid-air ; and with my eyes still 
 fixed in their upward direction, and my head resting on my 
 hand, as I sat alone at my window, I was musing on those 
 bright visions of happiness, pursued by the imaginative youth, 
 till they vanish in the clouds, and leave him to the dark reali- 
 ties of the world below, — when I was waked from my reverie, 
 by the arrival of your letter. I read it again and again, till I 
 felt completely restored to the region of common sense, and 
 common hfe — the world of living, and acting beings of flesh 
 and blood. The account that you give of the state of things in 
 your society, reminds me that I am in a world where some- 
 thing must be done, besides musing, and dreaming. But with 
 all your matter-of-fact plainness, you have, now and then, a 
 touch of the romantic. " The little tumbler keeps its place on 
 the mantle-piece, and frequently receives its portion of Scotch 
 roses." This is to my liking. It is just as our friend Cowper 
 would have written ; and therefore it is just as it should be. 
 
54 
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 " Your flowers have come up ; but it is ten to one, if thej'' do 
 not get choked with potatoes and mustard, they being staple 
 commodities here." Well, let the flowers go ; for if they were 
 good to make " nectar and cherubim broth," we, creatures of 
 clay, must take up with potatoes and mustard. The flowers 
 of poetry and fine sentiment are often choked to death by the 
 eatables of this eating world. 
 
 Southhury, Jan. 5, 1824. — After this long interval, I am 
 going to fill out this sheet, instead of beginning with another, 
 that you may see the attempt I made to answer your former 
 letter. If I deserve no credit for this attempt, I deserve none 
 for any thing ; for my life hitherto, has been spent in attempts 
 that have come to nought — in beginnings with no endings. 
 I live at present, by making resolutions of amendment, and 
 trying with conscientious seriousness, and systematic indus- 
 try, to put them in execution. But whether I shall succeed 
 or not, is yet a matter of doubt. It must be determined by 
 time and circumstances. 
 
 You ask what I am doing at Southbury. Who told you 
 that I am spending the winter here I know not, but I shall 
 probably not do it, unless I conclude to spend my life here. 
 About three weeks ago, I received an invitation to settle 
 here, and I am to give an answer within three weeks more. 
 Some say it is my duty to accept the invitation ; some say 
 it is not ; so that, let me do which I may, I shall not do my 
 ■duty, in the view of some, for I cannot conform to the opin- 
 ion of both. I am in a great strait. May the divine Head 
 of the Church direct me to such a decision, as shall most 
 promote the interests of his kingdom. I think I feel willing 
 to do what impartial judges might say I ought to do. But 
 where shall such be found, who are at the same time suffi- 
 ciently acquainted with my circumstances, and those of the 
 people here 1 After all, I see not but that I must decide for 
 myself, according to my own convictions of duty, in view of 
 the heart-searching trial of the last day. I have an inclina- 
 tion to stay here. 1 have been wandering to and fro, so long, 
 that 1 am strongly averse to packing up my little all into my 
 
MEMOIR. 55 
 
 little trunk, and moving again, nobody knows where. This 
 feeling, however, ought not to have much influence. But 
 enough of this subject. Mention it not out of doors. You 
 will know the result before many weeks are past. 
 
 At a late minister's meeting in this region, I had the pleas- 
 ure of seeing your old friend Mr. B. He appeared in 
 
 fine health and spirits. He had just returned from a kind of 
 
 missionary visit to B, and talked much of what revivals 
 
 are doing to Socinianism. At the minister's meeting, a ser- 
 mon was preached on the " year of the Lord's recompenses 
 for the controversy of Zion." At the time for criticising the 
 sermon, your friend became quite eloquent in his way. His 
 whole face kindled to a glow, and his eye sparkled with the 
 fire of genius ; as in speaking of the overturning and dashing 
 together of nations in Europe and Asia, he remarked, that the 
 Almighty will come in the day of his vengeance, and " break 
 up old marble, the repose of princes," and sweep away his en- 
 emies, and their refuges of lies with them, till the way is pre- 
 pared for the universal estabhshment of his own kingdom of 
 righteousness and peace. 
 
 I have recently been to B, to attend the Installation of 
 
 my right hand friend. Being sent for, once and again, to 
 preach the sermon, I set off' in a chaise, and hurried along 
 through snow drifts, and mud, and rain, but after all failed of 
 getting there in season, in consequence of being turned back, 
 by the rise of water in some of the streams, crossing the road. 
 But I made a pleasant visit of several days. Mr. N,— ^- — was 
 there, at work at his Hymn Book. He has a fund of knowl- 
 edge, derived from his observation, compared with the word 
 of God. This makes his conversation highly interesting and 
 instructive to his christian friends, in whose society he appears 
 to take as much real delight, as any man I ever saw. ' 
 
 My health is good, except that I have something of the 
 dyspepsy now and then, but not enough to make me see vis- 
 ions of unearthly beings, and imagine that I converse with 
 them face to face. You will understand this allusion, if you 
 have seen the article on Swedenborgianism, in a late number 
 
50 
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 of the Christian Spectator. I have just been conversing for 
 two hours, with one of the converts to this system of fanati- 
 cism. He knows that there is a God, because it has been 
 revealed to him. Milhons of angels and spirits of departed 
 men, are around him every day; and he sees them. It has 
 been his great business and delight, for seven years, to talk 
 and sing with them. He has conversed with all the kings of 
 England, with all the great men of antiquity, that he has 
 read of, and even w ith the giants of patriarchal times. The 
 winged spirits of httle children, too, are among the multitude, 
 and what is not at all strange, they sometimes read in Dil- 
 worth's Spelling Book, in classes as at school. These spirits 
 are all dressed in white, they come in rows as if strung on 
 strings; and when they first come into sight, they generally 
 repeat the Lord's prayer. They delight in prayer as much 
 as we do, and he guesses much more. When I pray in the 
 family, he interprets, or communicates my words to them, for 
 which they seem very grateful, as the meaning comes very 
 hard to them in consequence of passing through two. They 
 visit him at night, and make his room as light as day; and 
 what is odd enough, they often tuck up his bed, as no mortal 
 ever tucked it up. Sometimes those appear who have been 
 asleep so long that they have forgotten their own names ; and 
 so he has to tell them. They often give liim a message to 
 their relatives and neighbours, who are yet in the flesh; but 
 he never delivers it, because he is afraid that people will 
 think him insane, or under the influence of a diseased imagin- 
 ation, which according to his frequent assurance, is in no de- 
 gree the case. And the man really appears perfectly ration- 
 al on every other subject, and very intelligent and pleasant 
 withal. While conversing on this subject he appeared so 
 sincere, and serious, that you could not have the heart to 
 laugh in his face ; and as to reasoning with him, you might as 
 well have reasoned with one of Ossian's ghosts, moving 
 straight forward out of sight and out of hearing, in the midst 
 of stormy clouds. The testimony of Moses and the prophets, 
 is now superseded by that of millions risen from the dead. 
 
MEMOIR. 57 
 
 By the way, were not our first parents Swedenborgians? 
 Our honourable friend Milton, who knew all about it, and 
 was himself poetically a Swedenborgian, makes father Adam 
 say to mother Eve, not only that, 
 
 * Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth 
 Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep,' 
 
 but also, 
 
 ' How often from the steep 
 
 Of echoing hill or thicket, have we heard 
 Celestial voices to the midnight air, 
 Sole, or responsive each to other's note, 
 Singing their great Creator.' 
 
 This reference to Milton, puts to flight all these visions of 
 "airy nothing," and brings to remembrance your kind wish, 
 that I were with you again to read and comment. 
 
 I wonder what Mr. T. finds to do this winter, now Mr. O. 
 is gone. I suppose the people will not go forward and settle 
 a minister Mobile Mr. O. is absent. If you don't take heed 
 this engaging a supply for a year, will prepare the way for 
 perpetual desolation. A kind remembrance to Mr. T. and 
 his sisters, Maiy Anne, and little Charly. I spell Mary Anne 
 wuth a final e, because it makes the word look more classical, 
 and more like the name of a queen, a very good reason in 
 these days of the universal reign of the Holy Alliance. 
 
 Yours, &;c. 
 
 C.W. 
 
 Southhury, May 10, 1824. 
 The sad intelligence in your letter came like a thunder- 
 clap in a clear sky. I had not before heard a whisper re- 
 specting your afflictions. I had supposed that you were all 
 passing along, from one day to another, as pleasantly as ever. 
 So little do we know, while we are happy ourselves, what 
 absent friends may be enduring. It would seem as if this 
 
58 MEMOIR. 
 
 were no world to be merry in. Happy we may be : but om-s 
 should be a sober happiness — a happiness consistent with re- 
 flection, and prepared for son*owful tidings — a happiness, 
 whose foundation is truth, whose source is God, and whose 
 end is heaven. 
 
 From what you say respecting yourself, and from what I 
 heard last week in New-Haven, I conclude that you are now 
 fast recovering. What you say of H — 's situation expresses 
 all a mother's tender love and foreboding anxiety. It goes to 
 my heart and thrills through my frame, to hear you say, "I 
 feel a great and increasing solicitude for my poor H — : he 
 seems to be restless and unhappy." There is something most 
 deeply interesting in hidden sorrow — something that makes 
 the most powerful appeal to our sympathies. Why that rest- 
 lessness ? Why that sudden rising up and sitting down, — that 
 walking the room with folded arms and eyes fixed on vacan- 
 cy? Why that heaving sigh and that starting tear? Thou 
 poor child of grief, there is a voice that is now calling in ac- 
 cents of divine compassion, "Come unto me and I will give 
 thee rest." O that word rest, how sweet and how full of mean- 
 ing as it comes from the lips of the Redeemer! Here is rest 
 from the burden of guilt, the annoyance of temptation, the 
 fear of death, and the gnawings of the worm that never dies. 
 Here is rest from the vexations and labours of the world, rest 
 in the arms of infinite love, rest eternal in the paradise of God. 
 Who that feels the need, can refuse to accept of it ? 
 
 I rejoice to hear that you found such support and peace, 
 when your heart and flesh so utterly failed, and left you pow- 
 erless as an infant, in the hands of the great arbiter of life 
 and death. What can you desire for your children, but that 
 interest in a Saviour's mercy, wliich will yield them like sup- 
 port and peace, when they too are brought into the deep, 
 and troubled waters of affliction. What greater happiness 
 can you wish for on earth, than to see them sitting down with 
 you, at the table of a Redeemer, whose service is all their 
 delight ? May this happiness soon be yours ; then the fears 
 
MEMOIR. ^ 
 
 and sorrowings, that you speak of, will flee away, or lose all 
 their gloom and bitterness. 
 
 During the summer of 1824, Mr. Wilcox devoted his leis- 
 ure hours to the composition of a poem, which he pronounced 
 before the Society of *. B. K. at Yale College. This poem 
 with some additions, the last literary labours of his life, is 
 presented to the public in this volume. 
 
 About this time he complied with an invitation to preach in 
 the North Society of Hartford, as a candidate for settle- 
 ment. In October, this newly organized church and society 
 gave him a call to become their minister. The following 
 brief extract from a letter written soon after, will show liis 
 feelings on the occasion. 
 
 Hartford, Oct. 5, 1824. 
 
 Last Wednesday, I received a call from the North 
 
 Church and Society to become their minister. Pray much 
 for me, that I may not be deserted of God in this solemn 
 crisis of my life. I feel that I am standing on delicate 
 ground. Much is expected from me. A congregation is to 
 be gathered, a church to be built up. Much is at stake. Who 
 is sufficient for these things ? I need a great increase c^ 
 grace. 
 
 In December 1824, he was ordained, and we are to con- 
 template him in a new and highly responsible station. From 
 his first appearance among this people, as a spiritual guide 
 and teacher, a cordial attachment commenced, which in- 
 creased until his separation from them, and then was by no 
 means diminished. 
 
 In his intercourse with his people as a minister, he united 
 faithfulness with the most delicate propriety. He was wel- 
 comed in every family, as an intimate friend, in whom every 
 heart felt interested, and reposed confidence, and all his con- 
 versation was such as to secure respect and affection. No 
 weak places were found in his character, nothing in his con- 
 
tiO MEMOIR. 
 
 versation in the family, or social circle, to diminish the im- 
 pressions made by his preaching. He was eminently happy 
 in relation to the people of his charge ; he felt at home, and 
 had all the tokens of kindness from them, that could render 
 his labours pleasant, and encourage him to preach, with plain- 
 ness, the great truths of revelation. 
 
 The pressure of duties, and the deep interest which he felt 
 in the performance of them, soon began to exhaust his strength 
 and overpower his feeble constitution. Ilis letters, disclo- 
 sing some of his feelings while a Pastor, and the trials which 
 he endured and anticipated from his infirmities, will be read 
 with interest. 
 
 Hartford, January 20, 1825. 
 Why is it that you are so often, and so severely chas- 
 tised ? If the Lord chasteneth whom he loveth, does he not 
 sometimes proportion the measure of his chastisement to that 
 of his love ? If you will not allow that your great afflictions 
 are proofs that God's love towards you is great, I trust that 
 you will live to see them made the means of promoting your 
 love to him, till it becomes great. What a vale of tears is 
 ^his world ! I have thought much of this truth since my 
 last visit to Vermont. For a day or two after I reached the 
 town in which my parents reside, I felt such a weight upon 
 my spirits, in view of the sad changes among the families of 
 my acquaintance, during an absence of six years, that I 
 could hardly be happy under my parental roof. Six heads 
 of families had died out of the eight families nearest my fa- 
 ther's. Besides these deaths, there had been others, and two 
 others had been excommunicated from the church, and had 
 broken the hearts of their Mddowed parents. Both of my 
 parents had been brought apparently near to the borders of 
 the grave ; and so had one of my brothers, but they were pre- 
 served. 
 
 Thus you see that your situation is not peculiar. You 
 never thought that it Avas. You do not need the philosopher's 
 consolation, that yours is the common lot of humanity. You 
 
MEMOIR. CI 
 
 have comfort far above this. When you are in heaviness, 
 you think upon God. What time you are afraid, you put 
 your trust in him. lie will never leave you, 
 
 I rejoice to hear that Mr. T has been preserved from 
 
 the mental derangement, which he so much fears, whenever 
 he becomes unusually ill. This must be a great blessing in the 
 
 midst of all your afflictions, and the convalescence of H 
 
 must be another ; another must be the attentions of the 
 kindest of daughters and sisters. Thus there is many a drop 
 of sweetness in your bitter cup. The gloom of your situation 
 is cheered by many a ray of comfoit, shining directly from 
 heaven, and by many more reflected from the earth around 
 you. Why then may you not be happy. You are so, I 
 trust, without any counsel or exhortation of mine, when I 
 myself need support and consolation far above what I enjoy. 
 
 I tremble at the step that I have taken in consenting to 
 become a minister of the gospel in this city. There are al- 
 ready moments wJien I feel as if I should, at no distant peri- 
 od, sink under the weight of labours and trials that is coming 
 upon me, and pressing every day more and more heavily. I 
 know not what is before me, but I have reason to fear much 
 evil from the state of my heart, and my sad want of ministe- 
 rial qualifications in other respects. This is not affected hu- 
 mility, nor is it real humility. It is no more nor less than a 
 plain statement of the truth. My health is at present quite 
 good, but the time to try it will come, when my present stock 
 of sermons is gone. I must be up and doing. 
 
 March 14, 1825. Of my own health, I can only say, that it 
 is just good enough to enable me to drag along with my bur- 
 den. But this burden is becoming heavier eveiy day ; and I 
 fear it will ere long crush me. My stock of sermons runs 
 low. To write new ones, as fast as I want them, or rather as 
 fast as my people want them, draws prodigiously upon my 
 strength. There are times when I walk my room, and in 
 the anguish of my spirit cry out, "What shall I do ?" I have 
 preached twice every Sabbath since I was settled, except one. 
 I had more of my palpitation yesterday, than I have had be- 
 
62 MEMOIR. 
 
 fore for a year or two. This spring and summer will be the 
 trying season with me. 
 
 We have been hoping for a revival, and one or two have 
 given some evidence of conversion, but now all are again as 
 cold and lifeless as ever. Pray for us. O for a heart to take 
 delight in my work. It is hard for a poet to love the labours 
 of the muiistry. 
 
 Mr. Wilcox was undoubtedly injudicious in expending his 
 strength. His sermons were prepared with great care — not 
 with too much, — for no minister ever preached too good a 
 sermon ; but those of Mr. Wilcox were long, and the deep 
 feeling w ith which they were delivered, almost uniformly ex- 
 hausted him. He might not have been sufficiently attentive 
 to regular exercise. When he exchanged with neighbour- 
 ing clergymen, he generally preached his longest sermons in 
 the pulpits of his brethren, and thus, instead of making liis ex- 
 changes subsei-vient to relaxation, he more commonly return- 
 ed with an entire prostration of his strength. 
 
 Hartford, June 22, 1825. 
 
 I am the most dilatory of all letter writers. No one else 
 could let such letters as yours, lie unanswered for weeks and 
 months together. It will hardly do for me to plead that I 
 have been absent for several weeks, on a visit to New- York 
 and Philadelphia, for I might have written you from both of 
 those cities, and given you some account of the sublime, and 
 beautiful, aud wonderful, that I heard and saw in the natural, 
 the intellectual, and the moral world. But it is all gone like 
 a dream when one awaketh. 
 
 I have returned, and resumed my labours again, but with 
 very little hope of being able to continue them long. My nights 
 are sleepless, after preaching. My strength and my spirits 
 fail ; and there are times when I am well nigh ready to give 
 up the ministry, at once, and go on to a farm to get some har- 
 dihood of constitution. I think it highly probable, that I 
 shall have to come to this, at no very distant period. 
 
MEMOIR. 63 
 
 July 2. After a week's interruption, I sit down to add a lit- 
 tle more to my journal of a letter. Last Sabbath I attempt- 
 ed to preach, bnt after proceeding ten minutes, with my ser- 
 mon, I was obliged to stop, to prevent fainting from the palpi- 
 tation. I have studied none this week, and know not when I 
 shall begin again. My people are urgent in their request, that 
 I should journey for two or three weeks, and visit the Springs 
 and the sea-side. I shall probably go somewhere, next week, 
 in search of health, though 1 have no hope of deriving more 
 than a temporary benefit, from a temporaiy suspension of the 
 labours of the ministry. Preaching, and close study, are two 
 just the worst things in the world for my complaint. 
 
 In the summer of 1825, his health became so feeble that he 
 was obliged to seek relaxation by leaving his charge. He 
 was absent about two months, in which time he visited his pa- 
 rents. This was his last interview with them. Some ex- 
 tracts will now be made from his letters, disclosing distinctly 
 his fears, his trials, and his hopes. 
 
 Sept. 16, 1825. 
 
 Yesterday I reached Hartford. To-day I have been visit- 
 ing the sick and the afflicted ; and this evening, I am writing 
 to you. I have lived so at random for the last two months^ 
 in stages, and steam-boats, and hotels, and boarding-houses, 
 without domestic order or quiet, not to say family religion, 
 that I feel most unfit to enter at once into the spirit of my 
 many, and arduous duties. Two months more, spent like the 
 past, would ruin me. You may well think that I have but lit- 
 tle piety, to bear so short a trial no better. And such is the 
 fact. I have indeed but little, if I have even that. I hope my 
 labours will soon be performed with a spirit more congenial 
 than at present. 
 
 Oct. 17. — A chief of the Sandwich Islands, says, when he 
 receives a letter from his sister, he sits down alone and reads 
 it, and it is just as if his sister whispered in his ear. Let me 
 then whisper to you that 1 am almost discouraged, in regard 
 
64 
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 to the " physical" state of my heart, after which you enquire. 
 Though not as bad as its moral state, it is bad enough ; and 
 what is W' orse, I see not that there is any prospect of its grow- 
 ing better, while I continue to preach. I exert myself to 
 keep up my spirits as well as I can. I tell no one around 
 me the half that I suffer, for it would do no good. I am de- 
 termined to hold out as long as I can, with all proper attention 
 to diet, and exercise, and relaxation. My prospects are by no 
 means flattering. 1 have frequently, for the last fortnight, 
 when I have thought of them, felt a painful trembling ; and 
 more than once the anguish of my spirit has been such as to 
 wring from me the reluctant tear. This has been, when I 
 have found myself dreading the labour of preaching, after be- 
 ing exhausted with the labours of the study, during a week of 
 more than ordinary business. I can study hard tlii'ough the 
 week, or preach on the Sabbath, either of them alone ; but to 
 do both, is more than I can bear without groaning, and com- 
 ing frequently to the very verge of sinking. I know that I 
 need a stronger faith, and a higher tone of piety. With 
 these, I might preach with the palpitation, and suffer less 
 from the exhaustion of animal spirits, if not of bodily strength. 
 But I must speak of myself as / am, and not as what I might 
 be in body, if I was what I ought to be in soul. What will 
 become of me I know not. What shall I do ? Give up 
 preaching, and have good health ? Or continue it, and live 
 on, at this poor dying rate 1 Perhaps you w ill hardly dare 
 to advise me. Who then will do it ? If I must decide en- 
 tirely for myself, I shall take the latter course, and leave the 
 
 event with the great Arbiter of life and death. 
 
 Nov. 27, 1825. — I have been for the past week, more seri- 
 ously sick than I have been for ten years. I preached half a day 
 last Sabbath, and caught a cold which seemed to settle in the 
 region of the heart, where there had been for some time so 
 much unnatural muscular excitement. This produced great 
 soreness, and frequently very intense pain, particularly when 
 coughing. I must resort to some more efficient remedies, or 
 I shall probably not be well very soon. May God be my re- 
 
MEMOIR. t)d 
 
 fuge in this day of trouble. This morning, I told the physi- 
 cian, that I had almost all the symptoms of passing by a slow 
 fever into a decline. He made no reply, but set himself about 
 writing a recipe. I have some serious fears as to the result 
 of my sickness. I fear that I am neither ready nor willing to 
 die. But why art thou cast down, O my soul ; why art thou 
 disquieted within me ? Hope thou in God. 
 
 Dec. 1. — Last night was the most comfortable of any since 
 I was taken ill. I think myself decidedly on the gaining 
 hand, in almost every respect. Bless the Lord, O my soul, 
 and forget not all his benefits. I shall, in all probabihty, ask 
 a dismission soon after I am able to get about again. I cannot 
 think of rushing again into the labours, which will so certain- 
 ly be followed by consequences like those which I am now 
 suffering. I have now no remaining doubt, as to my inabil- 
 ity to perform the duties of a settled minister. It is quite 
 manifest, that the interests of my church and society have 
 suffered, on account of my being absent so much, and giving 
 up extra meetings. It is the complaint of every one, that 
 the state of vital religion among us has long been very low. 
 It is so in the other churches, as well as in mine ; and there- 
 fore I am not regarded as particularly the guilty cause. 
 
 Dec. 15. — Thus you see that my society are quite spirited, 
 and are prosperous in a pecuniary respect. This will very 
 much lessen the trial of leaving them. A trial it will be, in- 
 deed, to leave my dear church and congregation, and leave 
 the ministiy, and leave so delightful a situation as mine, and 
 cast myself again upon the wide world, without employment, 
 and without a home ; but I see not that I can avoid it. With- 
 out employment, however, I will not be, if God has given me 
 talents, that I can in any way use in his service. A great 
 variety of talents is needed in this day of universal action and 
 improvement. But I will say no more on this subject in this 
 place, lest I expose my vanity. I hope you are very happy, 
 without any thing to disquiet you. But you too must have 
 your trials. It is no doubt best for us all, that we should find 
 thorns enough on our pillow, to keep us from sleeping life 
 
 9 
 
66 MEMOIR. 
 
 away, and waking at last, unprepared for eternity. May 
 your sorrows always be as few, and as light, as your spiritual 
 safety and prosperity will permit. 
 
 Jan. 31, 1826. — You see I have once more reached my 
 home, if home there can be, without the pleasures, and en- 
 dearing associations of domestic life. For just twenty years, 
 I have been a sojourner in as many different towns ; and what 
 wonder if I feel very much a citizen of the world ? I begin 
 to feel somewhat sad, as I draw near to the time, when I am 
 to undergo the last trial I shall make of my ability to endure 
 the labours of a settled minister. But it is best to wait in 
 silence for the issue. I hope God will prepare me for it, 
 and glorify himself by it, whatever may become of me. 
 
 March 4. — I have presented a communication to my soci- 
 ety, the substance of which is, that I feel it my duty to resign 
 my charge, believing that the circumstances of the society, 
 and church connected with it, are such as to require much 
 more labour for their best good, than I am able to perform. 
 This communication was not written without many prayers 
 and tears. Nor was it written without long and serious de- 
 liberation. I have, however, been persuaded to suspend my 
 request for a short indefinite period, to give time for further 
 satisfaction in regard to my health, and, if necessary, to find a 
 successor. I had no expectation of finding such unanimity in 
 the wish for me to stay longer. My communication has call- 
 ed forth a stronger expression of attachment, than I had sup- 
 posed to have existed. 
 
 To exhibit still more distinctly his motives, for requesting 
 a dismission, the communication to which he refers is here 
 inserted. 
 
 To the North Ecclesiastical Society in Hartford, at their 
 annual meeting March 1, 1826. 
 
 Brethren and Friends, 
 
 You are all aware of the feeble and precarious state of 
 my health. During the year which is now brought to a close, 
 I have been able to preach but just half of the Sabbaths, and 
 to perform but very little labour bcsidei The nature of my 
 
MEMOIR. 63^ 
 
 complaint is such, that there is no good reason to hope, that 
 I shall be radically and permanently better, while I attempt 
 to pursue the united labours of the study and the pulpit. I 
 have myself no expectation, that if I remain your minister the 
 next year, I shall be able to do any more, than I have done 
 during the past. But to me it appears abundantly evident, 
 that the circumstances of this new society, and of the church 
 connected with it, absolutely require that much more should 
 be done. I cannot then avoid the conclusion, that it is my 
 duty to resign my charge. It seems to me a duty, which I 
 owe to you, to your families, to the church, and the congre- 
 gation of immortals that assemble with you in the house of 
 God. It is affecting to think how little I have been able to 
 do for the salvation of my people. Indeed the thought has 
 been at times, and is now, too oppressive to be endured. 
 
 It may perhaps be the opinion of some, that, while I am 
 able to go through with the mere delivery of a sermon, I 
 ought to continue the trial of my strength, in hope of its in- 
 creasing. To me, however, it seems clear that the year and 
 a half, which I have spent with you, has been a trial long 
 enough, if not too long, for the best good of my people. I 
 must also be permitted to say, that I prize your respect and 
 affection too highly, to be willing to be almost a burden on 
 your hands, till I lose or begin to lose both, especially when 
 without their continuance I could neither be happy nor useful 
 as your minister. 
 
 Perhaps this communication may appear to be hasty. To 
 explain this appearance, it is necessary to observe, that it did 
 not occur to me, till the day before yesterday, that this meet- 
 ing of the society was so early in the month. The subject of 
 the communication has been one of daily thought and prayer 
 for two months ; and this meeting has been expected as the 
 proper time for it to be made public. 
 
 I have been with you in weakness, and in fear, and in 
 much trembling. And it was in my heart to live and die 
 with you. But it seems the will of God that it shall not be 
 so. In that will I would humbly acquiesce. 
 
(53 
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 It is therefore my sincere and earnest request, that you 
 will unite with me in calling a council, to take into view the 
 existing facts of the case, and to dissolve the relation between 
 us, if they judge it best for the interests of the society and 
 the church connected with it, and for the great cause of truth 
 and righteousness, and the salvation of souls. 
 
 Wishing that grace, mercy, and peace, from God the Fa- 
 ther, and the Lord Jesus Christ, may be multiplied to you 
 and yours continually, I subscribe myself. 
 
 Your affectionate Pastor, 
 
 Carlos Wilcox. 
 
 March 28. What- a serious work is that of a minister 
 
 of Christ ! Since writing the paragraph above, I have been to 
 the bed-side of a dying parishioner. I had but just finished 
 the last line, when my door opened suddenly, and I was re- 
 quested to visit a lady immediately, who was but just alive. 
 This was the first intimation I had received of her sickness. 
 Through what a heart-rending scene have I passed since I 
 began this letter, only an hour ago. I was then in a playful 
 mood, though greatly fatigued. Now I feel a great heavi- 
 ness of spirit, accompanied with the exhaustion of sympa- 
 thetic grief This is the fifth time within a month, that a 
 messenger has called me away from the study, or the social 
 circle, to the bed-side of the dying. But I am too much de- 
 pressed to dwell on these sad scenes. In several of them, 
 however, there have been circumstances full of comfort. 
 
 May 20. — I shall leave Hartford next week unless my 
 people insist upon having a farewell sermon. I am very 
 unwilling to preach one, as it can only awaken sympathies to 
 be indulged to very little purpose. I find my interest in their 
 welfare growing stronger, as I am about to leave them. 
 
 To another correspondent he expressed his feelings with 
 still more particularity. 
 
 June 10. — You have heard that I am no longer minister of 
 the North Church in Hartford. When the tie was cut, I felt 
 
MEMOIR. Wi 
 
 such a shock as I never felt before. But I trust that all will 
 be ordered well for me, and for this Church and Society. 
 It has been a difficult thing to get away from tliis dear people ; 
 and nothing but the strongest conviction of my inability to do 
 what ought to be done for them, could have carried me 
 through it. The Society voted, unanimously, to grant me 
 leave of absence for a year, with a continuance of my sala- 
 ry. But as I could give them no reason to hope, that" at the 
 end of that period, 1 should return with health permanently 
 established, I could not conscientiously accept of their pro- 
 posal. After all this, a remonstrance, with thirty-five names, 
 was laid before the Council, on the ground that they were 
 willing to run the risk of the proposed trial of a year's ab- 
 sence. I submitted it entirely to the Council to say what 
 ought to be done, and they dismissed me. Something was 
 said among my people about paying back to me the two 
 hundred dollars which I gave to their funds, and the one hun- 
 dred which I paid for supply of preaching in my sick- 
 ness. But at length this course has been adopted ; to let 
 my name stand on their records as giving the two hundred 
 dollars, and to remunerate me, by a voluntary subscription, 
 which has swelled into a present of five hundred dollars. 
 
 What will now become of me, I cannot tell. I have some 
 expectation of spending the summer at Newport, for the bene- 
 fit of bathing in the surf, and enjoying the sea-breezes. Per- 
 haps I may preach some, — perhaps I may write some poet- 
 ry. But all is uncertain. I feel that I am once more afloat 
 in the world, and the feeling is at times sufficiently uncomfort- 
 able. I hope yet to do some good in the pulpit, and with my 
 pen, if God spare my life ; but I never expect to be again so 
 pleasantly situated as I have been in Hartford. 
 
 June 20. — I am rejoiced to find that you remember me in 
 my wanderings, and continue to take an interest in all my 
 concerns. I hope you will not forget the dear people that I 
 have left, and will not cease to pray, that they may not long 
 be as sheep without a shepherd. As to myself, it is com- 
 paratively of little consequence what becomes of me. I 
 
70 MEMOIR. 
 
 say not this because that I regret that I resigned my charge, 
 though I may sometimes be made sad, by the thought that it 
 should be necessary to do it. I say it not because I am un- 
 happy on that account. I hope that in whatever situation I 
 may be placed, m the providence of God, I may be able to 
 look to him, as my chief portion, and be content. 
 
 June 28, — And now that I have despatched my business, 
 permit me to say, " Good morning to you, to the dear Anne, 
 
 and A " I begin to grow quite impatient to hear from 
 
 your family, and from the dear people that I have left. I 
 have heard nothing from Hartford since my departure. 1 
 however expect to hear nothing till I write myself. Well, 
 then, what shall I say ? Shall I begin with an account of the 
 weather, which is always the first subject of conversation, 
 the world over ? This cannot be interesting to you, except 
 in its bearing on my health and spirits. The fortnight that 
 I have spent here, has been almost all of it, too cold for my 
 comfort. Several days have been passed by a good fire. 
 For a week it has been rainy, and is now becoming some- 
 what warmer. It has hitherto been too cold, to think of 
 Newport air, or Newport beach and surf. But I am going 
 down, on Saturday, and shall probably remain there for two 
 or three months, if I receive any benefit to my health. 
 
 You have probably heard of me by Dr. P , whom I 
 
 saw in Providence. I hope you have not heard any thing 
 bad respecting me. You must be very cautious about receiv- 
 ing conjectures, and dreams, and such like shadowy things, 
 for substantial matters of fact. 
 
 Permit me, my dear friend, to take this opportunity to ex- 
 press to you, and to Mrs. M and your family, my grate- 
 ful sense of your kindness, which has been to me so great, 
 and so constant. I shall ever take an interest in your wel- 
 fare. May the best blessings of heaven be yours. 
 
 Neicport, July 5. 
 I have just seated myself in my new lodgings. My room 
 is in the third story, and the south-west corner. The west 
 
MEMOIR. 7** 
 
 window looks over the town, and the south commands an en- 
 chanting view of the ocean, extending almost half around the 
 horizon. I have been sitting for half an hour, with my eyes 
 fixed on this circular expanse, admiring the beautiful blue, and 
 the white sails moving over it. Fifteen or twenty are now 
 in sight, scattered along the line where the sky and sea seem 
 to meet. I have no reason yet to complain of fogs ; but the 
 wind from the water is often too fresh for my comfort, and 
 I fear for my health. The people here think a north wind 
 the softest, and sweetest of all the airs of heaven. What a 
 world of contradictions is this ? and what contradictory crea- 
 tures are we that live in it. As long ago as the days of Hor- 
 ace, the rich and the gay of the city were forever talking of 
 the beauty of fields, and groves, and lakes, and mountains, and 
 sighing to enjoy them ; while the poor, and plain people of 
 the country were always admiring the palaces, and pomp of 
 the city, and panting to live in the midst. And now the in- 
 habitants of the sea-board are praising the air from the coun- 
 try, and welcoming it, with great delight ; while those of the 
 interior are quoting poetry about the cool breath of ocean ; 
 and opening all their windows and doors to invite it in. As 
 to my health, I am not yet satisfied about the effect of these 
 winds and waves. One thing is certain, that from some cause 
 or other, during several days, I have had a more violent pain 
 in my breast than I ever felt before. It has left a very un- 
 comfortable sensation of soreness. If I continue here, I am 
 afraid I shall be obliged to leave this beautiful situation, and 
 pleasant family, for a place less elevated and unconfined. 
 
 Soon after the date of this, he wrote to another friend, and 
 though the letters are similar, there is no impropriety in the 
 insertion of both. 
 
 Newjjort, July 13. 
 You may wish to hear something about my present situa- 
 tion and prospects. I have taken lodgings in a house more 
 pleasantly situated than any other here. My room is in the 
 south-west corner of the third story. My west window over- 
 
72 
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 looks the town, the beautiful harbour, with its sails and steam- 
 boats, its islands, and forts, and light-houses. My south win- 
 dow commands a view of the blue rolling deep, extending al- 
 most from east to west. Here are fifteen or twenty white 
 sails almost always in sight from this same window. The 
 ocean's dying roar sometimes comes to my ear. The dis- 
 tance to the shore in a south direction is two or three miles ; 
 to the long, beautiful beach, in an east direction, it is only 
 three-fourths of a mile. The land of these shores and islands 
 lies in smooth swells, and long drawn slopes, and is rich as a 
 garden. As to my health, I must say, that I am not yet sat- 
 isfied whether it will be best to spend the summer here. If I 
 do, I fear I shall be obliged to leave my present lodgings for a 
 situation less exposed to the sea-breezes, whifh are here so 
 fresh even at noon, and frequently towards evening, that I 
 must shut down my windows, or suffer for not doing it. Ei- 
 ther these bracing winds, or bathing in the surf, or both, or 
 something else, has given me, for several days past, a more vi- 
 olent pain in my breast than I ever felt before. But I have 
 less of my palpitation than usual. I must therefore stay here 
 a while longer, at least, in order to make a faithful trial of this 
 climate. I preached the last Sabbath, and have engaged to 
 preach the next, if I am well enough. May the Lord bless 
 you, and yours, abundantly, and continually. 
 
 Newport, July 13, 1826. 
 I thank you most sincerely for the intelligence with 
 
 which your kind letter commences ; and I praise God for 
 
 the work which is the subject of that intelligence. If M. 
 
 has become indeed a christian, it is an event highly impor- 
 tant to your family, as well as to herself. 1 pray God that 
 it may be a great blessing to every member. How happy, 
 beyond the common lot, must be that family, in which every 
 member loves the Saviour. May you enjoy this happiness. 
 May you enjoy it soon, and as long as shall be best for your 
 eternal interests. It seems probable that Lazarus, and Ma- 
 ry, and Martha, constituted a family, and they were all 
 
MEMOIR. TS 
 
 the followers of Christ, and there Christ dehghted to dwell. 
 May he dwell with you in Spirit, and shed abroad his love in 
 
 every heart. You say that you lament that M cannot have 
 
 my instructions in her present interesting state. I trust that 
 she will have those w'hich shall be much better. The value, 
 that you seem to set upon my instructions, makes me feel 
 more deeply my insufficiency, and my unfaithfulness, as a 
 minister of the gospel. It now appears to me, that 1 did ve- 
 ry little, while in Hartford, to bring my hearers to a saving 
 knowledge of the truth, as it is in Jesus. I sometimes won- 
 der, that my dear people could bear with me as they did, in 
 my coldness, as well as in my weakness. When I look back 
 to the work that I was appointed to do among you, it seems 
 as if I failed in every part of it. May the great Head of the 
 Church, speedily send to you, not only a liealthier minister, 
 but one far more spiritual and devoted. It is only by ofl'ering 
 such a prayer, that I can show any of the gratitude which I 
 feel towards my dear people, for their persevering kindness 
 to me. My interest in the welfare of the church and society 
 will continue, wherever my future lot may be cast. In this 
 connexion, permit me to thank you, and all your family, for 
 all your kindness, and theirs, when I have been sick, and 
 when in health, when present, and when absent. May the 
 Lord bless you richly, and continually. 
 
 Worcester, July 18, 1826. 
 You will perhaps wonder how it happens, that I am 
 
 writing to you, from the middle of Massachusetts, instead of 
 the south side of R. I. The case is just this : I found that 
 the strong and damp sea-breezes of Newport, produced a 
 stricture in my breast, attended with severe pain at times, 
 and with constant soreness. I was obliged to rehnquish 
 bathing in the surf, and at last to quit the town. I am now 
 on a tour to the mountains of Vermont, and New Hampsliire. 
 My route from Newport to Keene, and Bellow's-Falls, lies 
 directly through Worcester. I shall probably travel up Con- 
 necticut River, as far as Lancaster, then turn to the East, 
 10 
 
74 
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 and climb the White Mountains, and thence proceed to the 
 sea-coast, perhaps to Portland, perhaps through Concord and 
 Andover, to Boston. I am resting at Worcester, for a few 
 days, because I wish to get rid of all my soreness of lungs and 
 throat, in this inland valley, before I expose myself to the 
 evening air, in stage-coaches and on lofty mountains. Last 
 
 evening I saw Mr. C. for a minute, while one carriage 
 
 was unloaded, and another loaded. Of him, I made as many 
 enquiries as the time allowed, respecting my dear people, and 
 Hartford in general, and your family in particular. I am sor- 
 ry to hear that you do not succeed in obtaining a permanent 
 preacher. But I trust, God will provide one in his own best 
 time. 
 
 Respecting my health, I can only say, that I have had but 
 little of my palpitation, this summer, as I have preached but 
 very seldom, and studied none at all. What will become of 
 me, I know not, but I will not murmur at the allotments of 
 providence, for they are all wise, and good. May the Father 
 of mercies grant to you, all that you need, for the present, 
 and the future life. 
 
 July 27. — I fear you think me foolishly, if not fatally in 
 love wath the charms of poetry. You think me too much 
 under the influence of the imagination, to be happy myself, 
 or to make others happy. Perhaps I ought to reproach my- 
 self for my attachment to ' harmonious numbers,' but it is in 
 vain for me to conceal the fact, that this attachment is ungov- 
 ernable, and that from it, I derive the most exquisite enjoy- 
 ment. 
 
 Of the tour to the White Mountains, to which reference is 
 made in a preceding extract, the public have heard. To pre- 
 serve a connected series of the leading incidents of his life 
 from his own pen, the letter which has appeared in the pub- 
 lic journals is reprinted in this connexion. 
 
MEMOIR. TO 
 
 Hanover y {N. H.) Sept. % 1826. 
 Dear Sir, — 
 
 I have just returned from an excursion to the White Moun- 
 tains, and shall now spend a day of rest in this village, in giv- 
 ing you some account of the effects produced by the most 
 destructive fall of rain ever Imown in that region. It hap- 
 pened on the night of the '28th of August, which will be long 
 remembered in this part of the country. 
 
 I left Hanover on Saturday last, in company with two gen- 
 tlemen of my acquaintance from the city of New- York, and 
 rode as far as Haverhill, where we all spent the Sabbath. 
 The road over which we passed was like a bed of ashes two 
 or three inches deep ; and the country around us exhibited 
 the usual effects of a long drought. The abundant rains 
 that fell three weeks ago, over the Southern half of New- 
 England, did not reach the upper part of the valley of Con- 
 necticut River. On Monday morning it began to rain at 
 Haverliill, and continued along our route for most of the day, 
 but so moderately and at such intervals, that with the help of 
 great coats and umbrellas we proceeded on our journey in 
 an open wagon as far as Bethlehem, fifteen miles west of 
 the White Mountains. As we approached the vicinity of 
 the Mountains, the rain increased till it became a storm, and 
 compelled us to stop about the middle of the afternoon. 
 
 The storm continued most of the night ; but the next 
 morning was clear and serene. The view from the hill of 
 Bethlehem was extensive and delightful. In the Eastern 
 horizon. Mount Washington, with the neighbouring peaks on 
 the North and on the South, formed a grand outline far up 
 m the blue sky. Two or three small fleecy clouds rested on 
 its side, a little below its summit, while from behind this 
 highest point of land in the United States East of the Mis- 
 sissippi, the sun rolled up rejoicing in his strength and glory. 
 We started off toward the object of our journey, with spirits 
 greatly exhilarated by the beauty and grandeur of our pros- 
 pect. As we hastened forward with our eyes fixed on the 
 tops of the Mountains before us, little did we think of the 
 
76 
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 scene of destruction around their base, on which the sun 
 was now for the first time beginning to shine. In about half 
 an hour we entered Breton Woods, an unincorporated tract 
 of land covered with a primitive forest, extending on our road 
 five miles to Rosebrook's Inn, and thence six miles to Craw- 
 ford's, the establishment begun by Rosebrook's father, as de- 
 scribed in the travels of Dr. Dwight. On entering this wil- 
 derness we were struck with its universal stillness. From 
 every leaf in its immense masses of fohage the rain hung in 
 large glittering drops ; and the silver note of a single un- 
 seen and unknown bird was the only sound that we could 
 hear. After we had proceeded a mile or two the roaring 
 of the Amonoosuck began to break in upon the stillness, and 
 soon grew so loud as to excite our surprise. In consequence 
 of coming to the river almost at right angles, and by a very 
 narrow road, through trees and bushes very thick, we had 
 no view of the water, till with a quick trot we had advanced 
 upon the bridge too far to recede, when the sight that opened 
 at once to the right hand and to the left, drew from all of us 
 similar exclamations of astonishment and terror ; and we 
 hurried over the trembling fabrick as fast as possible. After 
 finding ourselves safe on the other side, we walked down to 
 the brink ; and, though familiar with mountain scenery, we 
 all confessed that we had never seen a mountain torrent be- 
 fore. The water was as thick with earth as it could be, 
 without being changed into mud. A man living near in a 
 log hut showed us how high it was at day break. Though it 
 had fallen six feet, he assured us that it M^as still ten feet 
 above its ordinary level. To this add its ordinary depth of 
 three or four feet, and here at day break was a body of water 
 twenty feet deep, and sixty feet wide, moving with the rapidi- 
 ty of a gale of wind, betw een steep banks covered with hem- 
 locks and pines, and over a bed of large rocks, breaking its 
 surface into billows like those of the ocean. After gazing a 
 few moments on this sublime sight, we proceeded on our way, 
 for the most part at some distance from the river, till we came 
 to the farm of Rosehrooh, lying on its banks. We found his 
 
MEMOIR. 
 
 Ti 
 
 fields covered with water, and sand, and flood wood. His fen- 
 ces and bridges were all swept away ; and the road was so 
 blocked up with logs, that we had to wait for the labors of 
 men and oxen, before we could get to his house. Here we 
 were told that the river was never before known to bring 
 down any considerable quantity of earth, and were pointed 
 to bare spots on the sides of the White Mountains, never seen 
 till that morning. As our road, for the remaining six miles, 
 lay quite near the river and crossed many small tributary 
 streams, we employed a man to accompany us with an axe. 
 We were frequently obliged to remove trees from the road, 
 to fill excavations, to mend and make bridges, or contrive to 
 get our horses and wagon along separately. After toiling in 
 this manner for half a day, we reached the end of our jour- 
 ney, not however without being obliged to leave our wagon 
 half a mile behind. In many places, in these six miles, the 
 road and the whole adjacent woods, as it appeared from the 
 marks on the trees, had been overflowed to the depth of ten 
 feet. In one place the river, in consequence of some ob- 
 struction at a remarkable fall, had been twenty feet higher 
 than it was when we passed. We stopped to view the fall, 
 which Dr. Dwight calls " beautiful." He says of it — '* The 
 descent is from fifty to sixty feet, cut through a mass of 
 stratified granite ; the sides of which appear as if they had 
 been laid by a mason in a variety of fantastical forms ; be- 
 traying, however, by their rude and wild aspect, the mas- 
 terly hand of nature." This description is sufficiently cor- 
 rect ; but the beauty of the fall was now lost in its sublimity. 
 You have only to imagine the whole body of the Amonoosuck, 
 as it appeared at the bridge which we crossed, now compres- 
 sed to half of its width, and sent downward at an angle of 20 
 or 25 degrees between perpendicular walls of stone. On 
 our arrival at Crawford's the appearance of his farm was like 
 ' that of Rosebrook's, only much worse. Some of his sheep 
 and cattle were lost ; and eight hundred bushels of oats were 
 destroyed. Here we found five gentlemen, who gave us an 
 interesting account of their unsuccessful attempt to ascend 
 
78 MEMOIR, 
 
 Mount Washington the preceding day. They went to the 
 " Camp" at the foot of the mountain on Sabbath evening, and 
 lodged there, with the intention of cHmbing the summit the 
 next morning. But in the morning the mountains were en- 
 veloped in thick clouds ; the rain began to fall, and increased 
 till afternoon, when it came down in torrents. At five o'clock 
 they proposed to spend another night at the camp, and let 
 their guide return home for a fresh supply of provisions for 
 the next day. But the impossibility of keeping a fire where 
 every thing was so wet, and the advice of their guide, made 
 them all conclude to i*eturn, though with great reluctance. No 
 time was now to be lost, for they had seven miles to travel 
 on foot, and six of them by a rugged path through a gloomy 
 forest. They ran as fast as their circumstances would per- 
 mit ; but the dark evergreens around them, and the black 
 clouds above, made it night before they had gone half of the 
 way. The rain poured down faster every moment ; and 
 the little streams, which they had stepped across the evening 
 before, must now be crossed by wading, or by cutting down 
 trees for bridges, to which they were obliged to cling for life. 
 In this way they reached the bridge over the Amonoosuck 
 near Crawford's, just in time to pass it before it was carried 
 down the current. On Wednesday, the weather being clear 
 and beautiful, and the waters having subsided, six gentlemen, 
 with a guide, went to Mount Washington, and one accompa- 
 nied Mr. Crawford to the "Notch," from which nothing had 
 yet been heard. We met again at evening, and related to 
 each other what we had seen. The party who went to the 
 Mountain were five hours in reaching the site of the camp, 
 instead of three, the usual time. The path for nearly one- 
 third of the distance was so much excavated, or covered 
 with miry sand, or blocked up with flood wood, that they 
 were obliged to grope their way through thickets almost im- 
 penetrable, where one generation of trees after another had 
 risen and fallen, and were now lying across each other in ev- 
 ery direction, and in various stages of decay. The Camp it- 
 self had been wholly swept away ; and the bed of the rivu- 
 
MEMOIR. 79 
 
 let by which it had stood, was now more than ten rods 
 wide, and with banks from ten to fifteen feet high. Four or 
 five other brooks w'ere passed, m hose beds were enlarged, 
 some of them to twice the extent of this. In several, the water 
 was now only three or four feet wide, w hile the bed of ten, 
 fifteen or twenty rods in width, w^as covered for miles with 
 stones from two to five feet in diameter, that had been rolled 
 down the mountains, and through the forests, by thousands, 
 bearing every thing before them. Not a tree, nor the root of 
 a tree remained in their path. Immense piles of hemlocks 
 and other trees with their limbs and bark entirely bruised oflf, 
 were lodged all the way on both sides, as they had been driv- 
 en in among the standing and half standing trees on the 
 ' banks. While the party were climbing the Mountain, thirty 
 " slides" were counted, some of which began near the line 
 where the soil and vegetation terminate, and growing wader 
 as they descended, were estimated to contain more than a 
 hundred acres. These were all on the western side of the 
 mountains. They were composed of the w^hole surface of 
 the earth with all its growth of woods, and its loose rocks, to 
 the depth of 15, 20, and 30 feet. And wherever the slides 
 of the two projecting mountains met, forming a vast ravine, 
 the depth was still greater. 
 
 Such was the report which the party from the mountains 
 gave. The intelligence which Mr. Crawford, and the gentle- 
 man accompanying him, brought from the Notch, was of a 
 more melancholy nature. The road, though a turnpike, was 
 in such a state, that they were obliged to walk to the Notch 
 House, lately kept by Mr. Willey, a distance of six miles. 
 All the bridges over the Amonoosuck, five in number, those 
 over the Saco, and those over the tributary streams of both, 
 were gone. In some places the road was excavated to the 
 depth of 15 and 20 feet; and in others it was covered with 
 earth, and rocks, and trees, to as great a height. In the 
 Notch, and along the deep defile below it, for a mile and a 
 half, to the Notch House, and as far as could be seen beyond 
 it, no appearance of the road, except in one place for two or 
 
80 MEMOIR. 
 
 three rods, could be discovered. The steep sides of the 
 mountain, first on one hand, then on the other, and then on 
 both, had shd down into this narrow passage, and formed a 
 continued mass from one end to the other, so that a turnpike 
 will probably not be made through it again very soon, if ever. 
 The Notch House was found uninjured ; though the barn ad- 
 joining it by a shed, was crushed ; and under its ruins were 
 two dead horses. The house was entirely deserted; the beds 
 were tumbled; their covering was turned down; and near 
 them upon chairs and on the floor lay the wearing apparel of 
 the several members of the family; while the money and the 
 papers of Mr. Willey were lying in his open bar. From these 
 circumstances it seemed almost certain, that the whole family 
 were destroyed ; and it soon became quite so, by the arrival 
 of a brother of Mr. Crawford from his father's, six miles far- 
 ther East. From him we learnt that the valley of the Saco 
 for many miles, presented an uninterrupted scene of desola- 
 tion. The two Crawfords were the nearest neighbours of 
 Willey. Two days had now elapsed since the storm, and 
 nothing had been heard of his family in either direction. 
 There was no longer any room to doubt that they had been 
 alarmed by the noise of the destruction around them, had sprung 
 from their beds, and fled naked from the house, and in the utter 
 darlmess had been soon overtaken by the falling mountains 
 and rushing torrents. The family \vhich is said to have been 
 miable and respectable, consisted of nine persons, Mr. Wil- 
 ley and his wife and five young children of theirs, with a hired 
 man and boy. After the fallof a single slide last June, they were 
 more ready to take the alarm, though they did not consider 
 their situation dangerous, as none had ever been known to 
 fall there previous to this. Whether more rain fell now than 
 had ever been known to fall before in the same length of 
 time, at least since the sides of the mountains were covered 
 with so heavy a growth of woods, or whether the slides were 
 produced by the falling of such a quantity of rain so suddenly, 
 after the earth had been rendered light and loose by the long 
 drought, 1 am utterly unable to say. All I know is, that at 
 
MEMOIR. 81 
 
 the close of a rainy day, the clouds seemed all to come to- 
 gether over the White Mountains, and at midnight discharge 
 their contents at once in a terrible burst of rain, which pro- 
 duced the effects that have now been described. Why these 
 effects were produced now, and never before, is known only 
 to Him, who can rend the heavens when he will, and come 
 down, and cause the mountains to flow down at his pres- 
 ence. Yours, &c. 
 
 Carlos Wilcox. 
 
 Hanover, Sept. 4. — P. S. — We have just heard that the 
 bodies of the three adults of Mr. Willey's family have been 
 dug up, dreadfully mangled, from amid earth and rocks, 
 about fifty rods from the house. We have also heard that 
 many of the bridges and mills, on the streams running south 
 from the White Mountains, and forming the several branches 
 of the Merrimack, have been swept away, and that much 
 other damage has been done in that direction. 
 
 After having passed the summer of 1826, in various pla- 
 ces, he visited Boston, and spent the autumn in that city, 
 preaching almost every Sabbath. Near the close of the 
 year, he received an invitation to supply the pulpit in Danbu- 
 ry, Con. with which he complied. At this place he arrived 
 some time in December. From Danbury he writes as fol- 
 lows: 
 
 Danhury, January 6, 1827. 
 
 It gives me pleasure to be assured of your kind re- 
 membrance, and that of your family. * * * * I shall think of 
 my dear people all day, the second Sabbath of January, and 
 
 while I thank God, that I am not in Mr. S 's place, I 
 
 shall not forget to pray, that the events of that Sabbath, may 
 issue in a union that shall be happy and lasting. 
 
 You are kind enough to enquire about my situation, which 
 I can truly say is more pleasant than I had expected. I 
 board in the family of a very pleasant brother clergyman, 
 
 11 
 
82 MEMOIR. 
 
 who teaches the Academy here. Tell Mrs. M. that since 
 so much has been said about my pleasant room in your house, 
 she may know, that the one I am now in is more like that, 
 than any other that ever fell to my lot in all my wanderings. 
 It is quite as large ; has two windows towards the rising sun, 
 and two towards the setting, and one toward the northern 
 star. You see, then, that it is on the north end of the house ; 
 and as it is on the lower floor, it is more like the one in 
 which you are now living. My windows are surrounded 
 with rose-bushes and lilacs. It will be a delightful room for 
 summer, and is pleasant enough now. Do just come and 
 see. 
 
 I find some very intelligent and agreeable society here. 
 # # * # * ]y[y health is pretty good for me. My ex- 
 ercise is regular, as I have cut every stick of wood that I have 
 burned. Your caution about multiplying my labours, is wor- 
 thy of remembrance. I have, however, undertaken to attend 
 one evening meeting in a week, in addition to my other 
 labours. 
 
 Danbury, March 3, 1827. 
 You probably heard something of the state of my health 
 a fortnight ago, by Mr. W * * * or from the note to Mr. H. 
 Since that time, I have been much more seriously ill. My 
 throat began to be inflamed about the middle of Januaiy and 
 has been growing worse ever since. For four or five Sab- 
 baths, I continued to preach, or to read half a sermon, in the 
 morning, and the other half in the afternoon. This I was en- 
 abled to do without much pain, by taking sugar wet with elixir, 
 and warming my stockings, boots, socks, and standing on an 
 oak plank well heated, and by tying a muffler round my neck. 
 By these means, I was kept from coughing during the service. 
 But I am now convinced, that I had better not have attempt- 
 ed to preach. But who can tell always, whether a little ill- 
 ness is likely to end in something serious ? Ulcers began to 
 form in my throat three weeks ago, some have broken and 
 healed up ; others have appeared in other places. By the 
 
MEMOIR. 83 
 
 application of blisters to my neck, and the use of a particular 
 wash, the soreness in my throat has been rendered less, for 
 a day or two ; but it has seemed to tend downwards to my 
 breast and lungs, and it has become necessary to bleed me, 
 and apply a bUster to my chest, &c. In this way my breast 
 and lungs have been relieved, but the soreness has returned 
 to my throat. It is with great difficulty and pain that I swal- 
 low any thing. But nothing seems to contribute so much to 
 irritate my throat, as my cough, which for some weeks has 
 been very severe. It does not trouble me much in the day 
 time, as I sit in my chair, and walk my room ; but for a fort- 
 night, it has kept me awake more than half of every night 
 upon an average. It is only from the influence of strong ano- 
 dyne, that I can sleep at all. I have had night sweats, but 
 they appear to have left me for the present. My fever is 
 very slight as yet ; my appetite is not wholly gone, and my 
 strength holds out remarkably well. I know not what is in 
 store for me, in the providence of God ; and I desire to com- 
 mit myself, with all my sicknesses, and all my interests, with 
 all my hopes, and all my fears, into the hands of that Being, 
 whose judgments are righteous, and whose tender mercies en- 
 dure forever. I do not expect to be cured by medicine. If 
 I can be kept along till the snow is gone, and the ground set- 
 tled, and the weather becomes dry, and warm, it is the most 
 that I can hope ; I may then recover. I have been confined 
 to the house for about a fortnight, and expect to be for a 
 month or six weeks to come. Tell Dr. C. that my physician 
 often reminds me of him. His name is B*******. I have 
 the utmost confidence in him. 
 
 Danhury, March 10, 1827. 
 Dear Madam, 
 
 You have doubtless heard of my illness ; and if you have 
 seen my letter to Mr. M. you have learnt all the particu- 
 lars respecting its nature and progress, till the past week. 
 If you have not seen that letter, I must beg leave to refer you 
 to it, as I feel quite unable to go over this ground again. For 
 
84 
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 a week past, my symptoms have worn, on the whole, a more 
 favourable appearance ; and my friends here have not been so 
 much alarmed for me, as they w ere for a fortnight before. I 
 have, however, lost strength during the past week ; and my 
 appetite is poorer than ever. This may be owing to the in- 
 direct debility produced by medicine, and not by disease. I 
 have been obliged to take so much anodyne, at night, to allay 
 my cough, that it has left me too languid to hold up my head 
 the next day. My cough is not so severe. Several of the 
 ulcers in my throat are healed or healing, though others re- 
 main as sore as ever. There is reason to hope that none 
 have yet formed on my lungs, though those in my throat have 
 shown a tendency to spread downward, when disturbed by 
 external blisters and internal washes. 
 
 But I have said enough on this subject to tire myself and 
 you too. In all my weakness, I would wish to think more of 
 that Almighty Being, who has sustained me to this hour, and 
 who is ready to do all that for my relief, which he sees to 
 be best. O for a child-like submission to his will ! There 
 have been times, during the last three weeks, when it seem- 
 ed to me, that the end of all my earthly wanderings was to 
 be in this valley of Danbury. But I have now a prevailing 
 hope, that a merciful God will spare me, that I may recover 
 strength before I go hence to be here no more. We know 
 not however, what a day may bring forth. Most sincerely 
 do I rejoice, that you are so soon to have so good and ac- 
 ceptable a minister of Christ, set over the dear church and 
 people that I was once permitted to call mine. I trust in 
 God, that he will come to you in the fulness of the blessing 
 of the gospel of peace ; and that you will receive him with 
 thanksgiving. May he have the affections, and prg^ers of all 
 his people, to encourage him in his labours ; and may the 
 good Spirit of God bless him with great and growing suc- 
 cess. 
 
 I have received an official letter, inviting me to Hartford, 
 
 as one of the Council at Mr. S. 's Installation. You see 
 
 from the feeble state of my health, that I must be denied this 
 
MEMOIR. 85 
 
 privilege. I shall be with you in spirit, and rejoice in your 
 joy- 
 But I must bring my letter to a close. It is twice as long 
 as I expected it would be when I began it. My strength is 
 quite exhausted ; and I can only add a request, that you will 
 remember me affectionately to Mr. B. and other enquir- 
 ing friends. 
 
 The Lord be with you, and bless you, and yours. 
 
 Danhury, April 21, 1827. 
 When my last letter to Hartford was written, I was 
 thought to be gaining quite fast. But soon afterwards, that 
 is, about three weeks ago, I was brought down again by a 
 very severe relapse. My throat, which had become almost 
 well, was thrown into a state of the most burning, and dis- 
 tressing inflammation, lasting day and night, for more than a 
 fortnight. My cough became harder tlian ever. I have 
 been much lower since the first of April, than before for ma- 
 ny years. The burning inflammation in my throat is now 
 somewhat less again, but the soreness is still so great, that I 
 ^ am obliged to live on liquids. My cough is yet quite severe. 
 I am wasted to a skeleton. Many of my friends here have 
 very little hope of my recovery. I consider it quite doubtful 
 myself, whether I ever see Hartford again. It is possible, 
 that in the good providence of God, as the warm weather of 
 May comes, I may be relieved of my disease, and blessed with 
 returning strength. But 1 desire to feel that all is in good 
 hands, and to pray that I may be resigned to the righteous and 
 merciful will of my heavenly Father. Living or dying, may 
 I be his. I have not strength to write any more. 
 
 About the middle of May, his disease had made such pro- 
 gress, and his strength was so far gone, that he relinquished 
 . the hope of ever being restored to health, and began to ar- 
 range his affairs with the expectation of speedy dissolution, 
 and with entire composure, to anticipate the closing scene. 
 He dictated three letters, one to his parents, and two to other 
 
86 MEMOIR, 
 
 friends, in which he expressed fully his apprehensions of im- 
 mediate death ; and in his own affectionate and delicate man- 
 ner, took his leave of them. In one he says — " My strength 
 is almost gone, my days are numbered, and will soon be fin- 
 ished.**** The world, with all its joys and sorrows, fades 
 from my view. I must soon prove the reality of the great 
 things of faith and eternity. The religion of Christ must be 
 all in all to me now.**** 
 
 "O what a glorious change, to leave this world and go into 
 the presence of Christ ! O to become sinless, as well as hap- 
 py and glorified, I desire to pray continually while I have 
 breath, God be merciful to me a sinner. 
 
 And now, my deai' friend, we must part. May you have 
 much of the presence of yom- God and Saviour, may you see 
 many good days on earth, while the sun is shining on my lone 
 grave ; may your death be peaceful, whenever it come, and 
 your immortality glorious ; may we meet in a better world? 
 and together unite in singing the praises of the Redeemer."-^ 
 
 To his parents, after mentioning the state of his health and 
 his apprehension that his last sickness had come, and request- 
 ing one of his brothers to visit him immediately, he dictated 
 the following : " And now, my dear parents, what shall I say 
 to you in conclusion ? I cannot say much, for you see I am 
 so weak as to be obliged to employ the hand of a friend to 
 write for me. First of all, then, let me thank you for all the 
 kindness you have shown me in my past life. And let me beg 
 of you to be earnest in prayer, that God would be merciful 
 to me a sinner. Pray that I may have much of the presence 
 of my God and Saviour, in my sickness. Pray that he may fit 
 me for heaven, and take me to that blessed world, to behold 
 his glory. And may the God of life and mercy support you 
 under your trials and increasing infirmities — may he spare you 
 many years, to be a bless ing to the family — may he increase 
 your faith, and brighten your hope, and add to your joy, as 
 the infirmities of age gather upon you — may your death be 
 peaceful, and your eternity glorious. Do not fail to write 
 nie immediately. Though I am in a land of comparative stran- 
 
MEMOIR. 87 
 
 gers, yet God has raised me up many friends, some one of 
 whom I can employ to write to you, perhaps, every week. 
 
 To my dear brothers, I liave much to say, would my 
 strength permit, but I can merely direct them to the Saviour 
 in their early days. O tell them to prepare for a sick bed in 
 the morning of life. Tell them that the world all appears van- 
 ity to me now. Tell them that the religion of Christ is the 
 only satisfying portion of the soul. Tell them to make the 
 Bible their daily companion, and the throne of grace the place 
 of their daily resort. And may the God of mercy and grace, 
 give them repentance and faith, preserve them amid the 
 snares of a wicked world, make them ornaments in the 
 church, and prepare them for a blessed immortality. I can 
 add no more." 
 
 Some of the expressions he used in conversation during his 
 sickness have been preserved, and may with propriety be in- 
 serted in this place. 
 
 " Some have spoken of it as a mystery, that I should be sick 
 and laid aside from my labours ; but it is no mystery to me : 
 I am a great simier, and deserve the wrath of God now and 
 forever." 
 
 " If I have any evidence of piety, it is that I see more and 
 more suitableness in the prayer of the Publican, to my wants ; 
 God be merciful to me a sinner." 
 
 " Do pray for me, my friends, pray much, that Christ may 
 be with me and show me mercy, for never a poor sinner need- 
 ed mercy more." 
 
 On Monday, the 28th of May, he attempted to describe to 
 his physician his sensations after taking some of his medicine ; 
 his thoughts were somewhat incoherent : he said — " O I have 
 no command of my thoughts on these subjects. God, Christ, 
 Heaven, the pardon of sin, the pardon of sin, what themes 
 are these !" 
 
 " Pray that I may be entirely resigned to the will of the 
 Lord, for his will is always good, always benevolent. But the 
 most suitable prayer for me is, God be mercifnl to me a sin- 
 ner." 
 
88 
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 " Salvation : what wonders, what glories are contained in 
 that one word ! Salvation, salvation from sin : No honor can 
 be conferred upon a sinner like this." 
 
 He was asked if he had any fears of death. He replied — 
 " I ought to have fears ; my heart and life have been such — 
 but I am by no means without hope, for 
 
 * There is a fountain filled with blood, 
 Drawn from Immanuel's veins, 
 
 And sinners plunged beneath that flood, 
 Lose all their guilty stains.' 
 
 " I feel myself a poor guilty sinner ; but Jesus Clirist came 
 into the world to save sinners, the chief of sinners." 
 
 On Tuesday morning, the 29th, he said — " The Saviour ! 
 O all heaven praises him, let the whole earth praise him, let 
 all intelligent beings praise him. Eternity is too short to 
 praise God and the Lamb." 
 
 About 8 o'clock he began to converse with the friends who 
 stood around him, and continued without much interruption 
 to address them for nearly an hour. With the same propri- 
 ety of expression, and delicate regard to their feelings, which 
 he had ever been accustomed to manifest in health, he thank- 
 ed them for all their kindness to him, bade them farewell, and 
 sent messages to absent friends. 
 
 He then with a distinct voice, repeated the following lines ; 
 
 " Jesus, lover of my soul, 
 Let me to thy bosom fly ; 
 While the nearer waters roll, 
 While the tempest still is high. 
 Hide me, oh my Saviour, hide, 
 Till the storm of life be past, 
 Safe into the haven guide, 
 O receive my soul at last. 
 
 Other refuge have I none, 
 Hangs my helpless soul on thee, 
 
MEMOIR. 89 
 
 Leave, ah leave me not alone, 
 Still support and comfort me." 
 
 " 1 am going fast, pray for me, that I may not be deceived 
 in the hope of heaven." 
 
 " I have some hope, all my hope is in the promises of God 
 in Christ Jesus." 
 
 These were the last words his lips uttered, and soon after 
 he ceased to speak, he ceased to breathe. 
 
 The kindness and attention shown to Mr. Wilcox, by the 
 inhabitants of Danbury, will be gratefully remembered by his 
 distant friends : but it was a dark and painful dispensation, 
 which led him away from those friends, to languish and die 
 among comparative strangers, while so many hearts would 
 have rejoiced to minister to his comfort, in the last sinking 
 hours ; and above all, when the tenderest of mothers, would 
 have felt half the bitterness of that bitter cup removed, if her 
 hands might have smoothed his dying pillow, and her lips re- 
 ceived liis parting breath. 
 
 The funeral was attended with great respect in Danbury, 
 and there his body was first buried. But the people to whom 
 he had sustained the relation of a pastor, desired to have his 
 dust deposited with them and their children. Accordingly 
 he was removed, and interred in the North cemetery, in Hart- 
 ford, by the side of the Rev. Dr. Strong. 
 
 In this notice of Mr. Wilcox, no attempt has been made to 
 delineate, in a formal manner, his private character. But it 
 is the recollection of his worth and loveliness in this respect, 
 that will be last to fade from the memories of those who knew 
 him intimately. The history of this beloved man, has shades 
 of sadness, and lines of mystery thrown over it, which have 
 been but imperfectly exhibited m this short sketch ; yet while 
 darkness rests upon some of the dealings of divine providence 
 with him, there is a bright side, and we may add his name, to 
 a list of his own beloved friends, to whose memory he has paid 
 a tribute in the following unfinished elegy. 
 
 12 
 
90 MEMOIR. 
 
 " Ye* were a group of stars collected hcre,t 
 
 Some, mildly gloAving, others sparkling bright ; 
 
 Here rising in a region calm and clear. 
 
 Ye shone awhile with intermingled light ; 
 
 Then parting, each pursuing his own flight 
 
 O'er the wide hemisphere, ye singly shone ; 
 
 But ere ye climbed to half your promised height, 
 
 Ye sunk again with brightening glory round you thrown, 
 
 Each left a brilliant track as each expired alone. 
 
 And now, ye live, above the starry spheres. 
 In sweet communion with the pure and blest ; 
 Ye know no earthly change of hopes and fears, 
 But all is one unbroken heaven of rest. 
 An ocean, with no wave on all its breast. 
 
 Ye dwell in love and feast upon high truth, 
 
 And share, in that bright world beyond the tomb, 
 
 Unwasting vigour, and unfading youth, 
 
 A cherub's beauty and a seraph's bloom ; 
 
 Ye err not, mourn not, fear no day of doom ; 
 
 Within your breast there's nought to wake one sigh, 
 
 Across your brow there comes no shade of gloom ; 
 
 The tear is wiped forever from your eye, 
 
 And all your souls are filled with rapture pure and high. 
 
 The letters of Mr. Wilcox have disclosed something of his 
 *' attachment to harmonious numbers," and this volume 
 would be deficient, should it be published without containing 
 some of his poetic productions. It is to be regretted that 
 though he had written much, he had finished nothing, in this 
 
 * Solomon M. Allen, Sylvester lismed, Alexander M. Fisher, Levi 
 Parsons, Pliny Fisk, Joseph R. Andrus. 
 f Andover Seminary. 
 
MEMOIR. 91 
 
 species of composition. But whatever there may be to crit- 
 icise in the Fragments he has left, there certainly are proofs 
 that his was a gifted mind. His poetic effusions are not 
 common place. They are not dull prose, made duller still 
 by the monotony of measured syllables. The living spirit of 
 poetry inspired his numbers. He had that sympathy with 
 nature which distinguishes the poet from other men, that 
 deep and incommunicable feeling, which expatiates, and de- 
 lights in her loneliest and loveliest scenes, investing with richer 
 lustre, all her bright objects, and casting a deeper shade over 
 every thing dark and mournful. These remarks are foun- 
 ded not merely on what he has written, but on an intimate know- 
 ledge of the man, his habits, and his favourite themes of con- 
 versation. A common place book, found among his manu- 
 scripts, is filled in considerable part, with an account of his 
 little excursions for relaxation and exercise, and shows how 
 his eyes and thoughts were employed during his solitary, or 
 social rambles. It is filled with descriptions of a great va- 
 riety of objects, so minute and graphic, that they cannot be 
 read without a conviction, that he looked on nature, with an 
 eye observant of all her varieties, and a heart alive to all her 
 power. He seemed to have stored in this repository, every 
 thing with which he met, that might ever be of use to him 
 as a writer, and especially, as a writer of poetry. Peculiar- 
 ities in the habits of any animal or plant, which he observed 
 in his walks, or met with in his reading ; facts illustrating the 
 workings of the human heart, the effects of the various pas- 
 sions, of natural affection and of christian principle, are 
 here noted down. And it was not merely from objects and 
 facts which would strike an ordinary observer as worthy of 
 special notice, that he collected hints and borrowed imagery 
 to be wrought into the texture, or the ornaments of poetry ; 
 but from things which by most, would have been passed as 
 common and trivial, he gathered the elements of poetry, like 
 the bee extracting honey from the unobtrusive as well as the 
 more gaudy flowers. 
 
93 
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 One who had known him long, and intimately, expressed 
 himself thus in a letter to the writer of these remarks. 
 
 ' I should call him a true poetical genius, and not a little 
 acquainted with that sort of enthusiasm, and melancholy, and 
 excitability, which sometimes attend men of genius. I used 
 sometimes to blame him for his melancholy, and think him 
 foolishly inclined to cherish and cultivate it. But I suppose 
 it may be said of him, as has been said of those of like cast of 
 mind, that he lived in a different sort of world from other 
 men, and, perhaps there were more of certain kinds 
 of satisfaction, covered up under his pensive moods, than is 
 dreamt of in the philosophy of every man. His taste was 
 refined, and delicate, almost too much so for him to write 
 with ease to himself, and perhaps, sometimes leading him to 
 undervalue the productions of his own mind. He had too 
 much sensibility for his comfort, in a world where a man 
 must be scratched every day of his life by some bramble ; 
 but as giving a cast of delicacy to his character, and a kind 
 of pathos to his thoughts, he had just about the right propor- 
 tion.' 
 
 The first eflfort of his pen in Poetry, which has been found 
 among his papers, is a piece entitled " Fancy." It was writ- 
 ten while a member of College, and spoken at an exhibition. 
 It contains 616 lines. Another, without date, containing 410 
 lines, appears to have been written about the same period, 
 under the title of the " Cottage in the West." These are 
 written in rhyme, in an easy flowing manner, and many pas- 
 sages are worthy of being preserved as specimens of youth- 
 ful genius, and real poetry. An extract from the introduc- 
 tion to the poem last named, is inserted. 
 
 ****** 
 How mildly the sun of the even, 
 Smiles back on the dew-sprinkled thorn, 
 Leaves blackness and storms in mid-heaven, 
 But bends a bright bow round its morn. 
 Thus age in the sun-set of time, 
 
MEMOIR. 93 
 
 Looks by the long blank of its noon, 
 
 To the beauties that danced in its prime, 
 
 To the rainbows that melted so soon. 
 
 The " Age of Benevolence" was commenced about the year 
 1817, and the first Book was published in 1822. This ap- 
 peared under some disadvantages. It was a part of a work, 
 and many who might have been disposed to purchase the 
 whole, did not choose to take this Fragment. Another disad- 
 vantage was, that the Title had no appropriateness to the part 
 which was published. The plan of the " Age of Benevolence," 
 as nearly as can be collected from the unfinished fragments 
 and from what is recollected in the conversation of its Au- 
 thor, was as follows : 
 
 1st Book. Benevolence, the glory of Heaven. 
 
 2d " Benevolence on earth, a resemblance of Heaven. 
 
 3d " Need of Benevolence in our world. 
 
 4th. " Rewards of Benevolence. 
 
 5th. " Triumph of Benevolence. 
 
 The outlines of this plan are announced in the beginning 
 of the first Book ; 
 
 Of true benevolence, its charms divine. 
 With other motives to call forth its power, 
 And its grand triumphs. 
 
 The reader may be gratified in seeing something more of 
 the plan of the " Age of Benevolence." To give a connected 
 view of the Work, the Argument of each Book is presented, 
 though left by the Author in an imperfect state. 
 
 The Second, Third, and Fourth Books, are written in a fair 
 hand, but as they have undergone several revisions, the last 
 corrections of their Author could not, in many places be as- 
 certained. 
 
 As a specimen of his manner of correcting, the following 
 line is given : 
 
 " Nor what the pang of thy resistless dart." 
 
94 MEMOIR. 
 
 This has these words substituted for resistless. 
 
 Nor what the pang of thy cold cruel dart. 
 Nor what the pang of thy cold piercing dart. 
 Nor what the pang of thine unerring dart. 
 
 The reasons, which influenced the writer to reUnquish his 
 plan of pubUsIiing the other Books, as was his intention when 
 the First went to the press, are in part, expressed in his let- 
 ters comprised in the Biographical Sketch. Others need not 
 be stated. 
 
 As copies of the First Book are not to be obtained, the edi- 
 tion having all been sold, it has been thought desirable to 
 preserve it in this Volume. A few Extracts from the other 
 Books are also inserted, that the Author's plan, and what 
 might have been expected had it been completed, may be 
 more distinctly known. 
 
THE AGE OF BENEVOLENCE. 
 
AGE OF BENEVOLENCE. 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 Benevolence the glory of Heaven. 
 
 THE ARGUMENT. 
 
 General subject proposed. Invocation. Subject of the first book. TJie 
 Benevolence of God in the works of nature. Illustration from an example 
 of vernal scenery. God's Benevolence, the theme of revelation. Its im- 
 mediate exercise in his providence. Its higher glory in his moral govern- 
 ment. Its highest in the work of redemption, and in the renovating effects 
 of the preaching of the cross. Objection to the Divine Benevolence from 
 the existence of sin. Another from future punishments. A third from the 
 afflictions of the pious in this life. The happy tendency of these afflictions 
 illustrated by the history of Orville and Charlotte, Importance of the doc- 
 trine of God's Benevolence. A hymn of praise. The Benevolence of an- 
 gels. That of saints in glory. 
 
 BOOK II. 
 
 Benevolence on earth the resemblance of Heaven. 
 
 THE ARGUMENT. 
 
 Contrast between this world and heaven. Nature of Benevolence: dis- 
 tinct from constitutional kindness. Not kindled by natural religion. Im- 
 planted by divine grace in the place of native selfishness. Its excellence. 
 Its power illustrated by an example. A safe-guard from tempting passions. 
 Its activity a cure for religious melancholy, 
 
 13 
 
BOOK III. 
 
 The need of Benevolence. 
 
 THE ARGUMENT. 
 
 Profanenese. Sabbath-breaking. Intemperance. Slavery. War. The 
 Heathen. 
 
 BOOK IV. 
 
 The Rewards of Benevolence. 
 
 THE ARGUMENT. 
 
 The happiness flowing naturally from the exercise of Benevolence, al- 
 ready sung, really a great reward. So is the sxiccess of benevolence, its 
 happy effects on the world. But the design of this book is to treat more at 
 large, of the absolute blessings promised by God, as the reward of well-do- 
 ing. The body to share in the glory of heaven — its resurrection certain — 
 a Spiritual body, incorruptible, glorious. Moral likeness. Freedom from 
 Borrow. Happiness from various sources — society of angels, of each other — 
 God and the Lamb the chief sources. All these enjoyments increasing, eter- 
 nal. Resurrection, the time when they that have done good will be intro- 
 duced to the consummation of all their glory — but the soul of each happy 
 at death. Death of Horatio. Christian's great and sudden change, a mo- 
 tive to activity in preparation. Negligence caused by unbelief. Faith in 
 an invisible heaven reasonable. The effects of this faith, &c. 
 
THE 
 
 AGE OF BENEVOLENCE. 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 Of true benevolence, its charms divine. 
 With other motives to call forth its power, 
 And its grand triumphs, multiplied beyond 
 All former bounds, in this its golden age, 
 Humbly I sing, awed by the holy theme ; 
 A theme exalted, though as yet unsung. 
 In beauty rich, of inspiration full. 
 And worthy of a nobler harp than that 
 From which heroic strains sublimely sound. 
 
 Thou who art only and supremelygood. 
 Thee, thee alone, with trembling T invoke, 
 From no pretended consciousness of need, 
 And for no vain imaginary aid. 
 Deign thou to smile upon my poor attempt 
 To sing the glories of thy truth and love. 
 Thyself and kingdom. With extended hand 
 Bear me along ; surround me with thy light ; 
 My heart enlarge and soften ; every power 
 Make sacred for thyself; and let thy love 
 Constrain me. Give me purity of aim. 
 By selfishness untainted, lest my lips 
 Thy truth profane. O make my whole intent, 
 Thy glory to promote by doing good ; 
 And, if successful, thine shall be the praise. 
 
100 
 
 THE AGE OF 
 
 If in the universe there be a world 
 Uncursed by sin, beyond conception fair, 
 Inhabited with intelligences pure, 
 Of more exalted nature than our own. 
 And perfect in enjoyment, what it is 
 That forms their excellence and chief delight, 
 Not one of human kind, without a soul 
 Of its sublime capacity to rise 
 Unmindful, and a heart to virtue dead, 
 Can think it vain to know, or, knowing, fail 
 To imitate. Of such a world so fair, 
 Filled with inhabitants so pure and blest. 
 And with the visible presence of the Source 
 Of all existence, long have mortals heard ; 
 And of each being in that happy world. 
 From Him who sits on its eternal throne 
 To him that holds the humblest station there, 
 Love is the bliss, the glory doing good. 
 
 Of God's benevolence, proof in his works 
 From their beginning, and in all his ways. 
 Illustrious shines. What motive, but desire 
 To give felicity, called forth his might 
 To build this fair creation ; to surround 
 His dwelling in the immensity of space 
 With orb encircling orb, to give to dust 
 The happiness of life in countless forms 
 Delightful, and to creatures rational 
 His pure immortal nature to impart ? 
 Was it his glory ? 'Twas his goodness still ; 
 For both are one, inseparably one, 
 God seeks not his, as men their glory seek ; 
 From vain ambition. Earth and heaven sublime 
 Were not created for the mere display 
 Of power and skill immeasurably great ; 
 Nor men and angels merely to admire 
 The wondrous fabric, and its Author praise 
 With lofty songs. The whole grand universe 
 Is not an empty monument of fame ; 
 Nor yet a monument, on a wide waste 
 
BENEVOLENCE. 101 
 
 Erected, for no purpose known to man. 
 'Tis not a pageant bright, o'er an expanse 
 Illimitable, moving with vain pomp, 
 In revolutions vain. The glory sought 
 In its creation, is but that which flows 
 From giving happiness with bounteous hand. 
 Its Maker, full of goodness infinite, 
 Self-moved, in acts beneficent poured forth 
 Of his abundance, as the sun, all light 
 And heat itself, cannot but shine and warm. 
 
 On each created thing within his view, 
 From the most humble to the most sublime, 
 Man while yet sinless, in a' world prepared 
 For happy innocence a fit abode. 
 Beheld, in characters entire and bright, 
 The impress of benevolence divine. 
 And e'en apostate man, by reason led, 
 Unaided reason, in a world defaced 
 For his revolt, beholds remaining marks 
 Of like benevolence, in mercy spared, 
 When just had been a universal curse. 
 Marks of its primitive glory he beholds 
 Amid its desolations, as he views 
 Among the ruins of a city, famed 
 For ancient splendour, many a precious stone. 
 And marble fragment beautifully wrought. 
 He sees them in the grateful interchange 
 Of day and night, and the propitious round 
 Of seasons ; — in the growth of forests vast 
 Where winter's cold requires the cheering flame. 
 And, when these fail, in mines of fuel found 
 Beneath earth's surface ; — in the countless streams 
 That streak its map immense, so duly ranged, 
 Like the thick branching fibres of a leaf. 
 The less along the greater on each side. 
 Watering the whole ; — in genial suns and rains. 
 Combining their sweet influences, to crown 
 The year with plenty ; — in the thousand plants 
 Of healing virtue, of all various kinds, 
 
102 THE AGE OF 
 
 Growing at hand where human pain is felt ; — 
 
 And in tlie powers by which each living thing, 
 
 Down to the meanest and the most minute, 
 
 Finds out its food, where'er its lot is cast, 
 
 Provided there. From what but kindness flow 
 
 These and like blessings ? Or if such be deemed 
 
 Means requisite existence to prolong, 
 
 E'en though unhappy, other proofs remain 
 
 Of kindness, clear to reason's naked eye. 
 
 Why this profusion in the fruits of earth, 
 
 And sweet variety, so far beyond 
 
 The mere supply of nature's simple wants ? 
 
 Why not the fruit without the fragrant flower ? 
 
 Or if the fragrance to its proper food 
 
 Attract the wandering insect, why the hues, 
 
 Their endless beautiful diversities. 
 
 Enamelling the fields and verdant groves ? 
 
 Why is man fitted to receive delight 
 
 From aught that he beholds ? Why, in its use. 
 
 Is not each sense an instrument of pain, 
 
 Instead of pleasure 1 Why with objects fair 
 
 Is the eye charmed, and with melodious sounds 
 
 The listening ear ? Why at the frugal board, 
 
 As at a banquet, is the taste regaled. 
 
 When food as well might nourish, though devoid 
 
 Of flavour, or unpleasant, and the love 
 
 Of life instinctively constrain to eat ? 
 
 'Twas pure good-will, that for ungrateful man 
 
 Enjoyment thus for its own sake prepared. 
 
 Nor less apparent is the will to bless. 
 
 In that delight inferior creatures feel ; 
 
 The sporting insects, and the warbling birds, 
 
 The bounding and the ruminating flocks, 
 
 Yea, all the tribes, that walk, or swim, or fly. 
 
 His providence the Lord of all extends 
 
 O'er all his works, not merely to uphold, 
 
 But to impart enjoyment to all ranks 
 
 Of conscious being. This his kind extent, 
 
 To unassisted reason, if not blind 
 
BENEVOLENCE. 103 
 
 From deep and wilful turpitude of heart, 
 How brightly clear, when in some rural scene 
 Blooming and sunny, fertile fields, green woods, 
 Pure air and water, with fair creatures swarm. 
 Seeming, in their exuberance of good. 
 Too full of pleasure for a moment's rest ; 
 And when this rural beauty and delight. 
 Are heightened by some renovating change. 
 From drought to showers, or from foul skies to fair ! 
 
 The spring, made dreary by incessant rain. 
 Was well nigh gone, and not a glimpse appeared 
 Of vernal loveliness, but light-green turf 
 Round the deep babbling fountain in the vale, 
 Or by the rivulet on the hill-side, near 
 Its cultivated base, fronting the south, 
 Where in the first warm rays of March it sprung 
 Amid dissolving snow : — save these mere specks 
 Of earliest verdure, with a few pale flowers. 
 In other years bright blowing soon as earth 
 Unveils her face, and a faint vermil tinge 
 On clumps of maple of the softer kind, 
 Was nothing visible to give to May, 
 Though far advanced, an aspect more like her's 
 Than like November's universal gloom. 
 All day beneath the sheltering hovel stood 
 The drooping herd, or lingered near to ask 
 The food of winter. A few lonely birds. 
 Of those that in this northern clime remain 
 Throughout the year, and in the dawn of spring, 
 At pleasant noon, from their unknown retreat 
 Come suddenly to view with lively notes. 
 Or those that soonest to this clime return 
 From warmer regions, in thick groves were seen, 
 But with their feathers ruffled, and despoiled 
 Of all their glossy lustre, sitting mute. 
 Or only skipping, with a single chirp, 
 In quest of food. Whene'er the heavy clouds. 
 That half way down the mountain side oft hung, 
 As if o'erloaded with their watery store, 
 
1^4 THE AGE OF 
 
 Were parted, though with motion unobserved, 
 
 Through their dark opening, white with snow appeared 
 
 Its lowest, e'en its cultivated, peaks. 
 
 With sinking heart the husbandman surveyed 
 
 The melancholy scene, and much his fears 
 
 On famine dwelt ; when, suddenly awaked 
 
 At the first glimpse of daylight, by the sound, 
 
 Long time unheard, of cheerful martins, near 
 
 His window, round their dwelling chirping quick, 
 
 With spirits by hope enlivened up he sprung 
 
 To look abroad, and to his joy beheld 
 
 A sky without the remnant of a cloud. 
 
 From gloom to gayety and beauty bright 
 
 So rapid now the universal change. 
 
 The rude survey it with delight refined, 
 
 And e'en the thoughtless talk of thanks devout. 
 
 Long swoln in drenching rain, seeds, germs, and buds, 
 
 Start at the touch of vivifying beams. 
 
 Moved by their secret force, the vital lymph 
 
 Diffusive runs, and spreads o'er wood and field 
 
 A flood of verdure. Clothed, in one short week. 
 
 Is naked nature in her full attire. 
 
 On the first morn, light as an open plain 
 
 Is all the woodland, filled with sunbeams, poured 
 
 Through the bare tops, on yellow leaves below, 
 
 With strong reflection : on the last, 'tis dark 
 
 With full-grown foliage, shading all within. 
 
 In one short week the orchard buds and blooms ; 
 
 And now, when steeped in dew or gentle showers, 
 
 It yields the purest sweetness to the breeze. 
 
 Or all the tranquil atmosphere perfumes. 
 
 E'en from the juicy leaves, of sudden growth. 
 
 And the rank grass of steaming ground, the air, 
 
 Filled with a watery glimmering receives 
 
 A grateful smell, exhaled by warming rays. 
 
 Each day are heard, and almost every hour. 
 
 New notes to swell the music of the groves. 
 
 And soon the latest of the feathered train 
 
 At evening twilight come ; — the lonely snipe. 
 
BENEVOLENCE. 105 
 
 O'er marshy fields, high in the dusky air, 
 Invisible, but, with faint tremulous tones, 
 Hovering or playing o'er the listener's head ; — 
 And, in mid-air, the sportive night-hawk, seen 
 Flying awhile at random, uttering oft 
 A cheerful cry, attended with a shake 
 Of level pinions, dark, but when upturned 
 Against the brightness of the western sky. 
 One white plume showing in the midst of each, 
 Then far down diving with loud hollow sound ; — 
 And, deep at first within the distant wood. 
 The whip-poor-will, her name her only song. 
 She, soon as children from the noisy sport 
 Of hooping, laughing, talking with all tones. 
 To hear the echoes of the empty barn. 
 Are by her voice diverted, and held mute, 
 Comes to the margin of the nearest grove ; 
 And when the twilight deepened into night, 
 Calls them within, close to the house she cornea, 
 And on its dark side, haply on the step 
 Of unfrequented door, lighting unseen. 
 Breaks into strains articulate and clear. 
 The closing sometimes quickened as in sport. 
 Now, animate throughout, from morn to eve 
 All harmony, activity, and joy, 
 Is lovely nature, as in her blest prime. 
 The robin to the garden, or green yard, 
 Close to the door repairs to build again 
 Within her wonted tree ; and at her work 
 Seems doubly busy, for her past delay. 
 Along the surface of the winding stream. 
 Pursuing every turn, gay swallows skim ; 
 Or round the borders of the spacious lawn 
 Fly in repeated circles, rising o'er 
 Hillock and fence, with motion serpentine, 
 Easy and light. One snatches from the ground 
 A downy feather, and then upward springs, 
 Followed by others, but oft drops it soon, 
 In playful mood, or from too slight a hold, 
 14 
 
106 
 
 THE AGE OF 
 
 When all at once dart at the falling prize. 
 The flippant blackbird with light yellow crown, 
 Hangs flattering in the air, and chatters thick 
 Till her breath fail, when, breaking off", she drops 
 On the next tree, and on its highest limb. 
 Or some tall flag, and gently rocking, sits, 
 Her strain repeating. With sonorous notes 
 Of every tone, mixed in confusion sweet, 
 All chanted in the fulness of delight, 
 The forest rings : — where, far around enclosed 
 With bushy sides, and covered high above 
 With foliage thick, supported by bare trunks, 
 Like pillars rising to support a roof, 
 It seems a temple vast, the space within 
 Rings loud and clear with thrilling melody. 
 Apart, but near the choir, with voice distinct. 
 The merry mocking-bird together links 
 In one continued song their different notes, 
 Adding new life and sweetness to them all. 
 Hid under shrubs, the squirrel that in fields 
 Frequents the stony wall and briery fence, 
 Here chirps so shrill that human feet approach 
 Unheard till just upon him, when with cries 
 Sudden and sharp he darts to his retreat. 
 Beneath the mossy hillock or aged tree ; 
 But oft a moment after rcrappears. 
 First peeping out, then starting forth at once 
 With a courageous air, yet in his pranks 
 Keeping a watchful eye, nor venturing far 
 Till left unheeded. In rank pastures graze, 
 Singly and mutely, the contented herd ; 
 And on the upland rough the peaceful sheep ; 
 Regardless of the frolic lambs, that, close 
 Beside them, and before their faces prone, 
 With many an antic leap, and butting feint, 
 Try to provoke them to unite in sport. 
 Or grant a look, till tired of vain attempts ; 
 When, gathering in one company apart, 
 All vigour and delight, away they run, 
 Straight to the utmost corner of the field 
 
BENEVOLENCE. 
 
 107 
 
 The fence beside ; then, wheeling, disappear 
 
 In some small sandy pit, then rise to view ; 
 
 Or crowd together up the heap of earth 
 
 Around some upturned root of fallen tree, 
 
 And on its top a trembling moment stand, 
 
 Then to the distant flock at once return. 
 
 Exhilarated by the general joy. 
 
 And the fair prospect of a fruitful year. 
 
 The peasant, with light heart, and nimble step, 
 
 His work pursues, as it were pastime sweet. 
 
 With many a cheering word, his willing team. 
 
 For labour fresh, he hastens to the field 
 
 Ere morning lose its coolness ; but at eve 
 
 When loosened from the plough and homeward turned, 
 
 He follows slow and silent, stopping oft 
 
 To mark the daily growth of tender grain 
 
 And meadows of deep verdure, or to view 
 
 His scattered flock and herd, of their own will 
 
 Assembling for the night by various paths. 
 
 The old now freely sporting with the young. 
 
 Or labouring with uncouth attempts at sport. 
 
 When so luxuriant, and so fair, is all 
 Of vegetative growth, and on all sides 
 Creatures so happy, single, and in groups, 
 And countless multitudes, attract the eye. 
 The thoughtfully observant, with no light 
 But that reflected hence, if such there be 
 Without that clearer light from heaven direct, 
 Cannot o'erlook the goodness of the Power 
 Invisible, that thus delights to bless. 
 
 But why at nature gaze with pagan eyes. 
 And only at her fairest happiest scenes, 
 When revelation shines, and gilds the whole ? 
 That God is good, and nothing does but good, 
 Is the one truth of his whole written word. 
 'Tis the deep root, that to this tree of life 
 All its vitality and beauty gives. 
 Turn we again to nature, with the book 
 Of inspiration open in our hands 
 
108 
 
 THE AGE OF 
 
 To be our guide, no longer need we seek 
 
 For single tokens of Jehovah's love. 
 
 All things declare it, and with accents loud 
 
 Call for loud songs of gratitude and praise. 
 
 The gifts of heaven, innumerable, descend 
 
 On all the earth, silent, and uniform, 
 
 Like dew distilling from a smiling sky, 
 
 Or like the steady falling of a shower 
 
 When the sun shines, and gilds the drops in air. 
 
 And on the quivering leaves, and bending grass. 
 
 Look where it may, the opened eye of faith 
 
 Beholds the fulness of benevolence. 
 
 And oft its overflowing, as in showers 
 
 Falling on seas, on barren rocks and sands ; — 
 
 In wholesome fruit within the wilderness, 
 
 Growing each year, and perishing uncropt ; — 
 
 In myriads of living atoms, found 
 
 In every turf, and leaf, and breath of air, 
 
 Too small indeed for unassisted sight, 
 
 But not too small to feel the good they have. 
 
 Nor yet unworthy care that knows no bound. 
 
 Illumined by the rays of truth divine, 
 
 The universe a lovely aspect wears, 
 
 From its Creator's universal smile. 
 
 About its vast circumference his arms 
 
 In tender love are stretched, in one embrace 
 
 The whole encircling, as the milky zone 
 
 Surrounds the starry firmament immense. 
 
 His six days' work completed, God ordained 
 A day of rest ; but not from further care 
 Of his creation rested he, concealed 
 In a pavilion of impervious clouds, 
 Nor, like a Hindoo deity, entranced 
 Or sleeping on some consecrated height. 
 Nor merely watching with all-seeing eye 
 The movement of his works. His outstretched hand. 
 When he had sent into the boundless void 
 The rolling spheres, dropt not to let them find 
 Their untried way, unguided, unsustained, 
 
BENEVOLENCE. 
 
 And by the force of that first impulse run 
 
 Their ceaseless round. No — had he thus withdrawn 
 
 His active power immediate, from the worlds, 
 
 Created by his might, and hid himself 
 
 Above the highest, careless of them all, 
 
 How in an instant had they burst their bond 
 
 Of sweet attraction, flying all apart, 
 
 Systems and constellations mingling wild. 
 
 And far asunder vanished into nought. 
 
 Like parted bubbles by the whirlwind driven ! 
 
 Or how had they together rushed, and sunk, 
 
 A mass of ruins, in a vortex, formed 
 
 By their own motion, into the abyss ! 
 
 Had he once turned his countenance away 
 
 From this fair earth, and from these nether skies, 
 
 And risen to show its light no more below, 
 
 Darkness and chaos had returned amain, 
 
 Closed in behind him even to his throne. 
 
 And should he now depart, no long-fixed laws 
 
 Could still preserve the spheres in harmony, 
 
 And in accustomed orbits roll them on 
 
 Through regions wide of unsubstantial air. 
 
 As when the massy weights, that move the clock 
 
 Of some superb cathedral, for its age 
 
 And sanctity a venerable pile. 
 
 By small disorder loosened from their hold, 
 
 Run down at once, with sound of rushing wheels, 
 
 While hands enormous, flying their wonted round. 
 
 Seem to the thoughtful, gazing silently. 
 
 Thus in a moment whirling months away. 
 
 So this stupendous complicate machine 
 
 Of suns and systems, wheeling round the skies, 
 
 Were but the pressure of God's finger gone. 
 
 Would on a sudden hasten to its end 
 
 With tumult loud, cut short the reign of time. 
 
 And spend its force till every motion ceased 
 
 With deadened stop. Should the Most High let loose 
 
 From his controlliiig grasp, the elements 
 
 Of this calm globe, the sea would burst its bars. 
 
 109 
 
110 
 
 THE AGE OF 
 
 And deluge every land ; or furious winds, 
 
 With earthquakes and volcanoes, rage and waste 
 
 With universal sway. Or should he leave 
 
 To work alone, what men call principles 
 
 Of animal and vegetable life. 
 
 How would the fields and forests, though arrayed 
 
 In summer's gay profusion, all at once 
 
 To wintry nakedness and gloom return, 
 
 And every creature, though with vigour flushed 
 
 Or pleasure, die as with a single stroke ! 
 
 How desolate were nature, and how void 
 
 Of every charm, how like a naked waste 
 
 Of Africa, were not a present God 
 
 Beheld employing, in its various scenes. 
 
 His active might to animate and adorn ! 
 
 What life and beauty, when in all that breathes, 
 
 Or moves, or grows, his hand is viewed at work ! — 
 
 When it is viewed unfolding every bud. 
 
 Each blossom tinging, shaping every leaf. 
 
 Wafting each cloud that passes o'er the sky, 
 
 Rolling each billow, moving every wing 
 
 That fans the air, and every warbling throat 
 
 Heard in the tuneful woodlands. In the least, 
 
 As well as in the greatest of his works, 
 
 Is ever manifest his presence kind ; 
 
 As well in swarms of glittering insects, seen 
 
 Quick to and fro within a foot of air 
 
 Dancing a merry hour, then seen no more, 
 
 As in the systems of resplendent worlds 
 
 Through time revolving in unbounded space. 
 
 His eye, while comprehending in one view 
 
 The whole creation, fixes full on me ; 
 
 As on me shines the sun with his full blaze, 
 
 While o'er the hemisphere he spreads the same. 
 
 His hand, while holding oceans in its palm, 
 
 And compassing the skies, surrounds my life, 
 
 Guards the poor rush-light from the blast of death. 
 
 O'er men and angels, and o'er all beside 
 With understanding formed and moral sense. 
 
BENEVOLENCE. 
 
 If other ranks there be, unknown on earth, 
 
 Dominion absolute the King of heaven, 
 
 In majesty maintains, but with a care «- 
 
 And tenderness parental, clainnng nought 
 
 But filial love, and that obedience, due 
 
 To excellence and kindness infinite, 
 
 Their gain to yield, their true felicity 
 
 Unspeakable and endless. Here shines out 
 
 Jehovah's glory, in his government 
 
 Of countless beings to himself allied; 
 
 Here in his moral kingdom, in its worth 
 
 All computation of created powers 
 
 Transcending far, as far as it transcends 
 
 The universe of life irrational 
 
 And senseless matter, made but for the use 
 
 Of this superior universe of minds, 
 
 And but for this preserved, ennobled thus 
 
 With grandeur, and with beauty thus adorned. 
 
 Through his intelligent creation reigns 
 
 The eternal Sovereign, with supreme control 
 
 O'er all events, all actions, and all hearts. 
 
 In pure benevolence directing all. 
 
 One object to accomplish, good immense, 
 
 The best and greatest good by boundless power 
 
 To be attained, ore'en to be conceived 
 
 By the omniscient mind. For this he doomed 
 
 Apostate angels to the pit of wo 
 
 Interminable, and the faithful fixed 
 
 In everlasting innocence and bliss 
 
 On heavenly thrones. For this alone he rules 
 
 Among the nations, here exalting one. 
 
 And there another humbling to the dust ; 
 
 Here sending peace, and there the scourge of war ; 
 
 Here planting, and there rooting out from earth. 
 
 O the consoling thought, that, from this world 
 
 With violence covered, shaken by the tread 
 
 Of giant conquerors stalking o'er its realms, 
 
 The shock of armed hosts together dashed. 
 
 The revolutions and the frequent fall 
 
 Of mighty empires, whoso will, may lift 
 
 111 
 
112 
 
 THE AGE OF 
 
 His pained eye to heaven, and find relief 
 
 In viewing there, high on a spotless throne, 
 
 A God all goodness overruling all 
 
 Himself to show, his glory to augment, 
 
 And swell the tide of happiness and praise, 
 
 To roll unmingled through eternity, 
 
 And unrestrained, when earth has passed away ! 
 
 But, far ahove all others, though sublime, 
 One grand display of goodness infinite 
 Rises to view, astonishes, attracts, 
 Commands the admiration of high heaven. 
 The gratitude of earth. All eyes at once 
 To Calvary look, for this supreme display 
 Of greatness and benevolence combined ; 
 To man's redemption from the curse deserved 
 Of death eternal, at the price of blood 
 Poured from the wounds of God's expiring Son, 
 Poured from his heart of overflowing love. 
 Here all the glories of the Godhead meet. 
 And in one splendid constellation shine ; 
 Here with consummate harmony they blend 
 Their various beauties, and together form 
 A token of mercy, thrown across that cloud 
 Suspended o'er the world, with vengeance charged, 
 Threatening destruction. Wisdom, justice, power, 
 All measureless, to this stupendous work 
 The grandeur of divinity impart ; 
 But love imparts the loveliness divine. 
 Love, love unspeakable, pervades the whole, 
 Throughout diflTusing its immortal charms. 
 Love was its source in the eternal mind. 
 And its accomplishment was wrought by love. 
 Love made the covenant ere time began, 
 And love fulfilled it at the destined hour. 
 'Twas love that wept, and agonized, and died ; 
 That rose to intercede, and judge, and reign. 
 'Tis love unquenchable, its great design 
 Pursuing still intently, that sends dow'n 
 The gracious Spirit, to constrain, and fit. 
 The guilty, proffered pardon to receive 
 
BENEVOLENCE. 
 
 The lost, salvation ; and almighty love, 
 Its work to finish, in despite of earth. 
 Sin, death, and hell, combined for its defeat. 
 Safely, triumphantly, to heaven conveys 
 Trophies innumerable, there to shine 
 Forever, to its everlasting praise. 
 
 The bleeding cross, howe'er by thankless man 
 Scorned as the monument of his deep guilt, 
 His utter helplessness, ruin entire. 
 Entire dependence on another's aid, 
 Is yet the only monument that shows. 
 In all the greatness of his high descent 
 And destiny immortal, his true worth 
 In Heaven's account. The cross, howe'er despised. 
 And to a curse perverted by the blind, 
 Is yet the only ladder to the skies. 
 For men to climb, or angels to descend. 
 Between this world and that of spirits blest. 
 Glad intercourse, without the cross, were none. 
 The earth, united by no golden chain 
 Of mercy, to the realm of innocence. 
 By none united to the throne above. 
 Would run alone its melancholy course. 
 By its Creator's never-changing frown 
 Blasted throughout, presenting to the sight 
 Of heaven's pure beings, keeping all aloof, 
 A spectacle of horror unrelieved. 
 Torn from the anchor.^ hope, a wreck immense,, 
 With what rapidity and terrible force. 
 Straight toward destruction would it drive along. 
 From its whole surface sending to the skies 
 The shrieks and wailings of despairing men ! 
 Without the radiance of ethereal day. 
 From the third heaven let down, a cheering stream. 
 Through the one skylight opened by the cross. 
 With what thick darkness were this dungeon filled,. 
 That nothing could remove and none endure ! 
 And live there those, within this heavenly light. 
 Who, fond of darkness, madly shut their eyes» 
 15 
 
 113 
 
114 
 
 THE AGE OF 
 
 And grope, at every step, in painful doubt 
 
 Which way to turn, though on the fatal brink ? 
 
 As if upon a world of one long night 
 
 A sun should rise, and its inhabitants, 
 
 In wilful blindness, should still feel their way, 
 
 Stumbling at noon. Is there, within this light, 
 
 A single eye, that overlooks the cross, 
 
 As fabled, or not needed ? Can there be 
 
 An eye, that never watered it with tears 
 
 Of penitence and love ? a stubborn knee. 
 
 That never bowed before it ? or a hand 
 
 That never clasped it with the energy 
 
 Of hope, in that glad moment when it springs 
 
 From deep despair ? O, can there be a heart, 
 
 That never, at its foot, poured out itself 
 
 In supplications, thanks, and humble vows 
 
 Of unreserved devotedness till death ? 
 
 Away with every refuge from the woes. 
 
 Here and hereafter, but the bleeding cross ! 
 
 Who flees to any other, for relief 
 
 From conscious guilt, and misery, is undone ; 
 
 Who leads to any other, them that wait 
 
 His guidance, adds their ruin to his own. 
 
 And on himself redoubled vengeance draws. 
 
 Wo to the men who tear away the cross ! 
 
 Sole prop and pillar of a sinking world. 
 
 If its foundation by unhallowed hands 
 
 Be undermined, what, what can give support ? 
 
 But, hush, my fears ! it rests not on the sand ; 
 
 The raging waves, that dash against its base, 
 
 Sink harmless, after foaming out their shame : 
 
 Quick, at the voice of the Almighty Word, 
 
 Away they shrink, their shallowness betray. 
 
 Stir up, and leave exposed to every eye. 
 
 The foulness at the bottom ill concealed. 
 
 From Calvary springs the only fount of life, 
 
 Knowledge, and truth/'celestial. Whoso drinks 
 
 Feels immortality begun within. 
 
 And his dim vision cleared from every mist 
 
BENEVOLENCE. 
 
 Of doubt and ignorance ; its virtues high 
 
 He that contemns, is wholly dead at heart, 
 
 And, in a maze of errors without end 
 
 Bewildered, darkling winds his joyless way. 
 
 Divine Redeemer, thou art truth itself; 
 
 In thee are found its sum and living source, 
 
 Its boundless and inestimable stores. 
 
 They that forsake thee, that with hands profane 
 
 From thee thy uncreated glory wrest, 
 
 Thy independent throne, and in the pride 
 
 Of false philosophy, refuse to sit 
 
 Meek learners at thy feet, how fast they pass 
 
 From one delusion to another worse. 
 
 Gone, from the earliest hesitating thought 
 
 Of leaving thee, well nigh beyond the hope 
 
 Of restoration, as if left in turn ! 
 
 One step from thee, thy Godhead, and thy cross 
 
 Inseparable, and down a steep descent, 
 
 Down, down they go, with bold and bolder strides, 
 
 Till, all restraint thrown off, one desperate plunge 
 
 Sink them below the light of truth and heaven, 
 
 In the dread gulf of infidelity, 
 
 The fatal gulf Between this rayless depth, 
 
 And that celestial height, from which they leap 
 
 Who once from thee depart, exists no ground 
 
 On which to rest ; all is but empty air ; 
 
 In which wide void each pause the falling make, 
 
 Is but a transient hovering on the wing. 
 
 Saviour of men, almighty as thou art, 
 
 And infinite in mercy, to thy throne. 
 
 Though human argument and friendship fail, 
 
 Restore the wandering, there to kneel again 
 
 In adoration, and repeat the praise 
 
 Of thy divine perfections, once their song. 
 
 Turn back the tide of error flowing wide. 
 
 Bearing away the boundaries of truth 
 
 For ages fixed, the enclo^re breaking down 
 
 Of many a garden planted by thy hand. 
 
 Laying it open to the world's wide waste. 
 
 UH 
 
116 
 
 THE AGE OF 
 
 'Tis when the cross is preached, and only then, 
 That from the pulpit a mysterious power 
 Goes forth to renovate the moral man. 
 The cross imparts vitality divine, 
 And energy omnipotent, to truth ; 
 To its whole system, ineffectual else, 
 Inanimate. He that, without it, wields 
 The sacred sword, at best, in mock display, 
 A useless weapon flourishes in its sheath ; 
 None feel its edge, none fear it. Men there are, 
 Men of illustrious name, that have employed 
 Years in portraying to admiring crowds. 
 In vivid colours, with the magic hand 
 Of genius guided by refining taste, 
 The loveliness of virtue, and of vice 
 The hideous features, and in urging all. 
 With eloquent tongue, to make the happy choice, 
 And, at the end, with grief and self-reproach. 
 Have looked around in vain for the reformed. 
 On all the moral field within its reach. 
 Their beautiful philosophy has fallen 
 Powerless, as moonlight cold on the oold snow. 
 Convinced at length of this its impotence. 
 And taught divinely to proclaim instead 
 Messiah crucified, on the same field 
 With joy have they beheld an aspect new, 
 From fruits abundant of immortal growth. 
 When amid frozen seas, mountains of ice. 
 And all the horrors of a polar clime, 
 Moravia's humble but heroic sous 
 The bold attempt began, truth to make known 
 To the besotted Greenjander, and lead 
 His feet into the path of virtue and life. 
 They pointed to the heavens thick set with stars. 
 All, to the least, twinkling with vivid beams, 
 Presenting a whole living firmament 
 Through the clear atmosphere, intensely cold, 
 Of his long wintry night ; and to the sun, 
 Duly returning to spread o'er his vales 
 
BENEVOLENCE. 117 
 
 A sudden, transitory, summer smile : — 
 To these, and objects visible like these, 
 His eye they long directed, and from them 
 To their Creator laboured long to raise 
 His grovelling thoughts, devotion to inspire. 
 And teach obedience; while with stupid awe 
 He gazed and listened, or with wonder wild, 
 But still to vice remained a willing slave, 
 Till, of success from efforts thus pursued 
 Despairing, they conducted him at once 
 A ruined wretch to Calvary, when with guilt 
 He trembled at the sight, melted in love, 
 '^ Shook off the long-fixed clinging habit of sin, 
 And from his bestial degradation rose 
 To intellectual and virtuous life. 
 What though the cross, presented to the view 
 With all the humbling but momentous truths 
 Inscribed on it, offend tlie pride of man ? 
 Shall it be hidden, or its truths effaced ? 
 Shall dying men be pleased rather than saved 1 
 When one who traverses some polar waste, 
 Feels the benumbing influence of the cold 
 Steal o'er him in a grateful drowsiness, 
 Too strong to be resisted, and repays 
 With bitter words, while sinkihg in the snow, 
 The efforts of his comrades to alarm 
 And rouse him, or support and drag him on, 
 Is it philanthrophy to please, or save ? 
 Will not their hated care be recompensed, 
 When, borne beyond the danger, and restored 
 To feeling and to reason, he pours forth 
 The weeping gratitude of a full heart 1 
 And will the kind severity, that seeks 
 To rescue those seized by a lethargy, 
 Ending, not broke, in ever-dying death, 
 Receive a recompense of thanks less rich 
 From the delivered ? Or the transient scoff 
 Of those delivered never, can this pain 
 Like their eternal curse, and that of Heaven, 
 
nS THE AGE OF 
 
 For ministering an opiate to the soul, 
 
 To gain its momentary favour here ? 
 
 Cruel the tenderness, that whispers peace 
 
 To men at war with their Redeemer, men 
 
 Who scorn his clemency, and dare his wrath ! 
 
 And O how false the friendship, that unites 
 
 Preacher and hearer in the ruinous work 
 
 Of mutual flattery ! — that together joins 
 
 The sacred guide, and those who make him theirs, 
 
 In travelling merrily on the high way 
 
 Of sin and error, as the path to heaven. 
 
 Praising its breadth and smoothness, each in turn 
 
 Cheering and cheered, deceiving and deceived, 
 
 Undoing and undone ! Learn'd he may be. 
 
 And eloquent, who yet the name deserves 
 
 Of a false teacher, false in head and heart ; 
 
 But learning, with its boasted powers, arrayed 
 
 Against the sweet simplicity of truth, 
 
 And eloquence from counterfeited warmth, 
 
 The painted passion of a mind at ease, 
 
 How vain and pitiful in all their pride ! 
 
 He is the true ambassador of Heaven, 
 
 Whose learning is the knowledge of the truth, 
 
 Whose eloquence is that of piety 
 
 Enlightened and impassioned — now a flame 
 
 Of pure devotion rising to the skies. 
 
 And now a stream of pure benevolence 
 
 Poured down on man. Of such the mighty theme, 
 
 That takes supreme possession of the soul. 
 
 The bosom swelling, glowing on the lips, 
 
 Is Christ, the Lord of Life, dying to give 
 
 Blest immortality to wretched foes ; 
 
 Exchanging, in the plenitude of love. 
 
 His own imperishable crown of light 
 
 For man's mock diadem of wreathed thorns. 
 
 The praise of angels for the scoff" of worms, 
 
 The infinite beatitude of heaven 
 
 For pain unutterable on the cross. 
 
 In man's redemption what o'erwhelming proof 
 
BENEVOLENCE US 
 
 Of God's benevolence ! From first to last 
 
 'Tis one stupendous scheme for doing good. 
 
 'Tis not the power and wisdom, though immense, 
 
 But the unfathomable depth of love. 
 
 In it disclosed, that makes it what it is, 
 
 The hope of earth, the glory of the skies, 
 
 Of both the wonder. Needless 'tis to seek 
 
 Beyond it, for the excellence supreme 
 
 Of heaven's Almighty, and his chief delight. 
 
 But here, as if intent on robbing God 
 Of goodness, in revenge for being compelled. 
 Against the strongest wishes to confess 
 E'en his existence, with a fiendlike joy 
 The infidel exclaims, and thousands, wronged 
 In their own view if ranked with him, repeat, 
 With the same spirit the presumptuous cry. 
 Why were men ruined only to be saved 1 
 Why all destroyed that part might be restored ? 
 No answer needs perversion of the truth 
 So wilful, and its authors look for none. 
 Content with the relief of vented hate. 
 With thoughts less impious, others fondly ask. 
 Why was man suffered to destroy himself ? 
 Why was there one by previous wickedness 
 Prepared to tempt him to the fatal deed ? 
 Slept the Most High, while Satan, full of guile. 
 Lurked in the bowers of Eden, to seduce 
 From their allegiance the first happy pair ? 
 And after their revolt did he awake 
 Like one surprised, and, not to be quite foiled 
 By what was done and could not be undone, 
 Resolve on their redemption as a shift. 
 The best expedient of a straitened mind. 
 An unforeseen dilemma to escape ? 
 Or held he, when rebellion in the breasts 
 Of angels rose, the reins of government 
 With hand relaxed, till sin had worked its way 
 Into the heart of heaven ? and then in wrath 
 Resumed he them with more determined grasp. 
 
120 
 
 THE AGE OF 
 
 To drive it thence 1 Lacked he the knowledge, power, 
 
 Or vigilance, its entrance to prevent ? 
 
 If not, why left he, in the universe, 
 
 One door unbarred, by which this enemy 
 
 Could gain admission? Why not shut it out 
 
 From his whole kingdom with a single word, 
 
 As he excludes it now, and will henceforth. 
 
 From all the heavenly regions ? Other cause 
 
 Than his eternal will, acting in view 
 
 Of good to be effected by its means 
 
 Under his fullcontroul, is sought in vain 
 
 By groping mortals. Of its origin. 
 
 Its first conception in a heart upright. 
 
 And in the power, too, of the Holy One, 
 
 They nothing know, and nothing need to know, 
 
 But that, created free, angels and men 
 
 Fell from the height of rectitude and bliss 
 
 Divinely pure, by their own willing act, 
 
 Nor thwarted in the least God's perfect plan 
 
 Unalterable, nor involved in guilt 
 
 His character with theirs, A mystery this ! 
 
 A truth to be believed, and not explained ! 
 
 The proud demand of mortals, that its depths 
 
 Be fathomed, and laid open to their view, 
 
 To gain their faith, is vain impiety. 
 
 'Tis prompted by a wish to take the throne. 
 
 And, knowing good and evil, be as gods. 
 
 Rather should thanks be offered, that while here 
 
 That only is revealed to claim their thoughts, 
 
 Which leads to present duty, and prepares 
 
 For an eternity of light and joy. 
 
 It best befits them, with absorbing awe, 
 
 Childlike simplicity of mind and heart, 
 
 And meek dependence on the Spirit of truth 
 
 For needful aid, to make it their employ 
 
 To learn what their Creator has declared 
 
 In his pure oracles, and that receive 
 
 Without a doubt or murmur, nor inquire 
 
 Beyond it for the secrets of his will. 
 
BENEVOLENCE. 
 
 On many a sacred page resemblance clear 
 Of that sublimer good, from sin controlled 
 By God's benevolence to be secured 
 To his great kingdom, shines in some event 
 Of transient date. The picture is complete ; 
 A hand divine has given, with matchless skill, 
 The last bright touches ; and their beauty strikes 
 More for the previous shades and darker ground. 
 The whole transaction meets the view at once ; 
 And, nothing doubting what part to ascribe 
 To guilty men, what to their righteous King, 
 We render homage, willing or constrained, 
 To his transcendent grace, their wickedness 
 Controlling, and directing to produce 
 A tenfold blessing for the curse they meant : 
 Their malice, burning only to destroy, 
 He overrules in clemency to save. 
 All darkness seems at first, and all along 
 The following course ; but on the close is poured 
 A flood of light, whose splendour, shining back 
 O'er the past gloom, reveals to our dim eyes 
 The golden thread of providence benign 
 Through the dark tissue drawn, and brighter far 
 Than if around it all had been as bright. 
 
 Since, then, in the events of days and years 
 Our faint and limited vision oft discerns 
 Evil, as used by the all-wise Supreme, 
 To greater good redounding, wherefore doubt 
 The like result of that grand system, formed 
 Of these combined, as ocean of its drops ? 
 Will goodness infinite expend itself 
 On these inferior parts, and leave the whole 
 Without its care, to a disastrous fate ? 
 If either, sure the former were o'erlooked 
 By heaven's great Monarch. Of his kind regard 
 Both, as they need, receiving, both e'en now 
 Were seen to be o'erruled alike for good 
 Were they alike complete, and brought within 
 The sphere of vision now the lot of man. 
 16 
 
 121 
 
1^ THE AGE OF 
 
 Of God's whole plan, in its infinitude 
 Of length and breadth, how little, in this state 
 Of imperfection, can we mortals know ! 
 What influence of great moment hid from us 
 The part revealed may have beyond itself, 
 On universal being, none can tell. 
 In his obscure economy below, 
 Designs the Governor of all may have, 
 Of which no human mind has ever dreamed. 
 Earth, with its mingled scenes of good and ill, 
 Judgment and mercy, to the universe 
 For which he acts, may bear, beside its known, 
 Other relations, of extent immense, 
 And infinite weight. Were myriads of stars 
 Made but for nightly lamps to this one globe. 
 When hung so high in the cerulean vault. 
 That all the feeble scattered rays, prolonged 
 Down to this depth, scarce make the darkness less 1- 
 And when a single orb, low in the sky, 
 Outshines them all ? If, rather, like our own, 
 Suns to attendant spheres they kindly roll ; 
 Rising and setting to give interchange 
 Of light and darkness ; vallies, hills, and plains 
 Clothing with yearly or perrennial fruits. 
 And flowery verdure ; shine they not to bless 
 Creatures of rational immortal kind. 
 Throughout their wide dominion ? Or has God, 
 All spirit and intelligence himself, 
 And these esteeming infinitely best 
 Of all his works, and when recorded stands 
 His declaration, that he formed the earth 
 To be inhabited, and not in vain, 
 Built the whole fabric of celestial orbs 
 But to exist a mass of matter void, 
 A wilderness enormous, where are none 
 Of the delightful sights and sounds of life. 
 But awful silence, splendid barrenness 
 And desolation ? Ill conceived of thee, 
 Father of lights ! Thy wisdom prompts the thought 
 
BENEVOLENCE. 123 
 
 That here must be the populous abodes 
 
 Of beings, formed to serve thee, and enjoy. 
 
 These all, perhaps, are sinless, and now reap 
 
 The fruits of their obedience ; — feel no pain 
 
 And fear no evil ; in communion live 
 
 With God and angels ; and, forever near 
 
 The world of glory, bask in its full blaze. 
 
 And he, in understanding, may not err. 
 
 More than in heart, who oft, at peaceful eve. 
 
 Looks on the sky as filled with peopled orbs. 
 
 Whence universal hymns of praise ascend 
 
 To the third heaven — till, earth and e'en himself 
 
 Forgetting, living like a spirit free. 
 
 In thoughts ethereal rapt, he seem to hear 
 
 The distant melody. As in a day, 
 
 When earth is darkened by thick stormy clouds. 
 
 The sun, above those clouds, shines unobscured. 
 
 Covering their restless waves with changing hues, 
 
 Spangles, and rainbows ; and on high is nought 
 
 But one immensity of radiance bright, 
 
 Of clear and tranquil beauty one expanse ; 
 
 So, in the intelligent creation, all 
 
 Beyond this world and that of hell beneath. 
 
 Beyond the gloom that overhangs this scene, 
 
 All may be light, and purity, and peace, 
 
 And perfect loveliness. This, and the world 
 
 Infernal, may then, haply, be set forth 
 
 Examples for the subjects of a realm 
 
 Extended o'er the globes, the systems wide. 
 
 Lighted by eighty millions of bright suns. 
 
 Whose beams the telescope has brought to earth, 
 
 And by those millions more, in the blue deep 
 
 Yet undescried— examples for their good ; 
 
 The one of justice, for their warning given ; 
 
 The other of sweet mercy, for their faith. 
 
 The Ruler of a kingdom thus immense 
 
 In its extent, and weighty in its charge. 
 
 Might deem it best that his whole character 
 
 Be tried and proved ; that righteousness and grace, 
 
124 THE AGE OF 
 
 Seeming at variance, be together brought 
 In union wonderful, and thus displayed, 
 Before all eyes, in living monuments, 
 Like other attributes in other works. 
 
 But cease these fancies ! death may dissipate 
 The whole at once, for a more glorious scene. 
 To firmer ground I gladly turn for rest. 
 Though on this theme, the wonder of the sage 
 In every country, and the scoff of fools, 
 In spite of reason and conjecture, much 
 Remain unsolved, and must while time endures, 
 Enough is seen in providence, and fixed 
 By sacred promise, for unwavering trust. 
 Till the full end, when vision will be full. 
 Assured that sin the limit cannot pass 
 Of Heaven's permission, that omnipotence 
 Has bounded its proud waves, and that, at length, 
 The eternal Being, who surveys the end 
 From the beginning, will reveal its use. 
 In that superior good, to be wrought out . 
 From all its evil, wherefore should we scorn 
 The wisdom bidding us our murmurs hush 
 And vain alarms, renounce our arguments 
 And fond surmises, and in silence wait 
 Till the great terminating scene arrive ? 
 Why should we be like savages untaught, 
 Who, while the sun is shrouded in eclipse, 
 Raise their tumultuous outcries, thence to drive 
 The fancied monster, in their narrow view 
 Extinguishing the luminary of day, 
 When standing still an hour, with watching eye. 
 Would show him moving onward as before. 
 With lustre unimpaired ? Why should we fear 
 The blotting or diminishing of the light 
 Of heaven and earth, the glory of their King, 
 Ere the result of what may seem awhile 
 Mysterious interruption ? Why pronounce 
 The scheme of providence in aught unwise 
 Or undesirable, till it be known 
 
BENEVOLENCE. 
 
 E'en to the end ? The end is coming on ; 
 The issue of these mixed events below, 
 The winding up of all terrestrial scenes ; 
 The day of consummation ; — solemn close 
 Of past eternity, of that to come 
 Beginning grand ; — a common centre, both 
 In one uniting, like a strait between 
 Two shoreless oceans, at which all things meet, 
 Their only passage ; — rendezvous sublime 
 Of angels and of men, in that dead pause 
 Between the old creation and the new, — 
 What time harmonious orbs in stillness wait, 
 Their changes broken, for Jehovah's voice 
 To bid their moving concert be resumed ; — 
 Of all things, great and small, evil and good, 
 A full review, when the first heaven and earth 
 Have pass'd away, and ere a second rise. 
 
 The set time this to ope the sealed book 
 Of providence, before assembled worlds. 
 Come all and meditate the wondrous scenes, 
 The joyful and the terrible, that pass 
 In order, at the opening of each seal. 
 See the disclosure, now, of hidden things 
 In God's impartial plan ; of others, wrapt 
 In dubious gloom the evolution full. 
 See now the clearing up of time's dark day. 
 The clouds dispersed, the elements at rest. 
 And all more beautiful than ere the storm : 
 The sun sends forth a brighter blaze of beams ; 
 Glad nature rings with more melodious notes ; 
 And sweeter smiles, with renovated charms. 
 Beneath a purer and serener sky. 
 
 Thus when this growing system is mature ; 
 When it has reached its limits, and the day 
 Set for the full review of its concerns 
 Varied and countless, has arrived, and passed, 
 Then shall the morning of eternity, 
 Its inexpressible perfection show. 
 'Tis now like the creation in the midst 
 
 125 
 
126 THE AGE OF 
 
 Of that eventful week, in which the work 
 Was in its progress under God's right hand, 
 But half completed ; when illumined here, 
 There darksome still ; exulting here with life, 
 There wholly desolate ; here finely formed, 
 And there yet shapeless. But, as at the end 
 Of that grand period the Creator viewed. 
 With infinite delight, his finished works, 
 And their surpassing excellence pronounced. 
 So shall it be at the concluding scene 
 Of checkered time. Then, too, the morning stars 
 Shall sing together ; the bright sons of God 
 Shall shout for joy ; and heaven a loud response 
 From all her ransomed multitudes resound. 
 
 Now from all quarters of the universe. 
 Streams of pure glory, due to Him who thus 
 In the supremacy of goodness reigns. 
 Come pouring into paradise, that vast 
 And central ocean. At the gathering flood 
 Transported gaze, they, who for this result 
 Waited with humble confidence in time. 
 Of the Most High, his various works and ways. 
 Immeasurably more they now behold 
 In one glad hour, than, in their mortal state, 
 Imagination, though by faith enlarged. 
 And purified by love, had e'er conceived. 
 All former knowledge shrinks to nothing now. 
 The wisest of astronomers, when a child, 
 What knew he of the sun, and starry hosts 1 — 
 Their revolution, distance, magnitude. 
 And order intricate and yet complete ? 
 What saw he in the lighted sky at eve, 
 But twinkling sparks, as in the dusky air. 
 Almost within the reach of his fond hands. 
 Thrown upward in the wildness of delight ? 
 A Newton in his infancy, is he. 
 Who, while on earth, is future heir of heaven. 
 Yet, when, in full maturity, he comes 
 To his inheritance, he but begins 
 
BENEVOLENCE. 12T 
 
 The glories of the Godhead to discern, 
 
 And of a few know something ; destined thence 
 
 To make sublime advances without end, 
 
 In this the only knowledge of true worth. 
 
 More of that universal government, 
 
 Established and administered in love, 
 
 He still discovers, after ages spent 
 
 In contemplation on the wondrous theme. 
 
 As up the heights of immortality 
 
 He climbs unwearied, to his ravished eye 
 
 The prospect larger grows on every side, 
 
 The firmament swells upward and around. 
 
 While its apparent splendours every hour 
 
 In number and in brilliancy increase. 
 
 Thus, in progression endless, toward the Source 
 
 Of light, move onward all the saints above. 
 
 With joyful ardour, never to be quenched. 
 
 But where are now the men of stubborn heart, 
 Who, all the season allotted to make peace 
 With their Creator, placable though just. 
 Stood out against him ? In what guise appear 
 Before the last tribunal, they, who oft. 
 Despising faith where comprehension fails. 
 At reason's bar pronounced their Judge unjust, 
 Because his footsteps were unsearchable. 
 Now in the clouds, and now along the deep ? 
 They stand convinced, appalled, and silently 
 Await their doom. Now the rebellious words, 
 Utter'd against the providence of Heaven, 
 Whene'r it frown'd on them, or seem'd to frown, 
 Like arrows impiously and vainly shot, 
 By Thracians, at the lowering thundercloud 
 When low and near, on their own heads return 
 In righteous vengeance. Now in agony 
 They own the justice of the Lord of all. 
 While under its condemning power they sink 
 To uttermost perdition, the desert 
 Of unrepented sin, their destiny 
 Ordained by thee, thou Arbiter supreme. 
 
128 THE AGE OP 
 
 The certainty, and rectitude, of this 
 
 Thy dread decree, what mortal dare deny ? 
 
 Great Lawgiver of all worHs, 'tis thine to fix 
 
 The statutes of thy kingdom, and enforce 
 
 Their due observance, by the penalty 
 
 In thy unerring wisdom deem'd the best. 
 
 No pleasure from the misery of his foes 
 Can God derive ; His character and word 
 Forbid, that, like a tyrant, he should feast 
 Upon their torments. His benevolence, 
 Shown in the blessings lavished on them here ; 
 In that transcendent gift, forfeited heaven 
 To purchase for them ; in the offer made 
 Of pardon on repenting, made again 
 Oft as rejected, with entreaties pressed 
 And warnings merciful, forbids the thought. 
 But from their punishment, in its effects 
 Upon a government with wisdom planned, 
 He does derive such pleasure as becomes 
 A gracious Monarch, who the welfare loves 
 Of his whole kingdom, more than that of those 
 Who break its sacred laws, madly abuse 
 All clemency, and enemies remain 
 Incorrigible. 'Tis the general weal, 
 That calls for vengeance on the rebel's head. 
 Thus justice to benevolence is changed, 
 And judgment into mercy. Hell is made 
 The woful dungeon of the universe, 
 Where universal foes, and only such. 
 In sad imprisonment forever lie. 
 Its depths were hollowed out, its gloomy walls 
 Raised, for the peace of heaven ; and for the peace 
 Of God's whole empire they remain, and will 
 Until rebellion be no more a crime. 
 Those everduring chains were forged in love 
 Impartial ; perfect goodness binds them on, 
 And turns the fatal key, that locks up all. 
 Who enter once that dreadful gate, unlocked 
 To none returning. To the inmost seat 
 
BENEVOLENCE. 139 
 
 Of feeling tortured by this thought, how writhe 
 
 The guilty sufferers ! Could they but discern, 
 
 On the white throne above, the slightest stain 
 
 Of cruelty or injustice, 'twere enough 
 
 To give them fortitude to bear the worst. 
 
 But how can they be strong, in hand or heart, 
 
 To suffer or resist, when they behold 
 
 Benevolence and equity combined, 
 
 In their eternal exile from the climes 
 
 Of light and happiness ? How can they meet 
 
 Love armed in the dread panoply of wrath, 
 
 To take its righteous vengeance ? How endure 
 
 From their Redeemer to receive their doom ? 
 
 How can they stand before the Lamb incensed ? 
 
 The meek, the spotless, self-devoted Lamb ? 
 
 How will it give to their despair a sting 
 
 Of keen and piercing agony, to think 
 
 That He, who on the seat of judgment high, 
 
 Arrayed in robes of majesty supreme, 
 
 Sits to condemn them, is that Prince of Peace, 
 
 Who once, in accents of compassion sweet, 
 
 Of weeping condescension infinite. 
 
 Pleaded for their acceptance of his love ! 
 
 Ah me ! what bitterness, to drink, and drink 
 
 Forever, of the cup of penal wrath 
 
 Unmingled, from the hand that once held out 
 
 The cup of free salvation ; from that hand, 
 
 Which always gladly healed the broken heart, 
 
 And bound up all its wounds ; from that same hand 
 
 Once stretched upon the cross, streaming with blood ! 
 
 If, in that great development to come. 
 Of all things hidden, sin reflect no blame 
 On heaven's high Ruler, then will misery none ; 
 For, sin admitted, misery should ensue, 
 Whither it goes should follow, where it dwells 
 Should with it dwell, inseparably joined ; 
 A world of guilt should be a world of pain. 
 And if, from the insufferable woes 
 Of an undone eternity, no cry 
 17 
 
130 THE AGE OF 
 
 Of just reproach ascend to heaven, then none 
 From all the slight calamities of time 
 - Can e'er ascend. But wherefore will not God, 
 E'en now, from ills, on others brought, exempt 
 The offspring of regenerating grace, 
 The children of his love ? Imperfect yet, 
 They need the chasteningsof paternal care, 
 To save them from the wily blandishments 
 Of error, and to win their hearts away 
 From the polluting, ruining joys of earth. 
 Though from its height of sole authority. 
 O'er all the moving principles within. 
 Sin be deposed, it struggles to regain 
 Its lost dominion, till they half consent, 
 When all their trust is not in borrowed might. 
 To yield the conflict. Though his head be crushed, 
 The serpent lives, and shows what spite he can. 
 E'en till their sun go down. Not chastened then. 
 No proof were given they were not past reform, 
 And left as reprobate, to be prepared 
 By mercies for an aggravated doom. 
 See they not often now, and will they not 
 Hereafter see, that when they murmured most 
 They should have sung the highest notes of praise ? 
 When from the skies they cast a look below, 
 Methinks they will esteem their path too smooth 
 And level, for transgressors bound to heaven. 
 O, had it been a steeper, rougher ascent, 
 Then had they risen more rapidly, and gained 
 An exaltation of superior bliss ! 
 Becomes it them, to eye with sad distrust, 
 That hand of a compassionate Parent, laid 
 Heavily on them, while for their support 
 His other is extended underneath, 
 And filled with richer blessings in reserve ? 
 Should they not rather welcome the kind stroke, 
 That humbles but to fit them for a throne ? 
 Should they not even beg their heavenly Guide 
 To bar up, or to plant with thorns, each path, 
 
BENEVOLENCE. 
 
 However flowery, that would lead astray ; 
 
 And to imbitter all forbidden fruit 
 
 Soliciting their taste, however fair 1 
 
 Were not the world to them unlovely made, 
 
 Heaven were forgotten, or without desire 
 
 Remembered, and without foretasting faith. 
 
 Like the thick grove, that only when deprived 
 
 Of its gay foliage, through it shows, beyond, 
 
 Green fields, the ocean, the resplendent sky, 
 
 Earth must be stript of charms, to let them see 
 
 The loveliness of paradise beyond, 
 
 The vast bright prospect of eternity. 
 
 Were nothing but enjoyment theirs below, 
 
 Were all prosperity, their hearts were here, 
 
 And here their portion. Were they undisturbed, 
 
 Their day of trial were spent in fatal sleep. 
 
 'Tis when the world disowns them, turns them out 
 
 From every resting place as none of hers, 
 
 That they pursue with quick and vigorous step 
 
 Their pilgrimage, and muse upon its end 
 
 With panting hope and elevating joy. 
 
 When by affliction purified, and weaned 
 
 From sublunary toys, with what delight 
 
 They cleave to Him in whose embrace is found 
 
 The only rest, and welcome the approach 
 
 Of that great change of being, to be passed 
 
 Only to wing them for a speedy flight 
 
 Into his unveiled presence, there to find 
 
 Pleasures augmented by griefs left below ! 
 
 There, long possessed, the due inheritance 
 
 Of angels, whom no suffering ever reached, 
 
 Is sweet indeed ; but, the reward of saints, 
 
 Rest after toil, and after conflict peace. 
 
 Light out of darkness, out of sorrow joy, 
 
 Life from the grave, and paradise from earth. 
 
 Nay, from the brink of hell, how passing sweet I 
 
 There with what loveliness the spirit shines. 
 
 When, through afflictions, from defilement deep 
 
 Raised to angelic purity, from death 
 
 131 
 
133 
 
 THE AGE OP 
 
 To the perfection of celestial life ! 
 
 So from the filthy bottom of the pool, 
 
 Up through its waters, to the surface springs 
 
 The lily, and there blooms a perfect flower, 
 
 Of brilliant whiteness, beautifully pure. 
 
 And what more lovely object here below. 
 
 Or more exalted, than a mortal, weak 
 
 And tender, looking upward in the midst 
 
 Of painful visitations, with an eye 
 
 By faith illumined, and a brow serene 
 
 From heartfelt peace and acquiescence full 
 
 In Heaven's high will ; and out of deep distress 
 
 Rising invigorated, and prepared 
 
 For generous deeds impossible before ? 
 
 'Tis resignation, so unfeigned, entire, 
 
 And happy, by severe affliction proved. 
 
 When nature in her tenderness resists. 
 
 That shines the fairest victory of grace. 
 
 In early wedlock joined, when all things wore 
 An aspect bright with promised happiness, 
 Orville and Charlotte were a pair beloved 
 For intellectual and moral worth ; 
 For knowledge, both the useful and refined. 
 Taste uncorrupt, feeling benevolent. 
 Sweetness of temper, gentleness of mien, 
 And undissembled piety, the soul 
 Of all their virtues. Undisturbed, awhile, 
 In their felicity, they passed along. 
 One in their studies, duties, pleasures pure, 
 Guiding and guided each, blessing and blessed. 
 Sweet intercourse between congenial minds ! 
 And sweeter interchange of kindred hearts ! 
 Together they with like devotion scanned 
 The heavenly orbs, traversed the map of earth 
 With equal skill, dwelt on her history 
 With like astonishment at human crimes 
 And God's forbearance, to exalted verse 
 Gave vocal melody with equal gust. 
 Nor did they for the fashionable muse 
 
BENEVOLENCE. 
 
 The classic quite forsake. Nigh them they kepi 
 
 The poet of humanity and truth, 
 
 Of simple nature and religion pure, 
 
 The lovely Cowper ; and, at every word 
 
 Against his fame, felt wounded in a friend. 
 
 Nor to the crowded shelf, to be forgot, 
 
 Was Milton e'er removed ; — seraphic bard ! 
 
 Sweetly sublime, in paradise above ! 
 
 In paradise below, sublimely sweet ! 
 
 There lofty numbers, and melifluous here, 
 
 Grandeur and beauty every where, command 
 
 Breathless attention, and within them wake 
 
 Those finer strings, that, at the thrilling touch 
 
 Of mighty genius, quiver with keen delight. 
 
 Together over flowery fields and woods 
 
 They rambled, in the not unuseful search 
 
 Of plants to be inspected in each part. 
 
 With nicety botanic ; nor e'en passed 
 
 Unheeded any delicate shapely brake. 
 
 Or tuft of moss, upon bleak mountain rocks, 
 
 Like frostwork, fine, and white, and crumbling quick 
 
 Beneath the foot ; on the low shady bank, 
 
 Like velvet, green and soft, or like a grove 
 
 Of pines inch-high, with noiseless pliancy 
 
 All bending prostrate at the lightest tread, 
 
 Or gentlest pressure of the stroking hand. 
 
 Then with elastic liveliness again 
 
 Rising unhurt. Not less in these minute. 
 
 Than in the vast of the Creator's works. 
 
 They loved to trace his hand, in every touch 
 
 Inimitably fair. The house of want. 
 
 Of ignorance, of mourning, of disease. 
 
 Together oft they humbly cheered with alms, 
 
 Instruction, sympathy, attendance kind. 
 
 Each weekly and each daily season, made 
 
 Sacred to acts of worship, with delight 
 
 Duly observing, oft, at other limes. 
 
 They knelt together in devotion sweet. 
 
 As aught of signal interest called for thanks. 
 
 133 
 
J "^4 THE AGE OF 
 
 Or supplications of appropriate warmth ; 
 
 And oft, at other times, together sung, 
 
 Not unassisted by the solemn chord, 
 
 Anthems of praise. Thus happily they lived. 
 
 Till, in their arms, a second pleasant babe 
 
 With a faint smile intelligent began 
 
 To answer theirs, and with a brighter that 
 
 Of its fond sister, standing by their side, 
 
 With frequent kisses prattling in its face ; 
 
 While in its features, with parental joy, 
 
 And love connubial, they began to mark 
 
 Theirs intermingled ; — when, with sudden stroke. 
 
 The blooming infant faded, and expired. 
 
 And soon its lonely sister, doubly dear 
 
 Now in their grief, was in like manner torn 
 
 From their united grasp. With patience far 
 
 Beyond her years, the little sufferer bore 
 
 Her sharp distemper, while she could behold 
 
 Both parents by her side ; but, when from sleep 
 
 Transient and troubled waking, wept aloud, 
 
 As terrified, if either were not there. 
 
 To hear their voices singing of the love 
 
 Of her Redeemer, in her favourite hymn, 
 
 And praying for his mercy, oft she asked 
 
 With eagerness, and seemed the while at ease. 
 
 When came the final struggle, with the look 
 
 Of a grieved child, and with its mournful cry. 
 
 But still with something of her wonted tone 
 
 Of confidence in danger, as for help. 
 
 She called on them, on both alternately, 
 
 As if by turns expecting that relief 
 
 From each the other had grown slow to yield ; 
 
 At which their calmness, undisturbed till then, 
 
 Gave way to agitation past control. 
 
 A few heart-rending moments, and her voice 
 
 Sunk to a weak and inarticulate moan. 
 
 Then in a whisper ended ; and with that 
 
 Her features grew composed and fixed in death ; 
 
 At sight of which their lost tranquillity 
 
BENEVOLENCE. 135 
 
 At once returned. 'Twas evening ; and the lamp, 
 
 Set near, shone full upon her placid face. 
 
 Its snowy .white illuming, while they stood 
 
 Gazing as on her loveliness in sleep, 
 
 The enfeebled mother on the father's arm 
 
 Heavily hanging, like the slender flower 
 
 On its firm prop, when loaded down with rain 
 
 Or morning dew ; and laying her pale cheek 
 
 Upon his shoulder, with the simple air 
 
 Of infant weakness and dependence sweet. 
 
 Their lifeless child they tenderly bemoaned, 
 
 Yet opened their sad hearts, and not in vain, 
 
 To holy consolation from on high. 
 
 With unrepining sorrow, they beheld 
 
 That little cherished frame of beauteous clay 
 
 Apparelled for the grave, and covered deep 
 
 In its cold bosom. When, day after day. 
 
 No cheering sound of playful childhood broke 
 
 The stillness of their dwelling, and they felt 
 
 The new uneasiness of empty arms, 
 
 They sometimes wept together, but in tears 
 
 Showed a submissive look, almost a smile. 
 
 Now came the last and sorest in the train 
 
 Of their afflictions, the dissolving blow 
 
 To nature's first and most endearing ties. 
 
 By her loved little ones, ere yet the turf 
 
 Upon their graves its unsoiled green regained, 
 
 Charlotte, the amiable wife was laid ; 
 
 And thus the partner of her bosom left, 
 
 To mourn in solitude the loss of all. 
 
 By her bed side, with unremitted care, 
 
 In all her painful sickness, day and night, 
 
 He watched, anticipating every want, 
 
 And sharing every pang. From a full heart, 
 
 Now audibly, now silently he poured 
 
 Incessant supplications for her life. 
 
 Or happiness in death ; and when the hope 
 
 Of her recovery failed, with gratitude 
 
 He saw unshaken to the last, her trust 
 
I3C 
 
 THE AGE OF 
 
 In His compassion, whom in health she served 
 
 With willing mind. Her end was full of peace, 
 
 Fitting her uniform piety serene. 
 
 'Twas rather the deep humble calm of faith. 
 
 Than her high triumph ; and resembled more 
 
 The unnoticed setting of a clear day's sun, 
 
 Than his admired departure in a blaze 
 
 Of glory bursting from a clouded course. 
 
 When from her burial to his home returned 
 
 The broken-hearted Orville, and beheld 
 
 Around all still, all desolate within, 
 
 A feeling of his utter loneliness 
 
 Rushed on his soul with overwhelming power. 
 
 Entering his door ungreeted and unmet, 
 
 Missing her face that always brightened quick 
 
 At his approach, her voice that sweeter grew, 
 
 On the first seat presented, down at once. 
 
 As if all strength were in a moment gone. 
 
 He sunk, dissolving in a flood of tears ; 
 
 Then, rising suddenly, walked to and fro. 
 
 And in impassioned accents mourned aloud. 
 
 When at his table, in her wonted seat 
 
 He first beheld another ; when he saw 
 
 The last unfinished labours of her hand ; — 
 
 Her needle, pen, and pencil, at his wish, 
 
 Untouched remaining, just as left by her ; — 
 
 And when he cast an eye upon her plants 
 
 Perrenial, and her aromatic shrubs. 
 
 In their neat vases, left unwatered long. 
 
 Dropping untimely leaves and blighted buds ; 
 
 His rising grief no effort could suppress. 
 
 If in his house, through its disordered rooms, 
 
 He wandered, or through alleys weedy grown 
 
 In his neglected garden, or along 
 
 The sylvan walks of her accustomed choice, 
 
 At every step, some object called to mind 
 
 Her worth, or her affection, and thus kept 
 
 Opening afresh the wound within his breast. 
 
 Yet though severely pained, he ne'er refused, 
 
BENEVOLENCE. 
 
 In sullen or in passionate despair, 
 The sympathy of friendship ; ne'er returned 
 With coldness the warm pressure of the hand, 
 Nor heard unmoved from undissembling lips 
 Gentle condolence. E'en the pity shown 
 By giddy youth, in checking their loud mirth 
 While passing his lone dwelling, with an eye 
 Turned toward it oft, attracted by the sight 
 Of doors all closed and window curtains down, 
 Touched him with grateful joy, while it awaked 
 A sigh at the remembrance of his loss. 
 But other consolation, far above 
 Whate'er this world of vanity can yield, 
 He needed, with etherial fervour sought, 
 And in abundance found. So full his trust, 
 So high his joy, in Him, whose government 
 Is always equitable, always good, 
 And to the penitent of human kind 
 In all things merciful, that they who looked, 
 At first, to see his tender nature sink. 
 Ere long with admiration saw it changed 
 To exalted firmness ; — not, indeed, his own ; 
 Not the quick growth of philosophic pride, 
 But of the infused virtue of that grace 
 From heaven descending. In his grief, he seemed 
 Like the young tree, bowed low, as from its top 
 Some strong hand tears away the clinging vine. 
 Breaks by degrees the innumerable ties 
 Of branches and soft tendrils intertwined, 
 But, when quite parted, rising, and, despoiled 
 Of all its own with all its borrowed bloom, 
 Standing, in naked loneliness, sublime. 
 Thus stript, a solitary being, left 
 To feel united to the earth no more 
 By any outward bond, he looked on all 
 That he possessed, once valued for the sake 
 Of others dearer than himself, as now 
 No longer his, to be enjoyed alone ; 
 And with a richer treasure in his view, 
 18 
 
 137 
 
138 
 
 THE AGE OF 
 
 Restored it to the Giver, to augment 
 
 The knowledge of his will, and of his grace 
 
 The victories, among immortal men. 
 
 Not in a fit of discontented gloom, 
 
 But with the sober constancy of faith. 
 
 He viewed himself thenceforth a stranger here, 
 
 And looked on all the world, in all its charms, 
 
 As nought to him, intent upon his home. 
 
 And on whatever intervening means 
 
 Might best and soonest fit him for its joys. 
 
 By learning and meek piety prepared 
 
 To be the messenger of truth and grace. 
 
 Now doubly by affliction, and desire 
 
 Benevolent kindled to a quenchless flame. 
 
 And inly prompted by the Spirit divine 
 
 Inhabiting his bosom, forth he went 
 
 From all the abodes of elegance and ease, 
 
 To publish in tVie wilderness, to men 
 
 In mind and manners rude, dwelling in huts 
 
 Uncouth and comfortless, the welcome words 
 
 Of heavenly mercy, through the ransom high 
 
 On Calvary paid. From hardships, that would once 
 
 Have crushed him, gathering vigour in his course, 
 
 Onward till death, in this angelic work. 
 
 He pressed, with growing ardour and delight. 
 
 When in the great assembly of the just. 
 
 Walking in white, — his happy wife and babes. 
 
 Beautiful cherubs, smiling at his side, — 
 
 He meets with those by his exertion saved. 
 
 Beholds their glory, hears their rapturous songs, 
 
 And, forward looking with an angel's ken 
 
 Along the vista of unlimited years, 
 
 Contemplates their uninterrupted march 
 
 In excellence and bliss, and in them views 
 
 Immortal trophies of the Prince of Life, 
 
 Forever yielding honour to the love 
 
 Omnipotent of this his dearest friend, 
 
 'How will the day of his bereavement here, 
 
 Like morning, break from its terrestial gloom, 
 
BENEVOLENCE. 139 
 
 And shine of all his days most luminous 
 In heaven's reflected and concentred light ! 
 And how will his unchanging confidence 
 In God's mysterious goodness, with its fruits 
 Of rich and lasting growth, the height sublime 
 Of wisdom prove, and virtue, to the joy 
 Triumphant of his never-ending life ! 
 
 If such the future good, the giory bright. 
 The bliss ineffable, of them that bear, 
 With holy fortitude of heart, the ills 
 Of vile mortality, and rise beneath 
 The accumulated weight to higher deeds, 
 Then let the deepest in affliction lift 
 The drooping head, beneath the heaviest load, 
 And, fired with hope, run with unfaltering step 
 Their sublunary course. The woes of earth 
 ' May thicken, and severer grow, till death ; 
 But that last pang, like the last paroxysm 
 Of some long painful dream, waking the soul 
 To life and transport, makes amends at once 
 For all past sufferings, in a moment all 
 Forgotten in that plenitude of joy. 
 And if so glorious be the end of faith, 
 In that good providence, minutely employed 
 On its possessor ; faith in God's kind care 
 Of his great kingdom of victorious grace, 
 With what transcendent glory will it reach 
 Its consummation ! Of this last reward 
 E'en now the frequent prelibation cheers 
 The saddened spirit, when events within 
 This rising kingdom, seeming for a while 
 Disastrous, turn to unexpected good, 
 In greatness and extent surpassing far 
 The threatened ill. The good man, eminent 
 In station and endowments, one to whom 
 The virtuous of whole nations look with joy 
 And expectation high, dies in the prime 
 Of active excellence ; but soon, to calm 
 The general grief, and all distrust reprove. 
 
140 
 
 THE AGE OF 
 
 From his removal are divinely wrought, 
 And visibly to all, effects above 
 The highest ever hoped from life prolonged. 
 Few are the days, in which the friends of man, 
 With looks of fearful sorrow, when they meet, 
 Untimely and calamitous pronounce 
 His early death. On all the darkness thick. 
 Involving it at first, light shines anon, 
 With added glory ; as when radiance bright. 
 After the sun's departure in deep gloom. 
 Suddenly shines on all the clouds of heaven. 
 And adds a splendour richer than of day. 
 In grand pre-eminence o'er every truth 
 Rises the goodness, pure and measureless. 
 Of that eternal Being, in whose hands 
 Are all things, at his sole disposal held, 
 And with a grasp that nothing can resist. 
 No matter what is truth, if this be not ; 
 All is forever lost ; despair like death 
 Reigns, and a horror of great darkness spreads, 
 O'er a lost universe. If this be truth. 
 No matter what is not; all, all is safe ; 
 The living light of hope creation cheers. 
 This is enough for creatures of the dust 
 To know of their great Maker ; of his will 
 And providence, in all their mysteries. 
 Let this suffice the wavering to confirm, 
 To hush the murmuring, and the sinking raise ; 
 To drive from every breast rebellious thoughts 
 And sorrowful, and win the love supreme 
 Of every heart, the confidence entire ; 
 And into each infuse divine delight, 
 Unmingled and unfailing as its source. 
 Sublimer consolation heaven has none 
 To give to mortals, no sublimer joy 
 For angels, than from the assurance flows, 
 That all is goodness in the government. 
 And in the character, of Him who reigns 
 Head over all things ; that his holiness 
 
BENEVOLENCE. 
 
 Ts but benevolence kindled to a flame, 
 Refining and consuming for like end, 
 His wisdom but the knowledge and the will 
 To make the height of happiness secure, 
 His justice a wall of fire about his throne 
 To guard it from defilement ruinous. 
 His truth the immutability of grace. 
 And his omnipotence the might of love. 
 
 Great is thy goodness, Father of all life, 
 Fount of all joy. Thou high and holy One, 
 Whom not thy glorious sanctuary, heaven. 
 Can e'er contain ; Spirit invisible. 
 Whose omnipresence makes creation smile, 
 Great is thy goodness, worthy of all praise 
 From all thy works. Then let earth, air, and sea ; 
 Nature, with every season in its turn ; 
 The firmament, with its revolving fires ; 
 And all things living ; join to give thee praise. 
 Thou glorious sun, like thy Original, 
 A vital influence to surrounding worlds 
 Forever sending forth, yet always full ; 
 And thou fair queen of night, o'er the pure sky, 
 Amid thy glittering company of stars. 
 Walking in brightness, praise the God above. 
 Ocean, forever rolling to and fro 
 In thy vast bed, o'er half the hollowed earth ; 
 Grand theatre of wonders to all lands. 
 And reservoir of blessings, sound his praise. 
 Break forth into a shout of grateful joy. 
 Ye mountains, covered with perennial green, 
 And pouring crystal torrents down your sides ; 
 Ye lofty forests, and ye humble groves ; 
 Ye hills, and plains, and valleys, overspread 
 With flocks and harvests. All ye feathered tribes, 
 That, taught by your Creator, a safe retreat 
 Find in the dead of winter, or enjoy 
 Sweet summer all your days by changing clime. 
 Warble to him all your melodious notes ; 
 To him, who clothes you with your gay attire, 
 And kindles in your fluttering breasts the glow 
 
 141 
 
142 THE AGE OF 
 
 Of love parental. Beasts, thai graze the fields, 
 Or roam the woods, give honour to the Power, 
 That makes you swift to flee, or strong to meet, 
 The coming foe ; and rouses you to flight 
 In harmless mirth, or sooths to pleasant rest. 
 Shout to Jehovah with the voice of praise. 
 Ye nations, all ye continents and isles. 
 People of every tongue ; ye that within 
 The verdant shade of palm and plantain sit. 
 Feasting on their cool fruit, on torrid plains ; 
 And ye that in the midst of pine-clad hills, 
 In snowy regions, grateful vigour inhale 
 From every breeze. Ye, that inhabit lands, 
 Where science, liberty, and plenty dwell, 
 Worship Jehovah in exalted strains. 
 But ye, to whom redeeming mercy comes. 
 With present peace, and promises sublime 
 Of future crowns, and mansions in the skies, 
 Imperishable, raise the loudest song. 
 O, sing forever, with seraphic voice. 
 To Him, whose immortality is yours, 
 In the blest union of eternal love ! 
 And join them, all ye winged hosts of heaven. 
 That in your Maker's glory take delight ; 
 And ye, too, all ye bright inhabitants 
 Of starry worlds ; and let the universe, 
 Above, below, around, be filled with praise. 
 
 Though held thus long in contemplation sweet 
 On heaven's high King, I may not leave his court 
 Till I have marked the godlike myriads 
 Of bright intelligences, that attend 
 In state celestial, ranged in order round 
 His throne adoring ; at his bidding fly, 
 Swiftly and silently as beams of light. 
 From world to world, to execute his will ; 
 From their creation this their blest employ. 
 And theirs for an eternity to come. 
 Not from the need of their almighty Lord, 
 To propagate the impulse of his hand 
 Beyond its reach, serve they throughout his realm. 
 
BENEVOLENCE, 
 
 Nor is his service deemed a menial task ; 
 
 'Tis their high privilege, their whole delight. 
 
 Were they disbanded, and employed no more, 
 
 Their hearts would pine as o'er departed bliss, 
 
 Their station forfeited, their glory lost. 
 
 On errand sent of love or righteous wrath. 
 
 They oft appeared on earth, from that sad hour 
 
 When cherubs stood to guard, with sword of flame. 
 
 Fair paradise and its live-giving tree 
 
 From all access of banished ruined man, 
 
 To that most memorable day, when heaven 
 
 Sent down the flower of her exulting hosts. 
 
 To celebrate his birth in Bethlehem born. 
 
 Him they acknowledged as their Sovereign still, 
 
 Though clad in flesh, and to his human wants 
 
 Administered while in the lonely wild, 
 
 Strengthened his mortal frame when in the shades 
 
 Of sad Gethsemane it almost sunk, 
 
 Borne down by that insufferable load 
 
 Of a world's guilt ; and legions, hovering near, 
 
 Gazing with trembling wonder, waited leave 
 
 To screen from danger his devoted head, 
 
 And pour contempt and ruin on his foes. 
 
 In shining garments mighty angels came, 
 
 To ope the tomb, and hail their rising Lord ; 
 
 And came again — let gently down to earth 
 
 The golden cloud that bore him up the sky, 
 
 And them who gazed of his last coming warned. 
 
 That coming all his angels shall attend, 
 
 The trump to sound, and gather his elect 
 
 From the four winds, ere his avenging wrath 
 
 Come on the world, and bury it in flames. 
 
 Meanwhile they minister to saints below, 
 
 The tempted to deliver, and to guide 
 
 The wandering ; hope to whisper to the sad, 
 
 And to the dying peace. Round the death bed 
 
 They take their stand, with wings invisible 
 
 And noiseless fan upon the burning brow 
 
 The cooling air, and light the lifted eye 
 
 With glimpses of celestial glory bright. 
 
 143 
 
144 
 
 THE AGE OF 
 
 They wait, with arms extended, to receive 
 The liberated spirit, and up to climes 
 Of immortality, their happy home, 
 Bear it with the rapidity of thought. 
 Benevolence reigns a passion in their breasts. 
 While in the presence of their King they stand, 
 Begirt to fly the moment when he bids. 
 It spreads their pinions, quickens, and supports, 
 And guides them far and wide, on every wind, 
 Downward, and upward, and along the earth 
 From land to land, wherever virtue dwells. 
 Listening delighted, in assemblies, met 
 To join entreaties for the coming quick 
 Of the great kingdom of redeeming love. 
 They mingle ; and in those of every name, 
 Combined its promised welfare to promote. 
 They cheer with glad attendance them that go, 
 Life to the dying nations to proclaim ; 
 And with the tidings of each penitent 
 Hasten to heaven, to give new rapture there. 
 And if o'er one regenerated soul 
 They all rejoice, what shouts of joy, increased 
 A thousand fold, shall burst from glowing lips, 
 Ring round and round the everlasting hills, 
 From choir to choir repeated long and loud. 
 And swell the whole grand chorus of the skies. 
 When in one day a nation shall be born ! 
 A Gabriel's now is every humbler harp. 
 And his attuned to notes unheard before. 
 If angels bear a beggar to the skies, 
 If they have borne home solitary saints. 
 Amidst unholy millions well nigh lost, 
 How will the air and heavens be all alive. 
 With motion swifter than the lightning flash, 
 From their ascending and descending bands. 
 Meeting, and intermingling, night and day. 
 When from each shore, and island of the sea. 
 And mount, and vale, around the populous globe, 
 Spirits regenerate shall depart each hour. 
 In all a countless throng ! From heaven to earth 
 
BENEVOLENCE. 145 
 
 Pass and repass bright angels, in a train 
 
 So constant, and so thick, they lighten up 
 
 Another galaxy along the sky, 
 
 A radiant pathway o'er the starry realm 
 
 To realms of bliss. Behold the saints ascend, 
 
 No longer one by one, and far apart ; 
 
 They go in companies, they fly like clouds 
 
 Of sunny whiteness, on a vernal day. 
 
 Hurrying in thick succession o'er the heavens ; 
 
 In one continual multitude they rise. 
 
 Oft hovering for a moment, on their way. 
 
 To clap their pinions with triumphant joy. 
 
 Angels attend them ; angels, too, on watch, 
 
 Look from the garnished battlements of heaven. 
 
 Their coming to proclaim, soon as beheld, 
 
 Far down, a living constellation, fast 
 
 Ascending, widening, brightening, shedding light 
 
 On the dim orbs that roll around its path. 
 
 Their city's twelve transparent gates of pearl, 
 
 Till this glad day all barred save one alone. 
 
 Angels with joyful haste throw open wide. 
 
 To let whole armies in ; and angels pour 
 
 From each, to greet them, with endearing words, 
 
 And smiles benignant ; and through dazzling ranks, 
 
 Into the centre of their blest abode. 
 
 Before that face whose glory is their sun, 
 
 Conduct them, all, with tuneful voices loud, 
 
 And the sweet symphony of golden harps, 
 
 Uniting in hosannas to the Lamb. 
 
 While thus with all the native sons of heaven. 
 In their adoring acclamations, join 
 Those ransomed from the earth, they feel the fire 
 Of their benevolence, in its purity. 
 Burning within, enkindling joy like theirs. 
 And prompting to like action. Yes, the love 
 Of giving and beholding happiness. 
 First wakened in their hearts amid the sins. 
 The griefs, and frailties, of mortality. 
 When these remain no more to chill its zeal, 
 19 
 
146 THE AGE OF BENEVOLENCE. 
 
 Shall live, the bosom's sole inhabitant ; 
 
 There reign, and to angelic fervour rise. 
 
 Love is the only amaranthine flower, 
 
 In this inclement world, this land of death. 
 
 While faith and hope, are blasted in the grave, 
 
 The wintry grave, with other flowers of time, 
 
 Thou, sacred charity, shalt still survive, 
 
 And in a soil and clime, where all is life, 
 
 Shalt grow, and flourish, in eternal spring. 
 
 And with unwasting sweetness fill the groves 
 
 And vales of paradise. There all is love. 
 
 In every happy breast, through every rank. 
 
 E'en to the humblest ; love without a taint 
 
 Of hidden selfishness, without a drop 
 
 Of bitterness, from fear, or hope deferred. 
 
 None pine with jealousy, at sight of bliss 
 
 Their own transcending. To behold a crown 
 
 Of fairer light than theirs, or hear a harp 
 
 More tuneful, wakens discontent in none. 
 
 But livelier joy. The happiness of each 
 
 Is ever that of all. Love makes the heaven 
 
 Of every bosom ; gives to every face 
 
 Its winning beauty, to the cheek its bloom 
 
 Unfading, to the lips their living glow. 
 
 Its pure etherial lustre to the eye, 
 
 And to the whole its everlasting smile. 
 
 On all the multitudes, spread o'er the plains 
 
 Of immortality, from his high throne 
 
 The God of love, through the transparent cloud 
 
 Of glory round him, cast^ a fixed look 
 
 Of calm complacence, in their union sweet 
 
 Rejoicing, in their charity sublime, 
 
 In their consummate likeness to himself 
 
 END OF BOOK I. 
 
THE 
 
 AGE OF BENEVOLENCE. 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM BOOK II. 
 
 Descending to this sublunary orb, 
 From the third heaven th' empyreal realm of love, 
 Its native element, (sublimely pure. 
 And all pervading) how am I thrown, 
 As from the glowing centre of the sun, 
 Down to earth's frozen and benighted pole. 
 
 Will no kind visitant from heaven, reveal 
 By what unerring sign apostate man 
 May know himself preparing to regain 
 Lost paradise, its innocence and bliss ? 
 Tis nothing less than that same image lost. 
 Effaced by sin, newstamp'd upon the soul. 
 What else, but God's own likeness, could prepare 
 Angel or man, his presence to enjoy ? 
 What, but the temper of the heavenly world 
 Could fit a being to be happy there ? 
 This temper and that likeness meet in love. 
 Love is the watch-word at the gate of heav'n. 
 Religion comes to mortals richly fraught 
 With this celestial grace, and scatters round 
 Its heav'n-born fragrance in this distant soil, 
 As spices, when exposed in foreign climes, 
 Breathe out the native odours of their own. 
 
148 
 
 THE AGE OF 
 
 Time well employ'd is Satan's deadliest foe : 
 It leaves no opening for the lurking fiend : 
 Life it imparts to watchfulness and prayer, 
 Statues, without it in tlie form of guards. 
 
 The closet which the saint devotes to prayer, 
 Is not his temple only, but his tower. 
 Whither he runs for refuge, when attack'd, 
 His armory, to which he soon retreats 
 When danger warns, his weapons to select, 
 And fit them on. He dares not stop to plead 
 When taken by surprise and half o'ercome. 
 That now to venture near the hallow'd place 
 Were but profane ; a plea that marks a soul 
 Glad to impose on conscience with a show 
 Of humble veneration, to secure 
 Present indulgence, which, when once enjoy'd, 
 It means to mourn with floods of bitter tears. 
 
 The tempter quits his vain pursuit and flies. 
 When by the mounting suppliant drawn too near 
 The upper world of purity and light. 
 He loses sight of his intended prey. 
 In that effulgence beaming from the throne 
 Radiant with mercy. But devotion fails 
 To succour and preserve the tempted soul, 
 Whose time and talents rest or run to waste. 
 Ne'er will the incense of the morn diffuse 
 A salutary savour through the day. 
 With charities and duties not well filled. 
 These form the links of an electric chain 
 That join the orisons of morn and eve, 
 And propagate through all its several parts. 
 While kept continuous, the etherial fire ; 
 But if a break be found the fire is spent. 
 
 Too long I've wandered, though by truth led on 
 But still the strong enchantment which unmana 
 
BENEVOLENCE. 149 
 
 The pensive lovers of the calm sublime, 
 And which, unbroke, upon the lap of ease 
 Lays them to sleep, wrapt up in selfish gloom 
 Unmindful of the claims of social life, 
 Demands regard, ere yet I quite return. 
 
 How rich in scenes that nurse in pensive souls 
 A tenderness voluptuously soft. 
 Till grown to indolent and morbid gloom. 
 Fatal to active usefulness, to peace with heaven. 
 Is nature's varied field. A mind in love 
 With mournful musing, never turns in vain 
 To nature for some dear congenial scene ; 
 But scenes there are, so fraught with soothing power. 
 They woo the pensive mind when unemployed. 
 
 A sultry noon, not in the summer's prime 
 When all is fresh with life, and youth, and bloom. 
 But near its close when vegetation stops, 
 And fruits mature, stand ripening in the sun. 
 Sooths and enervates with its thousand charms, 
 Its images of silence and of rest. 
 The melancholy mind. The fields are still ; 
 The husbandman has gone to his repast, 
 And, that partaken, on the coolest side 
 Of his abode, reclines, in sweet repose. 
 Deep in the shaded stream the cattle stand, 
 The flocks beside the fence, with heads all prone 
 And panting quick. The fields for harvest ripe, 
 No breezes bend in smooth and graceful waves, 
 While with their motion, dim and bright by turns, 
 The sun-shine seems to move ; nor e'en a breath 
 Brushes along the surface with a shade. 
 Fleeting and thin, like that of flying smoke. 
 The slender stalks, their heavy bended heads 
 Support as motionless, as oaks their tops. 
 O'er all the woods the top-most leaves are still. 
 E'en the wild poplar leaves, that, pendant hung 
 By stems elastic, quiver at a breath. 
 Rest in the general calm. The thistle down 
 
1'><J THE AGE OF 
 
 Seen high and thick, by gazing up beside 
 Some shading object, in a silver shower 
 Plumb down, and slower than the slowest snow, 
 Through all the sleepy atmosphere descends ; 
 And where it lights, though on the steepest roof, 
 Or smallest spire of grass, remains unmoved. 
 White as a fleece, as dense and as distinct 
 From the resplendent sky, a single cloud 
 On the soft bosom of the air becalmed. 
 Drops a lone shadow as distinct and still, 
 On the bare plain, or sunny mountain's side ; 
 Or in the polished mirror of the lake, 
 In which the deep reflected sky appears 
 A calm sublime immensity below. 
 
 ****** Beneath a sun 
 
 That crowns the centre of the azure cope, 
 
 A blaze of light intense o'erspreads the whole 
 
 Of nature's face ; and he that overlooks. 
 
 From some proud eminence, the champaign round, 
 
 Notes all the buildings, scattered far and near, 
 
 Both great and small, magnificent and mean, 
 
 By their smooth roofs of shining silver white, 
 
 Spangling with brighter spots the bright expanse. 
 
 No sound, nor motion, of a living thing 
 
 The stillness breaks, but such as serve to soothe 
 
 Or cause the soul to feel the stillness more. 
 
 The yellow-hammer by the way-side picks, 
 
 Mutely, the thistle's seed ; but in her flight, 
 
 So smoothly serpentine, her wings outspread 
 
 To rise a little, closed to fall as far. 
 
 Moving like sea-fowl o'er the heaving waves. 
 
 With each new impulse chimes a feeble note. 
 
 The russet grasshopper, at times, is heard, 
 
 Snapping his many wings, as half he flies. 
 
 Half hovers in the air. Where strikes the sun 
 
 With sultriest beams, upon the sandy plain, 
 
 Or stony mount, or in the close deep vale, 
 
BENEVOLENCE. 151 
 
 The harmless locust of this western clime, 
 At intervals, amid the leaves unseen. 
 Is heard to sing with one unbroken sound, 
 As with a long-drawn breath, beginning Low, 
 And rising to the midst with shriller swell. 
 Then in low cadence dying all away. 
 Beside the stream collected in a flock, 
 The noiseless butterflies, though on the ground. 
 Continue still to wave their open fans 
 Powder'd with gold ; while on the jutting twigs 
 The spindling insects that frequent the banks, 
 Rest, with their thin transparent wings outspread 
 As when they fly. Oft times, though seldom seen. 
 The cuckoo, that in summer haunts our groves, 
 Is heard to moan, as if at every breath 
 Panting aloud. The hawk in mid-air high, 
 On his broad pinions sailing round and round. 
 With not a flutter, or but now and then, 
 As if his trembling balance to regain. 
 Utters a single scream but faintly heard, 
 And all again is still. The cooling shade 
 The listless rambler seeks, perhaps beside 
 Sad willows planted round the garden pool. 
 Whose slender leaves and long untapering limbs 
 Hanging plumb down with gracefulness, 
 Drip with a constant shower of scattered drops 
 Hung from the spouting column in the midst ; 
 Or in the forest by the clear cold rill, 
 That falls in short cascades as by thick steps 
 Down the long steep, mid slaty stones o'ergrown 
 With fresh green moss, beneath the umbrage dark 
 Of pine and fir : while oozing from the rocks 
 Trickle cold springs, and on the banks, the cups 
 Of flowers unsunned, day after day, retain 
 The rain of heaven. Here musing he reclines, 
 Cooled by the freshness, by the murmurs lulled, 
 And softly saddened by the verdant gloom. 
 At evening in the unfrequented door, 
 
152 THE AGE OF 
 
 Fronting the west, he takes his wonted stand;, 
 
 Leaning against the post with folded arms ; 
 
 Or at his chamber window, open thrown. 
 
 He seats himself, his forehead bared to meet 
 
 Each cooling breeze, his elbow on the sill, 
 
 And his bare temple resting on his palm. 
 
 He looks abroad and much he finds to please 
 
 A soul depressed and sink it lower still. 
 
 The meadows are no longer spangled bright 
 
 As ere mid-summer, with the nightly swarms 
 
 Of fireflies thick, whose intermittent sparks 
 
 Direct the hands of childhood, following close 
 
 To catch them as they climb the blades of grass, 
 
 Or flit along the air. Now other swarms 
 
 Of various insects in the grass unseen, 
 
 Sooth with a dull monotony of sounds ; 
 
 Some shriller than the rest in minute strains 
 
 Trilling alone; and some without a stop 
 
 All night prolonged in feeble plaintive tones 
 
 Continuous as the throbbings of the pulse 
 
 And similar as they. Far off and lowjir 
 
 The horizon, from a sultry cloud 
 
 Where sleeps in embryo the mid-night storm, 
 
 The silent lightning gleams in fitful sheets. 
 
 Illumes the solid mass, revealing thus 
 
 Its darker fragments, and its ragged verge ; 
 
 Or if the bolder fancy so conceive 
 
 Of its fantastic forms, revealing thus 
 
 Its gloomy caverns, rugged sides and tops 
 
 With beetling cliffs grotesque. But not so bright 
 
 The distant flashes gleam as to efface 
 
 The window's image on the floor impressed, 
 
 By the dim crescent ; or outshines the light 
 
 Cast from the room upon the trees hard by, 
 
 If haply to illume a moonless night 
 
 The lighted taper shine ; though lit in vain 
 
 To waste away unused, and from abroad 
 
 Distinctly through the open window seen 
 
BENEVOLENCE. 153 
 
 Lone, pale, and still as a sepulchral lamp. 
 
 The sultry summer past, September comes, 
 Soft twilight of the slow-declining year. 
 All mildness, soothing loneliness and peace ; 
 The fading season ere the falling come. 
 More sober than the buxom blooming May, 
 And therefore less the favorite of the world. 
 But dearest month of all to pensive minds. 
 Tis now far spent ; and the meridian sun 
 Most sweetly smiling with attempered beams 
 Sheds gently down a mild and grateful warmth. 
 Beneath its yellow lustre groves and woods 
 Checkered by one night's frost with various hues, 
 While yet no wind has swept a leaf away. 
 Shine doubly rich. It were a sad delight 
 Down the smooth stream to glide, and see it tinged 
 Upon each brink with all the gorgeous hues, 
 The yellow, red, or purple of the trees 
 That singly or in tufts or forests thick 
 Adorn the shores ; to see perhaps the side 
 Of some high mount reflected far below 
 With its bright colours, intermixed with spots 
 Of darker green. Yes it were sweetly sad 
 To wander in the open fields and hear 
 E'en at this hour, the noon-day hardly past. 
 The lulling insects of the summer's night ; 
 To hear, where lately buzzing swarms were heard, 
 A lonely bee long roving here and there 
 To find a single flower, but all in vain ; 
 Then rising quick and with a louder hum. 
 In widening circles round and round his head. 
 Straight by the listener flying clear away. 
 As if to bid the fields a last adieu ; 
 To hear within the woodland's sunny side, 
 Late fall of music, nothing save perhaps 
 The sound of nut-shells by the squirrel dropt 
 From some tall beech fast falling through the leaves. 
 20 
 
154 
 
 THE AGE OF 
 
 The sun now rests upon the mountain tops ; 
 Begins to sink behind — is half concealed, 
 And now is gone : the last faint twinkling beam 
 Is cut in twain by the sharp rising ridge. 
 Sweet to the pensive is departing day 
 When only one small cloud so still and thin, 
 So thoroughly imbued with amber light. 
 And so transparent, that it seems a spot 
 Of brighter sky, beyond the farthest mount 
 Hangs o'er the hidden orb; or where a few 
 Long narrow stripes of denser, darker grain. 
 At each end sharpened to a needle's point 
 With golden borders, sometimes straight and smooth 
 And sometimes crinkling like the lightning stream, 
 A half hour's space above the mountain lie ; 
 Or when the whole consolidated mass 
 That only threatened rain, is broken up 
 Into a thousand parts, and yet is one. 
 One as the ocean broken into waves ; 
 And all its spongy parts, imbibing deep 
 The moist effulgence, seern like fleeces dyed 
 Deep scarlet, saffron light, or crimson dark, 
 As they are thick or thin, or near or more remote, 
 All fading soon as lower sinks the sun, 
 Till twilight end. But now another scene 
 To me most beautiful of all appears ; 
 The sky without the shadow of a cloud 
 Throughout the west, is kindled to a glow 
 So bright and broad, it glares upon the eye, 
 Not dazzling but dilating with calm force 
 Its power of vision to admit the whole. 
 Below, 'tis all of richest orange dye, 
 Midway the blushing of the mellow peach 
 Paints not but tinges the etherial deep ; 
 And here in this most lovely region shines 
 With added loveliness, the evening-star. 
 Above, the fainter purple slowly fades 
 Till changed into the azure of mid-heaven. 
 
BENEVOLENCE. 
 
 Along the level ridge o'er which the sun 
 Descended, in a single row arranged 
 As if thus planted by the hand of art, 
 Majestic pines shoot up into the sky, 
 And in its fluid gold seem half dissolved. 
 Upon a nearer peak, a cluster stands 
 With shafts erect and tops converged to one 
 A stately colonade with verdant roof; 
 Upon a nearer still, a single tree 
 With shapely form looks beautiful alone, 
 While farther northward through a narrow pass 
 Scooped in the hither range, a single mount 
 Beyond the rest, of finer smoothness seems, 
 And of a softer more etherial blue, 
 A pyramid of polished sapphire built. 
 
 But now the twilight mingles into one 
 The various mountains ; levels to a plain 
 This nearer, lower landscape, dark with shade, 
 Where every object to my sight presents 
 Its shaded side ; while here upon these walls 
 And in that eastern wood upon the trunks 
 Under thick foliage, reflective shows 
 Its yellow lustre. How distinct the line 
 Of the horizon parting heaven and earth. 
 
 In such a night, 'twould sadden mirth to hear 
 The lulling sound of distant waterfalls 
 By intervening hills so broke and spread 
 That whence it comes the ear no more discerns. 
 Seeming diffused alike on every side, 
 A gentle murmur filling all the air ; 
 As if all nature charg'd with life intense. 
 Breathed softly in one universal sigh. 
 The thrilling tones of an Eolian harp 
 In such a night would half entrance the sad, 
 Its deep vibrations, shook from chords that quake 
 
 155 
 
15G THE AGE OF BENEVOLENCE. 
 
 As with the touch of quiv'ring fingers hid 
 From mortal sight, would sink into the soul 
 And half persuade fond fancy that the hand 
 Of some departed sympathizing friend 
 Dearly beloved and deeply mourned, was there. 
 
 Now drowned in sweet repose are man and beast, 
 While swift and silent as on angel's wings 
 Time by them flies. * * * 
 
 'Tis midnight : o'er the marshy meadows rest 
 Damp vapours thin and pale ; while overhead 
 Hangs far aloft beneath the firmament, 
 And just beneath, a cloudy canopy, 
 Milk-white and curdled in thick spots, oft called 
 The seeds of coming rain, but to the eye 
 Of fancy seeming like a flock of swans 
 In mid-air hovering still. All nature sleeps 
 Beneath a tranquillizing shower of light. 
 O what a night for grief to watch and weep. 
 
 I seem alone 'mid universal death, 
 Lone as a single sail upon the sea. 
 Lone as a wounded swan, that leaves the flock 
 To heal in secret or to bleed and die. 
 
 'Tis morn once more, and morning with my song. 
 The muse awakes from her long nightly dream. 
 And summons truth to interpret it by day. 
 If she divine aright, to such as seek 
 For solitude and peace in scenes like these, 
 A mild delirium to enjoy secure 
 And nurse a tender gloom, it bodes no good. 
 But useless life and miserable age. 
 
THE 
 
 AGE OF BENEVOLENCE. 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM BOOK III. 
 
 Who scorn the hallowed day, set heaven at naught. 
 Heav'n would wear out whom one short sabbath tires. 
 Emblem and earnest of eternal rest, 
 A festival with fruits celestial crown'd, 
 A jubilee releasing him from earth, 
 The day delights and animates the saint. 
 It gives new vigour to the languid pulse 
 Of life divine ; restores the wandering feet. 
 Strengthens the weak, upholds the prone to slip, 
 duickens the lingering, and the sinking lifts, 
 Establishing them all upon a rock. 
 Sabbaths, like way-marks, cheer the pilgrim's path, 
 His progress mark, and keep his rest in view. 
 In life's bleak winter they are pleasant days, 
 Short foretastes of the long, long spring to come. 
 To every new-born soul, each hallowed morn 
 Seems like the first when every thing was new. 
 Time seems an angel come afresh from heav'n, 
 His pinions shedding fragrance as he flies. 
 And his bright hour-glass running sands of gold. 
 In every thing a smiling God is seen. 
 On earth his beauty blooms, and in the sun 
 His glory shines. In objects overlooked 
 On other days lis now arrests the eye. 
 
1'5S THE AGE OF 
 
 Not in the deep recesses of his works, 
 
 But on their face he now appears to dwell. 
 
 While silence reigns among the works of man, 
 
 The works of God have leave to speak his praise 
 
 With louder voice, in earth, and air, and sea. 
 
 His vital Spirit, like the light, pervades 
 
 All nature, breathing round the air of heaven. 
 
 And spreading o'er the troubled sea of life 
 
 A halcyon calm. Sight were not needed now 
 
 To bring him near, for Faith performs the work, 
 
 In solemn thought surrounds herself with God, 
 
 With such transparent vividness, she feels 
 
 Struck with admiring awe, as if transform'd 
 
 To sudden vision. Such is oft her power 
 
 In God's own house, which in th' absorbing act 
 
 Of adoration, or inspiring praise, 
 
 She with his glory fills, as once a cloud 
 
 Of radiance filled the temple's inner court; 
 
 At which display she cries with trembling awe 
 
 How dreadful is this place ! while love responds, 
 
 How amiable thy courts, my King, my God ! 
 
 * Thou too, Napoleon, how didst thou exult 
 In all thy might and fame. Now too how changed ! 
 Thy kingdom gone, how art thou driven from men, 
 From the great world, to spend thy days alone, 
 To make thee know there is a God that reigns 
 And gives the crowns of earth to whom he will. 
 By mad ambition led, how didst thou ride 
 With streaming colours o'er the restless waves 
 Of human glory. Now how art thou cast 
 Upon a cheerless rock, in deep disgrace, 
 A spectacle and warning to the world ; 
 Thy fortunes the career, thy fate the end 
 
 * Written while Napoleon was at St. Helena. 
 
BENEVOLENCE. ISd 
 
 Of earthly greatness, in its proudest form. 
 
 How art thou fallen ! so low that e'en thy foes 
 
 Lose half their indignation at thy crimes 
 
 In pity for thy melancholy fate. 
 
 Kept in thy rocky tower, thou now art viewed 
 
 With safety, though with trembling, as long known 
 
 The tiger that had ravaged half the world. 
 
 The wand'rers of the sea who pass thine isle 
 
 And mark the spot, how small, and wild, and lone, 
 
 With wagging head and taunting lips inquire. 
 
 Is this the man that caused the earth to quake ? 
 
 That burnt her cities, laid her countries waste. 
 
 And shook her thrones and kingdoms to the dust ? 
 
 Where now the objects of thy heart's delight, 
 
 Where now the pomp of armies in array. 
 
 The waving banners and the dazzling arms. 
 
 The trumpet's clang, the neighing of fierce steeds. 
 
 The din of martial bands, the word, the shout, 
 
 That rouse and fire and madden all the soul 
 
 While panting for the onset, or amidst 
 
 The heat of battle ? Where the victory proud, 
 
 The rattling of thy furious chariot wheels 
 
 O'er crumbling crowns and plains of bleaching bones. 
 
 The spoil of nations ? the triumphal train ? 
 
 The acclamation of saluting crowds. 
 
 And all the ensigns of renown and pow'r ? 
 
 Gone like the pageants of a maniac's brain. 
 
 Poor solitary man, what hast thou more. 
 
 What hast thou left congenial to thy mind 
 
 To busy its dread workings, and content 
 
 Its boundless longings 1 What to give support 
 
 To thy faint heart in all its sinking hours ? 
 
 Ah, what to smooth the rough decline of life 
 
 And light thee through the shadowy vale of death ? 
 
 Hadst though not cast away the truth of God, 
 
 Denied thy Saviour, turned thy back on heaven 
 
 And braved the wrath to come from early youth. 
 
 In some desponding hour, when self-immured, 
 
160 
 
 THE AGE OF 
 
 Or in some lonely walk o'er bloodless plains 
 Or heights from which thick ranks of coming waves 
 Are seen afar, as if from Europe sent 
 To bear to thee dread visions of the past, 
 And roar and dash around thy rocky isle 
 To wake thy conscience from its torpid sleep, 
 The hope were strong that mem'ry thus beset 
 Would bring thy crimes in long and black array 
 To thy astonished view, nor rest permit 
 Till by omnipotence an entrance wide 
 Were opened for conviction and remorse 
 Into each fortified recess within. 
 How would the generous heart of every land 
 Rejoice, should penitence yet mark the close 
 Of thy eventful life, and mercy wash 
 Thy spirit pure in its all cleansing fount ! 
 How welcome were the tidings that the peace 
 Of heaven, the fruit of child-like faith and love, 
 In thy tumultuous bosom had begun 
 Its gentle reign. How far from hateful, nay 
 How lovely and how truly great wert thou 
 On bended knees at thy Redeemer's feet, 
 Dumb with confusion or with loud lament 
 O'er thy offences, pleading for his grace, 
 And bowing to his will with pride subdued. 
 That were the vict'ry of a noble mind. 
 Thy triumphs o'er mankind have made thee known, 
 A vict'ry o'er thyself would make thee great. 
 The conquest of the world were mean to this, 
 More than an earthly diadem were thine, 
 And more than immortality in name. 
 But if no season of relenting come 
 With hope attendant, one will come at last 
 Fraught with despair eternal and intense. 
 Though thou hast peopled the dark realms of death 
 These many years with an unfeeling heart, 
 A scene is coming which will make thee feel. 
 With all thy hardihood thou canst not stand 
 
BENEVOLENCE. 161 
 
 Unmoved a moment, when before the bar 
 Of stern impartial justice, millions slain 
 By thy ambition, cut off unprepared 
 And sent to judgment, millions more bereaved, 
 All cry for vengeance on thy single head. 
 Then shall past glory but increase thy shame. 
 Then vvouldst thou gladly into nothing shrink, 
 Or be the most obscure of all the slaves 
 That ever crouched and trembled at thy nod. 
 
 Among the chief occasions which invite 
 The patriot, philanthropist and saint 
 To great exertions, what more loudly calls 
 On either, than the miserable state 
 Of Afric's sons in iron bondage held ? 
 Where held in bondage 1 In what savage land ? 
 Where learning and religion never shed 
 Their meliorating beams ; and where the rights. 
 The natural rights of man were never known ? 
 In no such land, such corner of the world ; 
 But in the midst of the united realm 
 Of learning^ and religion ; and where, too, 
 The natural rights of man are clearly known ; 
 Nay, more, are owned, and made a public boast. 
 All are born free, and all with equal rights. 
 So speaks the charter of a nation proud 
 Of her unequall'd liberties and laws. 
 While in that nation, shameful to relate. 
 One man in five is born and dies a slave. 
 Is this my country? this that happy land, 
 The wonder and the envy of the world ? 
 O for a mantle to conceal her shame ! 
 But why, when Patriotism cannot hide 
 The ruin which her guilt will surely bring 
 If unrepented ; and unless the God 
 Who pour'd his plagues on Egypt till she let 
 21 
 
162 
 
 THE AGE OF 
 
 The oppressed go free, and often pours his wrath 
 
 In earthquakes and tornadoes on the isles 
 
 Of western India, laying waste their fields. 
 
 Dashing their mercenary ships ashore, 
 
 Tossing the isles themselves like floating wrecks, 
 
 And burying towns alive in one wide grave 
 
 No sooner ope'd but closed ; let judgment pass 
 
 For once untasted till the general doom. 
 
 Can it go well with us while we retain 
 
 This cursed thing ? Will not untimely frosts. 
 
 Devouring insects, drought, and wind and hail. 
 
 Destroy the fruits of ground long till'd in chains ? 
 
 Will not some daring spirit born to thoughts 
 
 Above his beast-like state, find out the truth 
 
 That Africans are men ; and catching fire 
 
 From Freedom's altar raised before his eyes 
 
 With incense fuming sweet, in others light 
 
 A kindred flame in secret, till a train 
 
 Kindled at once, deal death on every side ? 
 
 Cease then, Columbia, for thy safety cease, 
 
 And for thine honour, to proclaim the praise 
 
 Of thy fair shores of liberty and joy. 
 
 While thrice five hundred thousand wretched slaves 
 
 In thine own bosom, start at every word 
 
 As meant to mock their woes, and shake their chains, 
 
 Thinking defiance which they dare not speak. 
 
 Ye sons of Liberty, who rally round 
 
 Her standard at her yearly festival, 
 
 Flourish the sword and bid the cannon roar 
 
 Defiance to all tyrants, shout huzzas 
 
 O'er flowing bowls, and with exulting voice 
 
 Sing " give us liberty or give us death ;" 
 
 Your joy is merciless, vvhile its glad sounds 
 
 From more than half the land return in groans; 
 
 Throw down your banners lifted to the sky, 
 
 They will not float on this impoisoned air. 
 
 Away with feast and song, come fast and weep — 
 
 Away with all defiance and disdain 
 
BENEVOLENCE. 163 
 
 Of foreign tyrants ; humbly mourn our own. 
 
 For who are tyrants ? they that make men slaves. 
 
 No more exult o'er kingdoms of the east 
 
 Where not a slave is found, till here are none. 
 
 Of more equality no longer boast. 
 
 Rail at usurping peers, when ye have shown 
 
 That fifty tenants to support a lord, 
 
 is more at war with reason and with Heaven 
 
 Than fifty slaves a planter to support. 
 
 In personal rights and privileges dear 
 
 The monarch rises not so far above 
 
 The meanest free-born subject of his realm, 
 
 As does the master o'er the helpless slave. 
 
 With needful food supplied, the slave, say some, 
 
 Desires no more, and void of care is blest. 
 
 If by kind treatment it be sometimes thus, 
 
 What does it prove, but that the man debased 
 
 By his condition, knows no higher good 
 Than what the brute enjoys ? And is it just 
 
 To shut him from all rational delight 
 
 Until he feel no wants but those of sense. 
 
 Then call him happy to excuse the crime ? 
 
 Or is it then no blessing to be free ? 
 
 And were they fools who struggled to obtain 
 
 Our independence — to throw off a yoke 
 
 Far less oppressive than the one we bind 
 
 On Afric's sable sons 1 Are they not tax'd i 
 
 Yes ! to the very blood that warms their veins. 
 
 No rights have they, not one for self-defence. 
 
 The master may inflict whate'er he will 
 
 On this side death ! may lash, and maul, and kick, 
 
 All which these eyes have seen ; may chain and yoke 
 
 And if the sufferer but a finger lift 
 
 Against the madman to preserve his life, 
 
 The law condemns him, friendless and unheard. 
 
 Hail land of liberty ! Come all ye kings 
 
 And tyrants of the world, come near and view 
 
 This land of liberty, where men are free 
 
164 THE AGE OF 
 
 To task, and scourge, and chain their fellow men 
 
 At their own pleasure, and without the fear 
 
 Of any human bar. What man can plead 
 
 That such ill treatment is but seldom seen, 
 
 When every master, e'en the most humane. 
 
 Rules with the lash, and with the lash must rule ; 
 
 Slaves can be governed only by the lash. 
 
 No obligations bind them, and no fears 
 
 Of ought but corporal punishment restrain. 
 
 Much more is granted, for their sake and ours 
 
 They must be kept in ignorance till freed. 
 
 A taste of knowledge would a torment prove, 
 
 Like joyful music to the sad in soul ; 
 
 Or like a view of land beyond the reach 
 
 While sinking in the flood. Expand their minds 
 
 And they will know their rights ; will learn the worth 
 
 Of freedom, and up starting from the ground 
 
 Will burst their chains and raise our mad'ning cry, 
 
 " Or give us liberty or give us death." 
 
 Keep the n in ignorance and we are safe ; 
 
 Press them to earth like brutes, and they will bear 
 
 Nor rise against us till the judgment day. 
 
 'Tis mockery to soothe whom we oppress. 
 
 'Tis insult to attempt to put them off 
 
 By mitigating means, to make amends 
 
 For loss of liberty — to make them feel. 
 
 And make mankind believe, that they are blest. 
 
 All short of full deliverance is in vain. 
 
 'Twill not suffice to lessen wrongs like theirs : 
 
 To soften hardships so severe at best. 
 
 No ! chains are chains, though half concealed with flowers, 
 
 No ! Slavery is a tyger, even when it seems 
 
 Most like a lamb. Its kindest smiles are frowns, 
 
 Its tender mercies cruel as the grave. 
 
 It is a monster that cannot be tamed ; 
 
 Hard as a rock of adamant his heart. 
 
 Then will ye play with him as with a bird ? 
 
 Attempt to lead him with a silken string, 
 
BENEVOLENCE. 165 
 
 To stroke his bristled mane and gaily pat 
 
 His iron scales ? Beware lest he despise 
 
 Such mock caresses ; lest they stir him up 
 
 To put forth in a rage, his latent strength. 
 
 I will not say religion can do nought 
 
 To ease the heavy load of men enslaved ; 
 
 Nor will I say, to teach them sacred truths. 
 
 Truths that require submission and content. 
 
 Tending to humble not elate the heart, 
 
 Will be to plant the seeds of civil war. 
 
 Much less would I be thought to intimate 
 
 That this is not our duty, or this all. 
 
 What then ? Because religion is a balm 
 
 For every wound, may wounds be multiplied ? 
 
 Because the martyr triamphed in the flames, 
 
 Was it the less a crime to light the fire? 
 
 Because religion made its converts yield 
 
 Subjection to each ordinance of man. 
 
 Even when Nero swam in christian blood, 
 
 Was persecution of its horrors stripp'd ? 
 
 And so, because the slave when taught from Heaven, 
 May bear the worst in peace, without complaint, 
 
 Trusting in Him whose vengeance will repay. 
 Is slavery no oppression ? What if some. 
 Finding in this strange land the precious pearl 
 
 Which they had always wanted in their own 
 
 Will bless forever the once-cursed day 
 
 When they were torn from all that men hold dear, 
 
 Confined in irons and to bondage doom'd ? 
 
 Does this afford the shadow of a plea 
 
 In our behalf? Or makes it ought the less 
 
 Our duty to emancipate the whole ? 
 
 But when and how may this be safely done ? 
 
 Done it should be ; with safety if it can, 
 
 With danger if it must. It ill becomes 
 
 Our name to shrink from suffering in our turn, 
 
 We who have reaped the profits of their fall 
 
 Selfish in all, shall we expect to make 
 
166 
 
 THE AGE OF 
 
 Their rise our gain ? Say not tiiey are entail'd 
 
 Our sad inheritance, and we must bear 
 
 What we lament, but have not power to change. 
 
 Lament and bear ! Is this the generous plaint 
 
 Of charity perplex'd and sorely griev'd? 
 
 No, 'tis the plea of avarice, who pays 
 
 Her court to charity to still her fears, 
 
 While safe possession is the end in view. 
 
 But more than calm endurance is our crime. 
 
 And more than reaping what our father? sovv'd. 
 
 Their very spirit lives, their very sin 
 
 In all its horrors, lives in spite of law. 
 
 Each year brings thousands o'er the groaning waves 
 
 To be sent in by stealth through our wide bounds : 
 
 And when discovered, forfeited like goods, 
 
 Like them too they are seiz'd and advertis'd 
 
 And sold at auction, to complete the crime. 
 
 Will not Jehovah visit for such things ? 
 
 Will he not be aveng'd on such a land ? 
 
 Go ye, whose feelings custom has not steel'd, 
 
 See men to market driv'n like fatten'd herds 
 
 There to be sold and parted, friend from friend, 
 
 Parted by scourges, yokes or galling chains, 
 
 Then judge if slavery is no more our crime, 
 
 But our calamity. Go first and view 
 
 Fair freedom's temple, while her chosen sons 
 
 From her confederated realms are met 
 
 To pay their yearly oflPrings at her shrine. 
 
 Enter and hear the clap of loud applause. 
 
 When by some fav'rite voice, declaiming loud, 
 
 To crouded aisles and galleries adorn'd 
 
 With forms of beauty rang'd in brilliant rows, 
 
 This matchless land is blazon'd to the stars 
 
 For liberty, equality, and joy : 
 
 Then go and view a drove of human souls, 
 
 Immortal beings for whom Jesus died. 
 
 To market driv'n, and by their fellow men 
 
 Whose blackness lies far deeper than their skin. 
 
BENEVOLENCE. 
 
 Go listen to the lashes and the shrieks 
 
 That mingling rend the air, while clinging friends 
 
 Husband and wife, the mother and the child. 
 
 By various purchasers are torn apart 
 
 And doom'd to different regions of the land, 
 
 Never to see each other's faces more ; 
 
 Never to hear by letter or report 
 
 Of other's welfare dearer than their own ; 
 
 Never to know their death, till after years 
 
 'Tis learnt by meeting them beyond the grave. 
 
 proud Columbia, hide thy towering head 
 Low in the dust, in shame and penitence. 
 
 Till from thy robes be wash'd the stain of blood ; 
 Then like a goddess rising from the sea, 
 Then rising in thy glory, prove thyself 
 " The queen of earth, the daughter of the skies." 
 
 1 see thy glory with prophetic eye, 
 
 I see thee with thy crown of many stars 
 
 On thy fair head, and clothed in spotless robes. 
 
 Moving in state toward the Atlantic shore : 
 
 With one hand casting to the waves below 
 
 The last of all thy slave-oppressing chains, 
 
 And with the other holding to thy breast 
 
 The book of God. I hear the shouts of joy 
 
 That ring from end to end of thy domain. 
 
 I hear the sounds prolong'd from wave to wave 
 
 And now they strike and echo on the coast 
 
 Of joyful Africa. The time will come — 
 
 Sure as the groans of earth shall all be lost 
 
 In the hosannas of millennial bliss — 
 
 The time will come when slavery shall cease, 
 
 When'this whole nation, like that favour'd part 
 
 Northward and eastward stretching from the shores 
 
 Of Susquehannah, shall enjoy the smiles 
 
 Of freedom, equal, common, as the air. 
 
 At such a prospect, who, that has a heart 
 
 With one remaining spark of generous fire, 
 
 Feels not an inward glowing of delight ? 
 
 167 
 
168 
 
 THE AGE OF 
 
 Who that can pray, will cease to importune 
 
 The Lord of all to hasten the event. 
 
 From those who purchase of their own accord 
 
 The blood and sinews of their fellow men, 
 
 No pity is expected ; but from them 
 
 On whom the sad possession is entail'd 
 
 Without the power to set the pris'ners free, 
 
 At least from all the pious and humane, 
 
 Much may be hoped in aid of every plan 
 
 For hastening on the day of full release. 
 
 These join'd with those whose blessing 'tis to live 
 
 Among the hills and vallies of the north, 
 
 " Where all born free inherit equal rights," 
 
 Will form a host not armed, but inspir'd 
 
 By reason, right, humanity and Heav'n, 
 
 To undertake and to effect the work 
 
 Of liberating brethren from their chains. 
 
 O for some Wilberforce to lead the van ! 
 
 To rise and say, " It must and shall be done ;" 
 
 To rise the hundredth time, unaw'd by frowns, 
 
 Undamp'd by failures, and repeat the same. 
 
 Till vict'ry crown him with a fairer wreath 
 
 Than hero ever won or poet feign'd. 
 
 The wrongs of Africa must be redress'd 
 Extensive as her injuries, her claims 
 For compensation are upon the world. 
 A handful honoured with the christian name, 
 Buried in dungeons in the savage coast 
 Of Barbary, have summon'd from afar 
 The fleets of mighty nations to their aid. 
 'Twere noble, though but just, in nations once 
 Inhumanly employ'd in forging chains 
 For unoffending Africa, to draw 
 A line of ships, to build therewith a wall 
 Around her, to defend her helpless shores 
 From ruffian out-laws ; to explore the holds 
 Of all suspected ships, v/hatever flag 
 May dance on high, to cover what's below : 
 
BENEVOLENCE. 169 
 
 And from these loathsome dungeons, floating graves, 
 To raise to life, to light and liberty, 
 The pining, dying captives there confin'd, 
 Bound down in irons, and to hardships doom'd 
 That ending in the loss of half their lives. 
 Thus rob the murderers before they reach 
 Their destin'd port. In that tremendous day 
 When from her vast unfathomable depths 
 The opening sea shall yield her rising dead ; 
 Oh ! what a host, in one continuous line, 
 Marking to gazing worlds the wonted course 
 Of this infernal traffic o'er the main, 
 Through floods divided by the trumpet's sound, 
 Like that divided by the sacred rod 
 Of Israel's leader, shall ascend to fill 
 The persecuting nations with dismay. 
 Then let the nations tremble and reform. 
 Let those who have begun, pursue the work 
 Of restitution, till no slave be found. 
 And let my country be the first to pay 
 The full arrears of justice, still the due 
 Of injured Africa, that at the bar 
 Of final retribution, she may stand 
 The first forgiven, or the last conderan'd. 
 
 22 
 
THE 
 
 AGE OF BENEVOLENCE. 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM BOOK IV. 
 
 The good man's body ere it can ascend 
 To its appointed place 'mid angel forms, 
 Must drop its load of perishable flesh, 
 Its burden of infirmities and pains ; 
 Must throw off its corruption, and put on 
 The incorruption of a spirit pure. 
 Address'd for flight, it stretches its new wings 
 And with fresh immortality inspir'd, 
 Claps them in triumph o'er its empty grave. 
 Then springs aloft ; and like a bird uncag'd, 
 Flies far away from all its former haunts 
 With death and danger fearfully beset. 
 Henceforth not one of all those maladies, 
 So thick between the cradle and the tomb, 
 Clinging so close through all this mortal life. 
 Spurring it on more eagerly, the more 
 They load it down, can e'er molest or touch 
 The liberated body, in the realms 
 Of perfect bliss. No violent disease 
 Racks it with pain, its heart-strings breaks at once, 
 And tears it from its griping hold on life. 
 No pale consuming sickness by degrees 
 Drinks its vitality before it kills, 
 Leaving a breathing skeleton behind ; 
 Lays on its victim's head a gentle hand, 
 And flatters it to death ; its thoughtless guards 
 
173 THE AGE OF 
 
 Decoys off one by one, and unawares 
 Mines its deep way into the vital part. 
 Th' imperishable frame knows no fatigue 
 From long activity, and hence no need 
 Of rest, or sleep, to strengthen or refresh. 
 It fears no with'ring from the frost of age, 
 And from its winter no decrease of warmth. 
 It feels no lassitude from length of years, 
 No feebleness of limbs, no blunted sense, 
 No clogging of the wheels of life, no loss 
 Of youthful relish for the sweets of heav'n. 
 
 If converse with Jehovah forty days 
 Amid the terrors of mount Sinai, made 
 A mortal's countenance like an angel's shine, 
 O how eternal converse with the Lamb, 
 Upon mount Sion, 'mid its signs of peace, 
 While all around is calm and beautiful, 
 Will make the face of an immortal glow. 
 How will his lips, in his Redeemer's praise 
 Hosannas chanting, burn with fervour pure. 
 His very fingers, flying o'er the strings 
 Of his melodious harp, with rosy tinge 
 Shall grow resplendent, half transparent grow, 
 Like those of some fair hand before a lamp. 
 Held near to guard it from the passing air. 
 The saint redeem'd, his glory not innate. 
 From his Redeemer constantly received, 
 The mere reflection of his solar blaze, 
 May, hence, perhaps, outshine an angel, clad 
 With native splendour ; as the moon, adorn'd 
 With lustre borrow'd from the source of day. 
 Outshines a star with light inherent deck'd. 
 
 Death is not a door 
 That leads into some unknown abode 
 
BENEVOLENCE. 173 
 
 Of long forgetfulness, but a bright gate 
 
 Which opens into paradise direct. 
 
 The deathless spirit, disembodied flies 
 
 As ^wift as thought to its eternal home. 
 
 Transporting change ! from earth to heav'n at once, 
 
 Through no long, cheerless intermediate state. 
 
 To fall asleep in this benighted world 
 
 And in an instant wake in realms of day. 
 
 Unnumber'd suns on this deep midnight rise, 
 
 And harps unnumber'd this dead silence break. 
 
 One moment, rack'd with pain, the good man lies 
 
 Gasping in death, the next, he mounts on high 
 
 Fir'd with the raptures of immortal life. 
 
 One moment, he beholds himself confin'd 
 
 Within a narrow chamber, hut obscure, 
 
 Or dreary dungeon, and the next, through realms 
 
 Of boundless joy, expatiating wide. 
 
 Without restraint. One moment he beholds 
 
 Himself 'mid weeping mortals, and the next 
 
 'Mid seraphs smiling bright ; one moment, hears 
 
 The painful sobs of sympathizing grief, 
 
 The next, the shouts of gratulating joy. 
 
 With such a change before him, who would dread 
 
 An early death, amid the fairest scenes ^ 
 
 And brightest prospects, that the earth presents ? 
 
 The comfort of his parents, and the flow'r 
 Of all their offspring, lovely from a child, 
 For years devout, with genius bright endow'd, 
 With academic honours crown'd, prepar'd 
 For sacred functions, and withal betroth'd 
 To one well worthy of his fondest love ; 
 Was young Horatio when consumption lit. 
 High on his sunken cheek, her hectic flush 
 Death's sure but timely warning, in its hue 
 Distinguished from the ruddy glow of health, 
 As the dead leaf of autumn from the rose. 
 Nor less by its distinctness, unobscur'd 
 By intermixture with the whiteness round. 
 The nightly sweat, cold, clammy and profuse, 
 
174 
 
 THE AGE OF 
 
 Left him each morning, scarce an infant's strength. 
 
 But while his tender frame was wasting fast. 
 
 Its vigour unimpair'd his mind retain'd, 
 
 Nay gather'd force as oft in that disease 
 
 Which weigh'd him down ; incurable, but kind 
 
 To suffering excellence. That sacred fire 
 
 Seem'd fed with the vitality consum'd, 
 
 And brighter shone through its decaying shrine. 
 
 Fresher and fairer grew th' ingrafted germ 
 
 Of immortality, the more its stock 
 
 Was gently stript of its degenerate bloom. 
 
 He saw his end at hand, and was the first 
 
 To give up ev'ry hope of longer life. 
 
 His friends began to flatter, to assume 
 
 A cheerful tone and wear a smiling look. 
 
 In his endearing presence, all but one 
 
 Who could not smile, so heavy was her heart ; 
 
 And when she tried to speak some cheering words, 
 
 Her feeble, trembling voice and starting tears 
 
 Betray'd the anguish of despairing love. 
 
 But all the kind attempts of friendship fail'd 
 
 To hide his danger from himself, or raise 
 
 The expectation of returning health ; 
 
 And soon he check'd them with far dearer hopes. 
 
 Calmly he turn'd his eyes away from earth 
 
 And fix'd them stedfastly on Christ and heav'n. 
 
 Till the one thought of his approaching change 
 
 Absorb'd his soul and fill'd it with delight 
 
 Unfelt before. Dismiss'd without a sigh 
 
 Were earthly plans and prospects ; in their stead 
 
 Shone so invitingly and now so near 
 
 Celestial glories. Ardent love to Christ 
 
 And the near view of heav'n inspired his heart 
 
 With such a longing to be on the wing. 
 
 That e'en to her, from whom his earthly schemes 
 
 For happiness deriv'd their brightest charm. 
 
 He spoke of his departure in a strain 
 
 Of mingled joy and tenderness, that calm'd 
 
 Her troubled mind. The evening ere his last. 
 
BENEVOLENCE. 
 
 While yet the window curtain drawn aside 
 
 At his request, show'd him the setting sun, 
 
 And all were speechless with prophetic grief 
 
 To see him gaze on that departing orb ; 
 
 By love embolden'd on his bed-side sate 
 
 This mourner dear, his cold and slender hand, 
 
 Of bloodless white, between her warm soft palms 
 
 Tenderly holding, on his alter'd face 
 
 Gazing intently with an eloquent look 
 
 Of fond solicitude, when as he turn'd 
 
 His eyes on her, and feebly press'd her hand. 
 
 Her struggling bosom and her gushing tears 
 
 Rous'd all his sympathy ; yet even then, 
 
 Soon as that momentary shock was past 
 
 He rais'd his thoughts and hers to fairer skies 
 
 Than these below, whose sun shall not go down, 
 
 And where these days of mourning have an end. 
 
 His few remaining hours were spent in prayer 
 
 For his own soul and for each friend apart ; 
 
 Save whenemploy'd in heav'nly converse sweet. 
 
 Soon as he felt the chilling touch of death, 
 
 For ev'ry absent member he inquired 
 
 Till the whole mournful family stood round. 
 
 When silence for one thrilling moment reign'd ; 
 
 First broken by a universal burst 
 
 Of sorrow, witness'd with a pitying eye 
 
 But with unshaken firmness, till he heard 
 
 The sympathetic cry of one too young 
 
 To know her loss, but not too young to love, 
 
 His little sister in her father's arms. 
 
 Lifted that she might see him and be seen. 
 
 Her mournful cry, and half-averted look, 
 
 Went to his heart, but soon compos'd again 
 
 He tried to soothe her with the kindest words : 
 
 Then with his eyes sufTus'd with glist'ning tears, 
 
 His parents thank'd for their unwearied care. 
 
 And bade them look for comfort from above. 
 
 To each one present gave that kind advice 
 
 Which suited each, repeated, and enforc'd 
 
 175 
 
176 THE AGE OF BENEVOLENCE. 
 
 As the last counsel of a dying friend, 
 
 Just leaving all things here for things unseen, 
 
 The world of spirits and the God of heav'n. 
 
 These duties done, awhile he lay absorb'd 
 
 In deep devotion. On their elbows propp'd 
 
 His vvither'd arms were raised, and o'er his breast 
 
 His fingers interlock'd. His eyes were closed 
 
 As when in pleasant sleep ; his lips at times 
 
 Mov'd gently, but no whisper could be heard. 
 
 A fixed serenity not quite a smile. 
 
 More sober, but as beautiful and sweet, 
 
 O'erspread his countenance, until the pains 
 
 Of dissolution, pains yet unreveal'd. 
 
 Began to loose and break the tender strings 
 
 That bind the spirit to its partner frail 
 
 In mystic union ; when, at ev'ry pang 
 
 A sudden brightness o'er his features came, 
 
 As ev'ry pang the dying dolphin feels 
 
 Sends a fresh lustre to its beauteous sides. 
 
 Conven'd to witness his triumphant death 
 
 Some friendly neighbours, strains of his own choice 
 
 Were softly singing, when with lifted eyes. 
 
 And aspect luminous as with the light 
 
 Of heaven's opening gate, he strove to join 
 
 His voice with theirs, and breathe out all he felt ; 
 
 But in the effort feeble nature sunk 
 
 Exhausted ; and while ev'ry voice was hush'd 
 
 His fluttering spirit, struggling to get free 
 
 Rose like the sky-lark singing up to heav'n, 
 
 Followed in thought by friends devoutly still, 
 
 And there at once, united with the blest 
 
 In chanting hallelujahs to the Lamb. 
 
THE RELIGION OF TASTE. 
 
The following Poem, which is mentioned in the Memoir 
 as having been delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa Society 
 at New-Haven, is a Fragment. It appears from some brief 
 notices, that Mr. Wilcox had relinquished the design of ever 
 finishing the Age of Benevolence, — but had it in contempla- 
 tion to throw all the unfinished parts of it into a new work, 
 in the measure in which the following Poem is written. 
 The outline of his plan, which is inserted on the succeeding 
 page, was written at Danbury, and was among the last litera- 
 ry labours of his hfe. It will be seen that the poem deliver- 
 ed before the Phi Beta Kappa Society was intended for one 
 Canto of the designed work. 
 
CANTO I. 
 
 Home of my childhood— Orwell — School — Hills — Woods — Distant Mountains — 
 Green-Mountains — Lake George — Mountains on fire — Hunting Deer — Story of 
 Seth Miner — Philosophical, Moral and Religious Reflections. 
 
 CANTO 11. 
 Phi Beta Kappa Poem enlarged. 
 
 CANTO III. 
 
 Georgia — Southern Scenery — Cyprus Forests — Live Oak — Jessamine — Magno- 
 lia — Orange — Cotton in Autumn — Rice Plantations — Slavery — Duelling. Story by 
 Dea. C. 
 
 CANTO IV. 
 
 My Country — First Settlement, &c. — Ignorance — Intemperance — Profaneness 
 — Sabbath-breaking. Must be high state of Intelligence and Morals. 
 
 CANTO V. 
 The World— The present Age. 
 
THE 
 
 RELIGION OF TASTE. 
 
 Ye Quietists in homage to the skies. — Night Thoughts. 
 
 I. 
 
 Deep in a vale, half open to the sea, 
 With mountains half enclosed, there grew a wood 
 Of many a low and many a lofty tree, 
 Sheltering the sparrow's and the raven's brood ; 
 But not in its own native dress it stood, 
 Untrimmed and pathless, for within its heart 
 Dwelt an Enchantress of romantic mood. 
 And she had wrought of all with wondrous art 
 A labyrinth, from which, none entering Could depart. 
 
 II. 
 
 Her name Imagination, — tall her form; 
 Elastic with eternal youth her tread ; 
 Her high and polished brow defied each storm 
 Of grief and time ; o'er all her face was spread 
 A shade of happy thought that never fled, 
 But lighter grew or deeper, as she raised 
 Her large bright eyes and nature's volume read, 
 Or fixed them on the ground, or upward gazed 
 As in devotion wrapt while glory round her blazed. 
 
182 
 
 THE RELIGION 
 III. 
 
 A band of Nymphs and Graces with her dwelt, 
 Lived in her smiles, upon her accents hung, 
 And by her impulse moved and thought and felt ; 
 Love, Beauty, Pleasure, Hope, were first among 
 The blooming troop, and nearest to her clung, 
 Reflecting every charm till made their own, 
 And till they bore her likeness, as if sprung 
 From her, their foster-mother, on her thrown 
 Till she had won each heart, and proud of each had grown, 
 
 IV. 
 
 I thought to paint them, but enamoured stopt :— 
 Some muse, a pencil of soft sunbeams dip 
 In heaven's pure dew on rose and lily dropt, 
 To draw the brow, the cheek, the smiling lip. 
 Tinged, as of cup enchanted, wont to sip, 
 The eye in liquid light, the long bright hair, 
 And all the slender, rounded forms that trip 
 O'er the green earth half buoyant in the air, 
 And with sweet glances thrown, unwary hearts to snare. 
 
 V. 
 
 I see them passing in the blended light 
 
 Of their own forms, as in an atmosphere 
 Of rosy lustre ; — but they mock my sight ; 
 Now as they flit along in order clear 
 Each seems herself, and now they all appear 
 Lost in each other, like some sister band. 
 Giving and taking loveliness, as here 
 And there, they dance and mingle hand in hand ; 
 Now in a sunny mist they vanish where they stand. 
 
 VI. 
 
 And let them go ; — two others rise to view, 
 That may far better wake my deep-toned lyre, — 
 Calm Contemplation with clear eye of blue 
 And bright Enthusiasm with dark orbs of fire,— 
 Each with a form and spirit that aspire 
 To seeming rivalry with their loved queen, — 
 One wrapt in thought, and one in high desire, 
 One bold, one gentle, both of lofty mien, — 
 A burning seraph one, a cherub one seren*. 
 
OF TASTE-. 
 
 183 
 
 VII. 
 
 With the soft lustre of thick flaxen hair, 
 And cheek of snowy white, that milder one 
 Seemed of some land of tempered beams and air ;— 
 The other's cheek was tinged as by the sun 
 Of sultry climes ; but no eye sought to shun 
 That pure transparent olive, while beneath 
 The Mite vermil blood is seen to glow and run, 
 And tresses of the deepest chesnut wreath 
 Her round and polished neck as light the zephyrs breathe. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Wandering together oft, and oft alone. 
 They mused o'er all the fair, the wild, and vast, 
 And drank in pleasure, when all nature shone 
 In sunny bloom and calm, and when o'ercast 
 With solemn shade, or swept by stormy blast : — 
 Deep and delicious was their waking dream. 
 Through placid smiles, or warm tears falling fast 
 How from each feature did their spirits seem 
 To breathe in silence sweet, or in quick rapture beam. 
 
 IX. 
 
 'Twas by her own soft magic, or the charms 
 Imparted to some favourite of her train. 
 Their Queen would hush her captive's first alarms, 
 Then lead him on as by a silken chain. 
 Through all the windings of her fair domain. 
 To fountain, lake, and grotto, grove and bower, 
 'Mid murmuring brooks, or birds of tuneful strain, 
 O'er grassy paths inlaid with many a flower. 
 And at each bright and glad, or calm and fragrant hour. 
 
 X. 
 
 Oft with amotion of her wand, she wrought 
 Some work of fresh enchantment ; to his view 
 A long-forgotten scene of beauty brought. 
 Made every feature clearer, every hue. 
 And over all a lovelier aspect threw ; 
 Or full before him visions of each clime. 
 She spread as quickly, formed creations new 
 Or changed her own loved wood, with art sublime 
 Hastened, or backward turned, or stopt the wheels of time. 
 
184 
 
 rHE RELIGION 
 
 XI. 
 
 Just in the centre of that wood was reared 
 Her castle, all of marble, smooth and white ; 
 Above the thick young trees, its top appeared 
 Among the naked trunks of towering height ; 
 And here at morn and eve it glittered bright, 
 As often by the far off traveller seen, 
 In level sunbeams, or at dead of night 
 When the low moon shot in her rays between 
 That wide spread roof and floor of solid foliage green. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Through this wide interval the roving eye 
 From turrets proud might trace the waving line 
 Where meet the mountains green, and azure sky, 
 And view the deep when sun-gilt billows shine ; — 
 Fair bounds to sight, that never thought confine, 
 But tempt it far beyond, till by the charm 
 Of some sweet wood-note or some whispering pine 
 Called home again, or by the soft alarm 
 3f Love's approaching step, and her encircling arm. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Through this wide interval, the mountain side 
 Showed many a sylvan slope and rocky steep : — 
 Here roaring torrents in dark forests hide ; 
 There silver streamlets rush to view and leap 
 Unheard from lofty cliffs to vallies deep : 
 Here rugged peaks look smooth in sunset glow, 
 Along the clear horizon's western sweep ; 
 There from some eastern summit moon-beams flow 
 Along o'er level wood, far down to plains below. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Now stretched a blue, and now a golden zone 
 Round that horizon ; now o'er mountains proud 
 Dim vapours rest, or bright ones move alone : 
 An ebon wall, a smooth portentous cloud, 
 First muttering low, anon with thunder loud, 
 Now rises quick and brings a sweeping wind 
 O'er all that wood in waves before it bowed ; 
 And now a rainbow, with its top behind 
 A spangled veil of leaves, seems heaven and earth to bind. 
 
OF TASTE. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Above the canopy, so thick and green, 
 And spread so high o'er that enchanted vale, 
 Through scattered openings oft were glimpses seen 
 Of fleecy clouds, that linked together, sail 
 In moonlight clear before the gentle gale : 
 Sometimes a shooting meteor draws a glance ; 
 Sometimes a twinkling star, or planet pale, 
 Long holds the lighted eye as in a trance ; 
 And oft the milky-way gleams through the while expanse. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 That castle's open windows, though half hid 
 With flowering vines, showed many a vision fair : 
 A face all bloom, or light young forms that thrid 
 Some maze within, or lonely ones that wear 
 The garb of joy with sorrow's thoughtful air. 
 Oft caught the eye a moment ; and the sound 
 Of low, sweet music often issued there. 
 And by its magic held the listener bound. 
 And seemed to hold the winds and forests far around. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Within, the Oueenof all, in pomp or mirth. 
 While glad attendants at her glance unfold 
 Their shining wings and fly through heaven and earth, 
 Oft took her throne of burning gems and gold, 
 Adorned with emblems that of empire told, 
 And rising in the midst of trophies bright. 
 That bring her memory from the days of old, 
 And help prolong her reign, and with the flight 
 Of every year increase the wonders of her might. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 In all her dwelling, tales of wild romance, 
 Of terror, love, and mystery dark or gay, 
 Were scattered thick to catch the wandering glance, 
 And stop the dreamer on his unknown way ; 
 There too was every sweet and lofty lay, 
 The sacred, classic, and romantic, sung 
 As that Enchantress moved in might or play ; 
 And there was many a harp but newly strung. 
 Yet with its fearless notes the whole wide valley rung. 
 24 
 
 1S5 
 
186 
 
 THE RELIGION 
 
 XIX. 
 
 There from all lands and ages of her fame, 
 
 Were marble forms, arrayed in order due, 
 In groups and single, all of proudest name ; 
 In them the high, the fair, and tender, grew 
 To life intense in love's impassioned view. 
 And from each air and feature, bend and swell, 
 Each shapely neck, and lip, and forehead, threw 
 O'er each enamoured sense so deep a spell. 
 The thoughts but with the past or bright ideal dwell. 
 
 XX. 
 
 The walls around told all the pencil's power ; 
 There proud creations of each mighty hand 
 Shone with their hue& and lines as in the hour. 
 When the last touch was given at the command 
 Of the same genius that at. first had planned, 
 Exulting in its great and glowing thought : 
 Bright scenes of peace and war, of sea and land. 
 Of love and glory, to new life were wrought. 
 From history, from fable, and from nature brought. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 With these were others all divine, drawn all 
 
 From ground where oft, with signs and accents dread. 
 The lonely prophet doomed to sudden fall 
 Proud kings and cities, and with gentle tread 
 Bore life's quick triumph to the humble dead. 
 And where strong angels flew to blast or save. 
 Where martyred hosts of old, and youthful bled, 
 And where their mighty Lord o'er land and wave [grave. 
 Spread life and peace till death, then spread them through the 
 
 XXII. 
 
 - From these fixed visions of the hallowed eye. 
 
 Some kindling gleams of their etherial glow. 
 Would oft times fall, as from the opening sky. 
 On eyes delighted, glancing to and fro. 
 Or fastened till their orbs dilated grow ; 
 Then would the proudest seem with joy to learn 
 Truths they had feared or felt ashamed to know ; 
 The skeptic would believe, the lost return ; 
 And all the cold and low would seem to rise and burn. 
 
OF TASTE. 187 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Theirs was devotion kindled by the vast, 
 
 The beautiful, impassioued, and refined ; 
 And in the deep enchantment o'er them cast. 
 They looked from earth, and soared above their kind 
 To the blest calm of an abstracted mind, 
 And its communion with things all its own, 
 Its forms sublime and lovely ; as the blind, 
 Mid earthly scenes, forgotten, or unknown. 
 Live in ideal worlds, and wander there alone. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Such were the lone enthusiasts, wont to dwell 
 
 With all whom that Enchantress held subdued, 
 As in the holiest circle of her spell. 
 Where meaner spirits never dare intrude. 
 They dwelt in calm and silent solitude. 
 Rapt in the love of all the high and sweet. 
 In thought, and art, and nature, and imbued 
 AVith its devotion to life's inmost seat, 
 As drawn from all the charms which in that valley meet. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Of them and their religion, though by creed 
 
 Or grave observance known not. Heaven inspire 
 My wayward heart to sing as Truth shall lead. 
 And Love, my lips shall hallow with her fire, 
 And to her harmony shall tune my lyre : — 
 Wide as the realm of taste I find my theme, 
 And rich as nature's charms that never tire ; 
 'Tis bright or dark as fancy's changing dream. 
 Yet pure as truth and love in their united stream. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 'Tis not for me, in weak revenge to war 
 With beauty's reign, or e'en to wish it leas ; 
 'Tis not for me, ungratefully to mar 
 Delight, so ready and so rich to bless 
 That but to lift the eye is to possess ; 
 Nor would I, with a soul that ill could brook 
 To lose the sense of nature's loveliness 
 For one short day, bid others cease to look 
 O'er all the works of God, content with his one book. 
 
188 THK RKLICION 
 
 XXVII. 
 To love the beautiful is not to hate 
 The holy, nor to wander from the true ; 
 Else why in Eden did its Lord create 
 Each green and shapely tree to please the view ? 
 Why not enough that there the fruitful grew ? 
 But wherefore think it virtue pure and blest 
 To feast the eye with shape and bloom and hue ? 
 Or wherefore think it holier than the zest 
 With which the purple grape by panting lips is prest. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 The rose delights with colour and with form, 
 Nor less with fragrance ; but to love the flower 
 For either, or for all, is not to warm 
 The bosom with the thought of that high Power, 
 Who gathered all into its blooming hour : 
 As well might love of gold be love to Him, 
 Who on the mountain poured its pristine shower, 
 And buried it in currents deep and dim, 
 Or spread it in bright drops along the river's brim. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Yet Taste and Virtue are not born to strife ; 
 'Tis when the earthly would the heavenly scorn. 
 Nor merely spread with flowers, her path to life, 
 But would supplant when bound to cheer and warn, 
 Or at the touch of every wounding thorn 
 Would tempt her from that path, or bid her trust 
 No truth too high for fancy to adorn, 
 And turn from all too humble with disgust ; 
 'Tis then she wakes a war, when in her pride unjust. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 But oft in Taste when mindful of her birth. 
 Celestial Virtue owns a mortal friend, 
 A fit interpreter of scenes of earth, 
 And one delighting thought with hers to blend 
 Amid their loveliness, and prompt to lend 
 The light and charm of her own smile to all ; — 
 Thus when to heaven our best afflictions lend, 
 Taste helps the spirit upward at the call 
 Of Faith and echoing Hope, or scorns to work its fall. 
 
OF TASTE. 189 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 The path we love, — to that all things allure ; 
 We give them power malignant or benign ; 
 Yes, to the pure in heart all things are pure ; 
 And to the bright in fancy, all things shine ; 
 All frown on those that in deep sorrow pine, 
 Smile on the cheerful, lead the wise abroad 
 O'er Nature's realm in search of laws divine ; 
 All draw the earthly down to their vile clod ; 
 And all unite to lift the heavenly to their God. 
 
 XXXIT. 
 The universe is calm to faith serene ; 
 And all with glory shines to her bright eye ; 
 The mount of Sion, crowned with living green 
 By all the beams and dews of its pure sky, 
 She sees o'er clouds and tempests rising high 
 From its one fountain pouring streams that bear 
 Fresh life and beauty, ne'er to fade and die. 
 But make the blasted earth an aspect wear, 
 Like that of its blest prime, divinely rich and fair. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 The eye which she has opened, rolls in light 
 O'er a creation, in which God is viewed. 
 In all that blooms by day and shines by night, 
 Without him all a cheerless solitude ; 
 The heart that with her spirit is imbued, 
 At nature's mingled works of power and love 
 Trembles with awe and swells with gratitude. 
 And pants for the swift pinions of a dove, 
 To waft the soul away to Him who reigns above. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 But while upon her high and holy ground 
 Faith stands and makes the universe her own. 
 Her votaries with its splendour to surround. 
 To add to her pure light, and hers alone, 
 And help to raise them to her promised throne. 
 Slaves of fine sense there are, that think to climb, 
 E'en by a path on which she never shone 
 Up nature's lone steps to a height sublime 
 Of triumph o'er the gloom of sin and death and time. 
 
I'JO THE RELIGION 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 The Piety of faith from nature draws 
 
 Her chief delight where most of love appears, 
 Love in the round of its eternal laws, 
 In the wide flow of light from rolling spheres, 
 In genial showers, mild climes, and fruitful years. 
 In sights of happy life and songs of praise, 
 In all the care that wins the heart and cheers 
 And all the bounty, like the sun's full blaze 
 Pouring its tide of blessings o'er revolving days. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 The Piety of taste her pleasure finds, 
 Where power in bright pre-eminence is seen, 
 By tender spirits and exalted minds. 
 In all the grand and fair, wild and serene, 
 In heaven's clear blue and earth's contrasted green, 
 In mountain-tops and clouds around them driven. 
 In boundless seas, high stars, and night's pale queen. 
 In all the hues and notes of morn and even. 
 In all the charms of earth and all the pomp of heaven. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 Who boasts the power of piety, so weak 
 
 In all its loveliness, whene'er he deigns 
 The book of God to open, turns to seek 
 Its melting histories and lofty strains. 
 Or learn what flowers once filled Judea's plains. 
 What gems her mountains, and what beasts her wood, 
 What cities flourished once where silence reigns. 
 What deeds were wrought where monuments have stood. 
 How earth from chaos rose, how rolled beneath her flood. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 As o'er this field of poetry he strays. 
 He culls what truths are lovely and sublime, — 
 Existence with no first or last of days. 
 And goodness with no bound of space or time. 
 Souls from the earth kept ever in their prime. 
 Angels attending men to virtue dear, 
 A heaven where both towards their Maker climb, 
 A day when all the dead his voice shall hear 
 And o'er a world made new, songs burst on every ear. 
 
OF TASTE. 
 
 191 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Thus on the fair in nature, and the vast, 
 And on the truths revealed that charm the eye 
 Of Fancy bright, and open through the past 
 And future, many a range of vision high, 
 And wide and glorious as the starry sky, 
 He builds a proud religion ill refined, 
 And from it hopes of immortality 
 Draws for himself and all of kindred mind. 
 The amiable and great and brilliant of mankind. 
 
 XL. 
 
 To these when gone he gives high seats among 
 The robed in white, with joys on earth untold, — 
 To all the beautiful among the young, 
 And all the venerable amid the old. 
 To bards, philosophers, and patriots bold, — 
 Sweet rest he gives them in ambrosial bowers. 
 With crowns of amaranth and harps of gold. 
 While on their graves descend the gentlest showers. 
 And brightest moonbeams sleep and bloom the earliest flowers. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 Such in the pride of all its glittering dross, 
 
 To truth's revealed eternity so blind. 
 Is that religion which o'erlooks the cross, 
 While in a rose-bud it aifects to find. 
 Or in a mountain, much to fill the mind 
 With thoughts of God, and fire the heart with love ; 
 And yet e'en this, by genius oft enshrined 
 In numbers sweet, with these alone can move. 
 Or seem to move the heart, or lift the thoughts above. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 Who learns to hold communion with the God 
 Of this material frame, by gazing o'er 
 Its beauty near and vastness far abroad, 
 While yet he never bowed the knee before 
 The reigning God of love ? What sees he more 
 To fill with joy or awe than he might see. 
 Had earth and heaven no Maker to adore. 
 Had they been always, or begun to be 
 Without creating power, mid shouts of melody. 
 
192 
 
 THE RELIGION 
 
 XLIII. 
 Grows he devout from all the spring's sweet bloom, 
 Or all the pride of summer rich and gay ? 
 From autumn's fading hues and placid gloom, 
 Or pomp of winter in its white array. 
 With sunbeams twinkling from each icy spray, 
 And meteors shooting thick and howling storms? 
 Or from the lights and shades of night and day, 
 In cloudless climes, with all the perfect forms 
 Of grandeur that exalts, and loveliness that warms ? 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 Then wherefore are not they who dwell apart 
 From the great world, upon some lofty plain 
 Amid the Andes, nearest heaven in heart ? 
 Why are not they whose home is on the main, 
 The least unmindful of Jehovah's reign, 
 In calm and storm, on every sea and shore ? 
 Or why do men of creed and life profane 
 Return not after earth is travelled o'er 
 And half its mountains climbed, less impious than before ? 
 
 XLV. 
 
 Where are the virtues and the calm delights 
 Of the lone cottage 'mid embowering trees. 
 Far from the worlds tumultuous sounds and sights, 
 On some hill-side o'erlooking smooth blue seas, 
 Or in some vale where but the hum of bees. 
 The chant of birds, and the rill's murmur break 
 The charmed air's stillness, and the roughest breeze 
 Can stir no more than into life just shake 
 The green grove's perfect image in the glassy lake ? 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 Draw near ye sons of romance and behold 
 Your boasted calm of happy virtue gone ; 
 See foul intemperance and profaneness bold. 
 And pride in rags as rank as if in lawn ; 
 See all enchantment from the scene withdrawn 
 By the first touch of truth's celestial ray ; 
 As golden dreams all vanish at the dawn, 
 So quick your bright creation fades away. 
 And your etherial beings sink to things of clay. 
 
OF TASTE. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 Leave bards behind and seek the hermit's cell, 
 
 High converse holds he, in his solitude, 
 With angels shedding round as by a spell 
 A radiance into which no clouds intrude 
 From earth, or earthly passions unsubdued ? 
 Or musing on bright skies and mountains wild 
 Communes he with their Maker, till imbued 
 With pure and lofty thoughts and feelings mild, 
 By error duped no more, no more by sin defiled. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 But love of nature feasted high and long 
 Without controlling faith, while it inspires 
 No heavenly flame, oft feeds amid a throng 
 Of fancies soft and wild, far other fires, — 
 False feeling, airy hopes, and foul desires. 
 And helps to form an idler unconfined, 
 Or visionary, whom the truth soon tires. 
 Or profligate, or hater of mankind. 
 Or all in one, and more, a skeptic cold and blind. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 All these was Byron, and was doubly these 
 
 From his unhallowed genius revelling free 
 Amid the charms of loveliest lands and seas : — 
 'Twas here he nursed the daring liberty 
 Of dreaming what man is, and is to be, 
 In spite of all the unimpassioned prose 
 Of truth divine, when with sweet poetry 
 All nature lives, luxuriates and glows, 
 Tempting to pleasure here, leaving to fate its close. 
 
 L. 
 
 How did he send to Heaven defiance proud. 
 While bounding lightly o'er the billowy world. 
 Or gazing round him when the midnight cloud 
 Its massy folds o'er Alpine heights unfurled, 
 And round from cliff to cliff"its light'nings hurled. 
 With dark red gleams now showing wood and lake, 
 Swept in broad waves, or in deep eddies whirled, 
 Now leaving all a blank, while thunders break 
 In one redoubling peal and all the mountains shak©. 
 25 • 
 
 193 
 
^94 THE RELIGION 
 
 LI. 
 
 And when with all the elements at peace 
 He breathed the air of Italy's soft vales, 
 Or of the verdant shores and isles of Greece, 
 To him the deities of classic tales 
 Seemed to return to groves and hills and dales, 
 Their former haunts, made theirs from beauty bright 
 As on Arabian plains, by poisonous gales 
 And burning suns laid waste, the skies of night 
 With deities are filled for their cool placid light. 
 
 LII. 
 
 To him the Cyprian queen resumed her throne 
 Where once the pencil, pen, and chisel vied. 
 By borrowing nature's charms to raise her own ; — 
 On roses she must feed and sleep, must glide 
 A form of light o'er the cerulean tide. 
 Or towards her temple through green shady groves 
 With garlands crowned, in pomp serene must guide 
 Her ivory chariot drawn by swans and doves. 
 With Graces dancing round and all her winged Loves, 
 
 LIIL 
 
 Tis oft the unhallowed fancy that delights 
 O'er the sublime and fair of earth to glance. 
 To wander long where earth with heaven unites, 
 To sail on smooth wings o'er the blue expanse, 
 Or on bright clouds in a voluptuous trance, 
 Or soar 'mid worlds, above, below, around, 
 Approaching and retreating in a dance 
 Of light and harmony, and with that sound 
 Of fabled music sweet, filling the vast profound. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 From flights so high, how quick can man descend, — 
 
 From realms so bright and calm, — and roll in dust, 
 A slave to passions that like vultures rend 
 Ere they devour, and from the bosom thrust 
 All feelings kind and pure, and wake mistrust 
 Of every friend, and enmity to all 
 The good and happy, from the cold disgust 
 Of senses pampered till their pleasures pall ; 
 When at the world he murmurs, to revenge his fall. 
 
OF TASTE. 196 
 
 LV. 
 
 Sick of the world, a glad farewell he sings 
 
 To all its living scenes ; and, worse than vain, 
 
 Sighs without meaning for the dove's light wings. 
 
 To waft him to some island of the main. 
 
 Or far-offdesert, where he may complain 
 
 To woods and waters, fortune may defy. 
 
 And there restored to nature's boasted reign. 
 
 Feel free to pour contempt on every tie. 
 
 That man to man unites, and to the God on high. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 Or weary of his life, he madly throws 
 The burden down, or drags it on in dread 
 Of each day's added weight, while no repose 
 He looks for here, but longs to lay his head 
 Among the silent and forgotten dead ; — 
 And this is greatness that the young betimes 
 Learn to admire ; and though his joys are fled. 
 Still in the fancies from which sprung his crimes 
 They think to find their joys, as if in fairy climes. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 They seek a paradise that from them flies 
 And leaves them oft bewildered, like the band 
 Of Indian youths, who searched with eager eyes 
 Through Florida's vast swamp for unknown land, 
 By hunters praised as rising with firm strand 
 Just in their utmost need, and in full view. 
 Where waving many an inviting hand. 
 The daughters of the sun to safety drew. 
 And cheered them with rich fruits, their labours to renew. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 But when with those immortal ones they thought 
 To live and share in their unfading prime. 
 They saw them flee ; and when they fondly sought 
 To follow to their chosen isle, and climb 
 Its verdant shores and cloudless heights sublime, 
 The waters round them rose with threatening roar. 
 The isle receding vanished many a time. 
 Then re-appeared but distant as before. 
 As if to bid them go content and seek no more. 
 
196 THE KKLIGION 
 
 LIX. 
 
 And thus do nature's scenes of beauty give 
 The spirit rest, when but an hour enjoyed ; 
 Life's fainting traveller thus they oft revive, 
 They calm the soul by earthly cares annoyed, 
 Refine the sense by earthly pleasures cloyed, 
 The sad heart cheer, and ease the toiling mind ; 
 But sought life's ills and labours to avoid, 
 They mock with visions of delight that blind 
 The eyes to truth, then fly, and leave despair behind. 
 
 LX. 
 
 And in the tender gloom of that despair 
 All vigour dies, all virtue high and bold, 
 The will to labour and the strength to bear ; 
 And man becomes a thing of passive mould, 
 As helpless as the Sybarite of old, 
 Who on his bed of roses could not rest. 
 If but a leaf retained a single fold ; 
 Listless inquietude pervades his breast. 
 And trifles from without, each moment's peace molest. 
 
 LXL 
 
 All at the mercy of surrounding things, 
 A passing cloud or bird of thrilling strain, 
 Bears him away through wild imaginings, 
 Like and unlike, combined in one long train ; 
 Or all resigned to fancy's gloomy reign, 
 He melts in reveries, begun from nought, 
 Prolonged at random and then closed in vain, 
 A mere delirium of soft feeling wrought, 
 With but the semblance left, of deep, continuous thought. 
 
 LXIL 
 
 But his is sickly feeling ill refined. 
 Nursed in the luxury of causeless tears, — 
 Tears that foment a fever in the mind, 
 Yet chill and harden all within that cheers 
 This mournful life, and man to man endears ; 
 Like Niobe he weeps himself to stone ; 
 Nought now of others woes he sees or hears, 
 With his lost hopes his sympathies are tlown, 
 And in a social world, he lives and dies alone. 
 
OF TASTE. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 Or if his feeling e'er the heart dilate 
 With touch of pity till a tear be shed, 
 'Tis more for trifles than for things of weight, 
 Resembling much the superstitious dread 
 The Hindoo feels, lest his incautious tread 
 Should crush an insect, while he views unmoved 
 The living mortal burning with the dead, 
 A sacrifice by favourite gods approved, 
 And by his listless spirit borne till it is loved. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 Rosseau could weep, — yes, with a heart of stone 
 
 The impious sophist could recline beside 
 The pure and peaceful lake, and muse alone 
 On all its loveliness at even tide, — 
 On its small running waves in purple died 
 Beneath bright clouds or all the glowing sky, 
 On the white sails that o'er its bosom glide, 
 And on surrounding mountains wild and high 
 Till tears unbidden gushed from his enchanted eye. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 But his were not the tears of feeling fine 
 
 Of grief or love ; at fancy's flash they flowed. 
 Like burning drops from some proud lonely pine 
 By lightning fired ; his heart with passion glowed 
 Till it consumed his life, and yet he showed 
 A chilling coldness both to friend and foe. 
 As Etna, with its centre an abode 
 Of wasting fire, chills with the icy snow 
 Of all its desert brow the living world below. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 Was he but justly wretched from his crimes ? 
 
 Then why wasCowper's anguish oft as keen, 
 With all the heaven-born virtue that sublimes 
 Genius and feeling, and to things unseen 
 Lifts the pure heart through clouds, that roll between 
 The earth and skies, to darken human hope ? 
 Or wherefore did those clouds thus intervene 
 To render vain faith's lifted telescope, 
 And leave him in thick gloom his weary way to grope ? 
 
 197 
 
198 
 
 THE RELIGION 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 He too could give himself to musing deep, 
 By the calm lake at evening he could stand, 
 Lonely and sad, to see the moon light sleep 
 On all its breast by not an insect fanned, 
 And hear low voices on the far-off strand, 
 Or through the still and dewy atmosphere 
 The pipe's soft tones waked by some gentle hand, 
 From fronting shore and woody island near 
 In echoes quick returned more mellow and more clear. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 And he could cherish wild and mournful dreams, 
 In the pine grove, when low the full moon fair 
 Shot under lofty tops her level beams. 
 Stretching the shades of trunks erect and bare. 
 In stripes drawn parallel with order rare, 
 As of some temple vast or colonnade. 
 While on green turf made smooth without his care 
 He wandered o'er its stripes of light and shade, 
 And heard the dying day-breeze all the boughs pervade. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 'Twas thus in nature's bloom and solitude 
 He nursed his grief till nothing could assuage ; 
 'Twas thus his tender spirit was subdued, 
 Till in life's toils it could no more engage ; 
 And his had been a useless pilgrimage, 
 Had he been gifted with no sacred power, 
 To send his thoughts to every future age ; — 
 But he is gone where grief will not devour, 
 Where beauty will not fade, and skies will never lower. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 To that bright world where things of earth appear 
 
 Stript of false charms, my fancy often flies, 
 To ask him there what life is happiest here ; 
 And as he points around him and replies 
 With glowing lips, my heart within me dies, 
 And conscience whispers of a dreadful bar. 
 When in some scene where every beauty lies, 
 A soft sweet pensiveness begins to mar 
 The joys of social life, and with its claims to war. 
 
OF TASTE. 19y 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 'Twas one of summer's last and loveliest days, 
 When at the dawn, with a congenial friend 
 I rose to climb the mount, that with the gaze 
 Of expectation high we long had kenned, 
 While travelling towards it as our journey's end : — 
 Height after height we reached that seemed the last 
 But far above, where we must yet ascend, 
 Another and another rose, till fast 
 The sun began to sink ere all but one were past. 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 Upon that loftiest one awhile we stood 
 Silent with wonder and absorbing awe ; 
 A thousand peaks, the lowest crowned with wood, 
 The highest of bare rock at once we saw. 
 In ranges spread till seeming to withdraw 
 Far into heaven, and mix their softer blue ; 
 While ranges near, as if in spite of law. 
 With all wild shapes and grand filled up the view 
 And o'er the deep dark gulf fantastic shadows threw. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 Here billows heaved in one vast swell, and there 
 In one long sweep, as on a stormy sea, 
 Drawn to a curling edge, seemed held in air, 
 Ready to move as from a charm set free, 
 And roar, and dash, and sink, and cease to be ; 
 While firm and smooth as hewn of emerald rock, 
 Below them rose to points of one proud tree 
 Green pyramids of pine, that seemed to mock 
 In conscious safety proud, their vainly threatened shock. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 Here while the sun yet shone, abysses vast 
 Like openings into inner regions seemed 
 All objects fading, mingling, sinking fast, 
 Save few that shot up where the sun yet beamed j 
 But soon as his last rays around us streamed 
 Thick darkness wrapt the whole, o'er which the glow 
 Of western skies in feeble flashes gleamed. 
 While bright from pole to pole extending slow 
 Along the wide horizon ere it sunk below. 
 
200 THK relic; lox 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 'Twas midnight, when from our sequestered hower 
 
 I stole with sleepless eyes to gaze alone ; 
 For tis alone we feel in its full power, 
 The enchantment o'er a scene so awful thrown : — 
 Through broken flying clouds the moon now shone, 
 And light and shade crossed mountain-top and vale ; 
 While with imparted motion, not their own. 
 The heavens and earth to fancy seemed to sail 
 Through boundless space like her creation bright but frail. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 Ere long the clouds were gone, the moon was set ; 
 When deeply blue without a shade of gray, 
 The sky was filled with stars that almost met, 
 Their points prolonged and sharpened to one ray ; 
 Through their transparent air the milky-way 
 Seemed one broad flame of pure resplendent white. 
 As if some globe on fire, turned far astray. 
 Had crossed the wide arch with so swift a flight, 
 That for a moment shone its whole long track of light. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 At length in northern skies, at fiist but small, 
 
 A sheet of light meteorrous begun 
 
 To spread on either hand, and rise and fall 
 
 In waves, that slowly first, then quickly run 
 
 Along its edge, set thick but one by one 
 
 With spiry beams, that all at once shot high. 
 
 Like those through vapours from the setting sun ; 
 
 Then sidelong as before the wind they fly. 
 
 Like streaking rain from clouds that flit along the sky. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 Now all the mountain-tops and gulfs between 
 
 Seemed one dark plain ; from forests, caves profound 
 And rushing waters far below unseen, 
 Rose a deep roar in one united sound. 
 Alike pervading all the air around, 
 And seeming e'en the azure dome to fill, 
 And from it through soft ether to resound 
 In low vibrations, sending a sweet thrill 
 To every finger's end from rapture deep and still. 
 
OF TASTK. 201 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 Spent with emotion, and to rest resigned, 
 A sudden sleep fell on me, and subdued 
 With visions bright and dread my restless mind ; — 
 Methought that in a realm of solitude, 
 All indistinctly like the one just viewed, 
 With guilt oppressed and with foreboding gloom, 
 My lonely way bewildered I pursued. 
 Mid signs of terror that the day of doom. 
 And lovely nature's last dissolving hour had come. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 The sun and moon in depths of ether sunk 
 Till half extinct, shed their opposing light 
 In dismal union, at which all things shrunk ; — 
 Anon they both, like meteors streaming bright. 
 Ran down the sky and vanished — all was night ; 
 With that a groan as from earth's centre rose, 
 While o'er its surface ran, o'er vale and height, 
 A waving as of woods when wild wind blows, 
 A heaving as of life in its expiring throes. 
 
 LXXXI 
 
 Far in the broad horizon dimly shone 
 
 A flood of fire, advancing with a roar, 
 Like that of ocean when the waves are thrown 
 In nightly storms high on a rocky shore ; — 
 Spreading each way it came, and sweeping o'er 
 Woodlands like stubble, forests wide and tall 
 In thick ranks falling, blooming groves before 
 Its fury vanishing too soon to fall, 
 And mountains melting down — one deluge covering all. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 Before it, striking quick from cloud to cloud, 
 
 Streamed its unearthly light along the sky. 
 Flashing from all the swift wings of a crowd 
 Of frighted birds at random soaring high, 
 And from the faces of lost men that fly 
 In throngs beneath, as back they snatched a look 
 Of horror at the billows rolling nigh 
 With thundering sound at which all nature shook, 
 And e'en the strength of hope their sinking hearts forsook. 
 26 
 
21^ THE RELIGION 
 
 LXXXIII. » 
 
 No more I saw, for while I thought to flee 
 What seemed the swoon of terror held me fast, 
 My senses drowned, and set my fancy free, 
 Waked not, but back to sleep unconscious cast 
 My troubled spirit ; one dark moment passed. 
 And, all revived again, my dream went on ; 
 But in that interval what changes vast ! 
 The earth and its lost multitudes were gone ; 
 A new creation blessed eternity's bright dawn. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 Myself I found borne to a heavenly clime 
 
 I knew not how, but felt a stranger there ; 
 Still the same being that I was in time, 
 E'en to my raiment ; on the borders fair 
 Of that blest land I stood in lone despair ; 
 Not its pure beauty and immortal bloom, 
 Its firmament serene and balmy air. 
 Nor all its glorious beings, broke the gloom 
 Of my foreboding thoughts, fixed on some dreadful doom. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 There w'alkedthe ransomed ones of earth in white 
 As beautifully pure as new-fallen snow. 
 On the smooth summit of some eastern height, 
 In the first rays of morn that o'er it flow. 
 Nor less resplendent than the richest glow 
 Of snow-white clouds, with all their stores of rain 
 And thunder spent, rolled up in volumes slow 
 O'er the blue sky just cleared from every stain, 
 Till all the blaze of noon they drink and long retain. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 Safe landed on these shores, together hence 
 That bright throng took their way to where insphered 
 In a transparent cloud of light intense, 
 With starry pinnacles above it reared, 
 A city vast, the inland all appeared, 
 With walls of azure, green, and purple stone. 
 All to one glassy surface smoothed and cleared. 
 Reflecting forms of angel guards that shone 
 Above the approaching host as each were on a throne. 
 
or TASTE. 203 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 And while that host moved onward o'er a plain 
 Of living verdure, oft they turned to greet 
 Friends th^t on earth had taught them heaven to gain ; 
 Then hand in hand they went with quickened feet ; 
 And bright with immortality, and sweet 
 With love etherial, were the smiles they cast ; 
 I only wandered on with none to meet 
 And call me dear, while pointing to the past 
 And forward to the joys that never reach their last. 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 I had not bound myself by any ties 
 To that blest land ; none saw me and none sought ; 
 Nor any shunned, or from me turned their eyes ; 
 And yet such sense of guilt had conscience wrought, 
 It seemed that every bosom's inmost thought 
 Was fixed on me ; when back as from their view 
 I shrunk, and would have fled or shrunk to nought 
 As some I loved and many that I knew 
 Passed on unmindful why or whither I withdrew. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 Whereat of sad remembrances a flood 
 Rushed o'er my spirit, and my heart beat low 
 As with the heavy gush of curdling blood : — 
 Soon left behind, awhile I followed slow, 
 Then stopped and round me looked my fate to know, 
 But looked in vain ; — no voice my doom to tell ; — 
 No arm to hurl me down to depths of wo ; — 
 It seemed that I was brought to heaven to dwell 
 That conscience might alone do all the work of hell. 
 
 XC. 
 
 Now came the thought, the bitter thought of years 
 Wasted in musings sad and fancies wild, 
 And in the visionary hopes and fears 
 Of the false feeling of a heart beguiled 
 By nature's strange enchantment, strong and wild ; 
 Now with celestial beauty blooming round, 
 I stood as on some naked waste exiled ; 
 From gathering hosts came music's swelling sound 
 But deeper in despair my sinking spirit drowned. 
 
304 THE RELIGION 
 
 XCI. 
 
 At leugth methought a darkness as of death 
 
 Came slowly o'er me, and with that I woke ; 
 Yet knew not in the first suspended breath 
 Where I could be, so real seemed the stroke 
 That in my dream all earthly ties had broke ; 
 A moment more, and melting in a tide 
 Of grateful fervour, how did I invoke 
 Power from the Highest to leave all beside, 
 And live but to secure the bliss ray dream denied. 
 
 XCII. 
 
 The day soon dawned, and I could not but view 
 Its purple tinge in heaven, and then its beams 
 Revealing all around me, as they flew 
 From peak to peak, and striking in soft gleams 
 On the white mists that hung o'er winding streams 
 Through trackless forests, and o'er clustering lakes 
 In vallies wide, where many a green height seems 
 An isle above the cloud that round it breaks. 
 As with the breeze it moves and its deep bed forsakes. 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 Yet all was viewed with calm and thoughtful joy. 
 As but reminding me that earth was still 
 My bright abode of hope, to high employ 
 Inviting me through all its good and ill. 
 Its smiles to flatter and its frowns to chill :~ 
 The one dread thought of an hereafter reigned 
 Within me, followed me, nor ceased to fill 
 My heart and soul through days of peace unfeigned, — 
 Would Heaven that till this hour its freshness had remained. 
 
 XCIV. 
 
 With thoughts sublimed and yet chastised by truth, 
 'Tis sweet to see from our maturer years 
 How vain the fond imaginings of youth, — 
 'Tis sweet to see, while faith the bosom cheers. 
 The withering of the flowers that fancy rears. 
 The fading of her visions once so bright. 
 And when her bubbles burst, to smile in tears 
 That we could trust so much in things so light. 
 So sure to lead astray and then to take their flight. 
 
OF TASTE. 205 
 
 xcv. 
 
 A bright or dark eternity in view, 
 With all its fixed unutterable things, 
 What madness in the living to pursue, 
 As their chief portion, with the speed of wings 
 The joys that death-beds always turn to stings ! 
 Infatuated man, on earth's smooth waste 
 To dance along the path that always brings 
 Cluick to an end, from which with tenfold haste 
 
 Back would he gladly fly till all should be retraced ! 
 
 XCVI. 
 
 Our life is like the hurrying on the eve 
 
 Before we start on some long journey bound, 
 When fit preparing to the last we leave, 
 Then run to every room the dwelling round. 
 And sigh that nothing needed can be found ; 
 Yet go we must, and soon^as day shall break ; 
 We snatch an hour's repose, when loud the sound 
 For our departure calls ; we rise and take 
 A quick and sad farewell, and go ere well awake. 
 
 XCVII. 
 
 Reared in the sunshine, blasted by the storms, 
 
 Of changing time, scarce asking why or whence, 
 Men come and go like vegetable forms. 
 Though heaven appoints for them a work immense, 
 Demanding constant thought and zeal intense, 
 Awaked by hopes and fears that leave no room 
 For rest to mortals in the dread suspense. 
 While yet they know not if beyond the tomb 
 A long, long life of bliss or wo shall be their doom. 
 
 XCVIII. 
 What matter whether pain or pleasures fill 
 The swelling heart one little moment here ? 
 From both alike how vain is every thrill 
 While an untried eternity is near ! 
 Tiiink not of rest, fond man, in life's career ; 
 The joys and grief that meet thee, dash aside 
 Like bubbles, and thy bark right onward steer 
 Through calm and tempest till it cross the tide, 
 Shoot into port in triumph, or serenely glide. 
 
206 
 
 THE RELIGION 
 XCIX. 
 
 And thou to whom long worshipped nature lends 
 No strength to fly from grief or bear its weight, 
 Stop not to rail at foes or fickle friends, 
 Nor set the world at nought, nor spurn at fate ; 
 None seek thy misery, none thy being hate ; 
 Break from thy former self, thy life begin ; 
 Do thou the good thy thoughts oft meditate, 
 And thou shalt feel the good man's peace within, 
 And at thy dying day his wreath of glory win. 
 
 C. 
 
 With deeds of virtue to embalm his name 
 
 He dies in triumph or serene delight ; 
 Weaker and weaker grows his mortal frame 
 At every breath, but in immortal might 
 His spirit grows, preparing for its flight ; 
 The world recedes and fades like clouds of even. 
 But heaven comes nearer fast, and grows more bright, 
 All intervening mists far oft' are driven ; — 
 The world will vanish soon, and all will soon be heaven. 
 
 CI. 
 
 Wouldst thou from sorrow find a sweet relief ? 
 
 Or is thy heart oppressed with woes untold ? 
 Balm wouldst thou gather for corroding grief ? 
 Pour blessings round thee like a shower of gold ; 
 'Tis when the rose is wrapt in many a fold 
 Close to its heart, the worm is wasting there 
 Its life and beauty ; not, when all unrolled, 
 Leaf after leaf its bosom rich and fair 
 Breathes freely its perfumes throughout the ambient air. 
 
 CII. 
 
 Wake thou that sleepest in enchanted bowers. 
 Lest these lost years should haunt thee on the night 
 When death is waiting for thy numbered hours 
 To take take their swift and everlasting flight ; 
 Wake ere the earth-born charm unnerve thee quite, 
 And be thy thoughts to work divine addressed ; 
 Do something — do it soon — with all thy might ; 
 An angel's wing would droop if long at rest, 
 And God himself inactive were no longer blest. 
 
OF TASTK. 207 
 
 cm. 
 
 Some high or humble enterprise of good 
 Contemplate till it shall possess thy mind, 
 Become thy study, pastime, rest, and food, 
 And kindle in thy heart a flame refined ; 
 Pray Heaven for firmness thy whole soul to bind 
 To this thy purpose — to begin, pursue. 
 With thoughts all fixed and feelings purely kind, 
 Strength to complete, and with delight review. 
 And grace to give the praise where all is ever due. 
 
 CIV. 
 
 No good of worth sublime will heaven permit 
 To light on man as from the passing air ; 
 The lamp of genius though by nature lit, 
 If not protected, pruned, and fed with care, 
 Soon dies or runs to waste with fitful glare, 
 And learning is a plant that spreads and towers 
 Slow as Columbia's aloe, proudly rare, 
 That 'mid gay thousands with the suns and shower.s 
 Of half a century, grows alone before it flowers. 
 
 CV. 
 
 Has immortality of name been given 
 To them that idly worship hills and groves. 
 And burn sweet incense to the queen of heaven ? 
 Did Newton learn from fancy as it roves, 
 To measure worlds and follow where each moves 1 
 Did Howard gain renown that shall not cease. 
 By wanderings wild that nature's pilgrim loves ? 
 Or did Paul gain heaven's glory and its peace 
 By musing o'er the bright and tranquil isles of Greece ? 
 
 CVI. 
 
 Beware lest thou from sloth, that would appear 
 But lowliness of mind, with joy proclaim 
 Thy want of worth ; a charge thou couldst not hear 
 From other lips, without a blush of shame. 
 Or pride indignant ; then be thine the blame, 
 And make thyself of worth ; and thus enlist 
 The smiles of all the good, the dear to fame ; 
 'Tis infamy to die and not be missed. 
 Or let all soon forget that thou didst e'er exist. 
 
208 
 
 THE RELIGION OF TASTE. 
 CVII. 
 
 Rouse to some work of high and holy love, 
 And thou an angel's happiness shall know, — 
 Shalt bless the earth while in the world above, 
 The good begun by thee shall onward flow 
 In many a branching stream, and wider grow ; 
 The seed that in these few and fleeting hours. 
 Thy hands unsparing and unwearied sow, 
 Shall deck thy grave, with amaranthine flowers, 
 And yield thee fruits divine in heaven's immortal bowers. 
 
SERMONS. 
 
SERMON L 
 
 I. PETER, iv. 11. 
 
 " If any man speak, let him speak as the oracles of God ; if any man minister, 
 let him do it as of the ability which God giveth ; that God in all things may be 
 glorified, through Jesus Christ ; to whom be praise and dominion forever and 
 ever. Amen." 
 
 The repetition of the name of the Divine Being in this 
 passage naturally renders the idea of him the prominent one. 
 It calls the mind to him again and again, and fixes it on him 
 more closely at every step in the course of thought. The 
 apostle looks in one direction, and here his view^ terminates 
 in God ; he looks in another direction, and there his view^ ter- 
 minates in God ; he looks in another direction still, and there, 
 too, his view terminates in God. On every side he beholds 
 the incomprehensible and glorious Being, of vi^hom, and 
 through whom, and to whom are all things, and who is God 
 over all, blessed forever. 
 
 It must be apparent to the attentive reader, that the thought 
 of God as the moral Governor of men, as their Redeemer, 
 and their Judge, had been taking a stronger and stronger hold 
 of the apostle's mind, and exciting in it an increasing interest, 
 for some time before he uttered the words of the text. 
 He begins the chapter in which the text is found, by exhort- 
 ing his brethren to depart from all iniquity after the example 
 of Christ, and live the rest of their days not to the lusts of 
 men, but to the will of God. He proceeds to observe, that 
 they had already spent enough of life without God in the 
 
 Note. — This Sermon was preached the first Sabbath after his ordination. 
 
212 SERMON I. 
 
 world, — in the condition of heathen, who for their abomina- 
 ble idolatries and excess of riot were to give an account to 
 Him who was ready to judge the quick and the dead. He 
 exhorts them to live thenceforth accorduig to God in the 
 spirit. In view of the solemn trutli that the end of all things 
 was at hand, when they too must stand before the Judge of 
 the whole earth, he exhorts them to the performance of the 
 various duties of devotion and benevolence. After enumera- 
 ting some of these duties, he observes in a summary way, "As 
 every man hath received the gift, even so minister the same 
 one to another, as good stewards of the manifold grace of 
 God." Having given this general direction, he next confines 
 his attention to that particular class of men called to be 
 preachers and pastors, and adds, while the thought of the Su- 
 preme Being has full possession of his soul, " If any man 
 speak, let him speak as the oracles of God ; if any man minis- 
 ter, let him do it as of the ability which God giveth ; that God 
 in all things may be glorified, through Jesus Christ ; to whom 
 be praise and dominion forever and ever. Amen." 
 
 In making the passage before us the theme of the present 
 discourse, permit me to call your attention to the three gener- 
 al divisions of thought, as containing the substance of what 
 appears to my mind the most proper to be said on this inter- 
 esting occasion. 
 
 I. Let the minister of God preach the truth of God — " as 
 the oracles of God." 
 
 The oracles of God are the writings given by inspiration of 
 God, — making known to us the perfections of his whole char- 
 acter, and the principles of his universal government, — and 
 also the pai'ticular requirements of his law, the original holi- 
 ness and subsequent apostacy of mankind, the wonders of 
 Christ's redemption, and the rewards and punishments of an 
 eternal world. When we would learn what the truth is on 
 these subjects, or on any connected with them, we have only 
 to consult the oracles of God, and we shall hear the response 
 of Him, who cannot err from ignorance or inclination. If 
 we would know what the character of the Supreme Being is. 
 
SERMON I. 213 
 
 in relation to the universe for which he acts, the answer of 
 his oracles to our inquiry is, "God is love." If we inquire 
 what he is to the earth under its particular dispensation, the 
 answer is, "He is the Lord God, merciful and gracious, long- 
 suflering, and abundant in goodness and truth." If it be ask- 
 ed further, what he is to the penitent and believing of the 
 human family, it is answered, "He is a strong tower into 
 which they may run and be safe." And if it be asked further 
 still, what he is to the impenitent and unbelieving, it is answer- 
 ed, " He is a consuming fire." Answers as direct are given 
 to inquiries after the truth, on the other doctrines just enu- 
 merated, as lying at the foundation of the religion of the 
 bible. There is also another class of doctrines, less general, 
 but equally fundamental in the Gospel as a system for the illus- 
 tration of God's glory by the recovery of fallen man ; and on 
 these the language of the divine oracles is no less full and defi- 
 nite. Among these are to be reckoned the supreme divinity 
 of the Father, of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, the entire 
 depravity of all men by nature, the atonement of Christ, re- 
 generation by the Spirit, and justification by faith. If these 
 are not fundamental doctrines of Christianity, it would be 
 difficult to show that there are any sufficiently peculiar and 
 important to deserve the name. But if they are such, no 
 man can be a faithful minister of Christ, without making them 
 the great subjects of his preaching. Can a man be said to 
 preach the Gospel, when he opposes or overlooks the essen- 
 tial principles of the Gospel? Could a prophet of Moham- 
 med be said to teach the religion of his master, if he should 
 be silent on its primaiy doctrines, and speak only of those 
 that hold a secondary rank? Some of you may feel ready 
 to reply, that every man will at once acknowledge the truth 
 of the proposition, that the preacher of the Gospel is bound to 
 dwell chiefly on its most essential doctrines, but every man 
 will claim the right of judging for himself what these doc- 
 trines are. And it may be thought that this proposition thus 
 qualified is too plain to need any illustration. It cannot 
 however be so plain, or so generally believed, as to be an 
 
''il^ SERMON I. 
 
 unprofitable subject of discourse on an occasion like the pres- 
 ent. But there are not wanting men, who regard as funda- 
 mental the doctrines just enumerated, and still deny the ex- 
 pediency of preaching them, on the ground that they are too 
 speculative, or too mysterious, or too much suited to excite 
 opposition, to produce any practical benefit. The word of 
 God, however, and the history of the church, unite in testify- 
 ing, that no preaching is so useful as that, in which these doc- 
 trines hold the place, that they hold in the Christian system. 
 Let the minister of God, then, in declaring divine truth, be- 
 gin where Christ and his apostles begin. Let him lay the 
 foundation, that they have laid ; and his superstructure will 
 be like theirs ; and like theirs will be the success of his la- 
 bour, and its everlasting reward. 
 
 Let him exhibit the whole character of God. All the di- 
 vine attributes are summed up in benevolence ; but the be- 
 nevolence of the infinite Jehovah is often so represented, as to 
 resemble the blind and partial affection of love in a too indul- 
 gent father. It is made to consist almost entirely in a weak 
 and indiscriminate mercy, with which the holy and exalted 
 attribute of justice cannot unite. From such a view of the 
 benevolence of God, springs the doctrine of the unconditional 
 salvation of all mankind. And it would be easy to show, that 
 every great error in religion, may be traced back to some in- 
 correct view of the divine character as its source. So true 
 is this, that the ideas which any particular sect entertain, re- 
 specting the attributes of God, may be known from those 
 which they entertain respecting other parts of the system of 
 revealed truth ; and the opinions, which they hold in regard 
 to these subordinate parts, may be learnt from those which 
 they hold in regard to the primary subject, the divine charac- 
 ter. Show me what a man believes respecting the Supreme 
 Being, and I will show you the leading articles in the rest of 
 his creed. All the false systems of religion in the world pro- 
 ceed from false conceptions of the character of God ; — con- 
 ceptions generated in a vain imagination, under the govern- 
 ment of a depraved heart. Christianity is the only true reli- 
 
SERMON I. 215 
 
 gion, because it is the only one, which exhibits God in his 
 true character, as that character appears by the hght of na- 
 ture, and on the principles of right reason. If then it be im- 
 portant that men should glorify the Author of Christianity by 
 performing its duties and enjoying its blessings, just so im- 
 portant is it, that all his perfections should be held up to view, 
 as objects of faith, and motives of conduct. When men would 
 lead others into error and sin,T;hey commence and finish the 
 work, by robbing God of some dreaded attribute, as Satan 
 did in tempting Eve. And when prophets and apostles wish- 
 ed to lead men into the way of truth and holiness, they were 
 careful above all things to bring to view the true character 
 of God. Thus Moses, when he would leave to the children 
 of Israel a legacy of instructions, to keep them from being de- 
 filed with the abominations of the Canaanites, dwelt much on 
 the perfections of Jehovah, and set liim before their eyes ; and 
 this he was well prepared to do, after having himself lived so 
 long as seeing him who is invisible, and conversed with him 
 so often amid the manifestations of his glory, and witnessed 
 so many of the wonders of his mercy and his righteousness. 
 His constant language to them is — " The Lord our God is 
 long-suffering, and of great mercy, but will by no means clear 
 the guilty ; he is a holy and a jealous God, — a God of truth, 
 and without iniquity, just and right is he." To exhibit the 
 real character of God in this manner, is not only the surest 
 way to guard his people from transgression ; it is also the 
 most effectual means of bringing them to repentance after 
 they have transgressed. It was at the sight of the High and 
 Holy One, that Job uttered the confession, " I abhor myself 
 and repent in dust and ashes," — and David made the ac- 
 knowledgment, " Against thee, thee only have I sinned," — 
 and Isaiah exclaimed, " Wo is me, for I am undone, for I am 
 a man of unclean hps." If sinners are to be convinced of 
 their iniquities, or saints to be comforted in their afflictions, 
 orboth are to be excited to the immediate performance of 
 the va,rious duties of religion, what can be done by the preach- 
 er. of the Gospel with so much hope of success, as to place 
 
216 
 
 SERMON I. 
 
 distinctly before them the whole character of the infinite 
 God? 
 
 But let not the preacher stop here ; let him exhibit the 
 whole law of God. Indeed he must do this, in order to bring 
 to view the whole of the divine character ; for if God be not 
 represented as our moral Governor, the most important part 
 of his character is left out of sight ; and he cannot be faith- 
 fully represented as our moral Governor, unless his laws are 
 fully exhibited. God is himself brought to view when his 
 laws are. That men are set free from their obligation to 
 love God with all the heart and their neighbours as them- 
 selves, by the coming of Christ, is the most preposterous of 
 religious opinions. God cannot thus renounce his claims to 
 our best affections, without ceasing to be worthy of them ; and 
 Christ cannot annul or lessen these claims, without becoming 
 the minister of sin ; and raising the standard of rebellion 
 against the government of Jehovah. The redemption of 
 Christ was as much the ground of justification before his 
 death as it is since ; and the law of God is as much the rule 
 of duty since that event as it was before. There is as much 
 of law in the New Testament as in the Old. God sits on the 
 same high and holy throne, and guards the honour of his 
 name, and the interests of his kingdom by the same moral re- 
 quirements, enforced by the same eternal sanctions. It is 
 the practice of some men, to call the faithful exhibition of 
 the divine law legal preaching, in order to bring it into con- 
 tempt ; and it is done with the groundless insinuation, that 
 the peculiarities of the Gospel as a dispensation of mercy, are 
 thus overlooked. ^ Such preaching they regard as dangerous-; 
 or at least they think that there is some'danger of there be- 
 ing too much of it. None at all, my hearers. By the law 
 is the knowledge of sin. And can there be too 'much of that 
 preaching, by which men are brought to the knowledge of 
 their sins ? If by legal preaching were meant that, in which 
 heaven is promised to men, on condition of their performing 
 any kind or any number of heartless ceremonies, it would be 
 necessaiy to do more than acknowledge, that a great degree 
 
SERMON I. 217 
 
 of it must be dangerous ; it would be necessary to show, tbat 
 the least would be highly criminal and ruinous. This, how- 
 ever, would not be"'preaching the law of God, but the device 
 of a vain imagination. Christ exhibited the various require- 
 ments of that law, at the same time that he uttered so many 
 woes against the Scribes and Pharisees, for their hypocritical 
 self-righteousness. And his apostles repeated these require- 
 ments, while they ceased not to declare to Jew and Gentile, 
 that works without faith and love would profit them nothing. 
 Let the preacher, therefore, who would be found following 
 their example, shun not to exhibit the whole law of God. Let 
 him exhibit those requirements, which relate to the state of 
 the heart towards God and towards man, and those which re- 
 late to the conduct. Let him exhibit those which relate to 
 time, and those which relate to eternity. Let him thus bring 
 to view the whole law in its length and breadth ; and pro- 
 claim it holy, just, and good, in its immutable strictness, and 
 with its dreadful penalty. Let him treat his hearers as moral 
 agents, and accountable subjects of the divine government, 
 by presenting to them their obligations to obey the divine 
 commands, and calling upon them to do it without the delay 
 of a single moment. 
 
 In connexion with the law of God, let him faithfully ex- 
 hibit the whole gospel. Let him point out the boundaries of 
 each, and show where they are the same, and where they are 
 not. Let him not proclaim the glad tidings of salvation, to 
 such as refuse to love God according to his command ; nor 
 let him apply the promise of salvation to any on the ground 
 of their renouncing this enmity. Christ must be brought to 
 view as the end of the law for righteousness to every one 
 that believeth. And who is so well qualified to do this, as the 
 man that is accustomed to represent the kw in such a man- 
 ner, as to make the transgressor despair of receiving from it 
 any other sentence, but that of utter condemnation ? Who 
 can publish the proffers of mercy from Mount Sion, with 
 such a feeling of their worth, as he who has been wont to 
 
 tremble himself, and to make his hearers tremble, at the thuu* 
 
 28 
 
218 SERMOiV I. 
 
 ders of Sinai ? Will not he, who has the highest conceptions 
 of the excellence of God's law, dwell with most delight on 
 the wonders of redeeming love ? Will he not be the most in 
 earnest in the work of winning souls to Christ ? And will he 
 not be the most successful 1 The terms of pardon, proposed 
 in the gospel, will surely come from his lips with a striking 
 propriety, and with a fulness of meaning. So will all the 
 doctrines and precepts, the promises and threatenings, pecul- 
 iar to the plan of salvation, revealed in the gospel. And, 
 when the whole gospel is thus preached, the Spirit of God 
 that giveth success will attend it. 
 
 The preacher, that in the manner now described, exhibits 
 the whole of God's character, of his law, and of his gospel, is 
 one that preaches as the oracles of God. The great system 
 of divine truth is his theme ; and the divine blessing will be 
 his reward. 
 
 II. Let the minister of God labour in the strength of God — 
 ♦* as of the ability which God giveth." 
 
 It is evident that the ability here spoken of as coming from 
 God, is something more than the ordinary exercise of those 
 natural powers, which are created and preserved by him, and 
 which are essentially the same in all men. If it were not, 
 there would be no more propriety in applying to ministers 
 the direction here given, than there would be in applying it 
 to men engaged in any other lawful employment ; or, rather, 
 there would be no propriety in applying it to any, as men do 
 not need to be told, that the labour of their various occupa- 
 tions must be performed, in the use of those faculties, which 
 they have received from their Creator. How else could 
 they be performed ? This direction might, perhaps, be ad- 
 dressed to mankind indiscriminately, if the object were to call 
 their attention to the fact that their powers of body and mind 
 are the gift of God, and should therefore be emjjloyed with a 
 proper reference to this fact. But this cannot be the partic- 
 ular object in the text ; or, at least, such a meaning cannot 
 be all that is here intended in the direction, since it is ad- 
 dressed to ministers, as a class of men, set apart to a work 
 
SERMON I. 219 
 
 of divine appointment. Their ability to perform the duties of 
 their sacred caUing, would not be so particularly spoken of as 
 the gift of God, if it were nothing more than what is received 
 from him by all men, in their various employments, both law- 
 ful and unlawful. But it will be said^jljiat if the ability hex^^ --. 
 mentioned be anything more than this, it must^ a-miracuA 
 lous gift peculiar to the age. That it does not, however,; re- 
 late exclusively to any miraculous power, is evident from the 
 mode of expression, considered in connexion with the fact, that 
 such a power was not given to all the ministers of that age. 
 It is said, " If any man minister, let him do it as of the ability 
 which God giveth." 
 
 From these remarks it seems now to follow, that the ability 
 in question must be something between natural powers and 
 those that are miraculous ; — some divine gift, neither so com- 
 mon as the former, nor so extraordinary as the latter. And 
 what can this be, but those enlightening, and sanctifying, and 
 comforting influences of the Spirit, for which we are so abun- 
 dantly taught to pray. Here let it be observed, that the fact 
 that we are taught to pray for these influences, proves that 
 they have an actual existence. It proves, likewise, that they 
 are not the miraculous powers, peculiar to any past age ; else 
 the men of the present generation would not be taught to 
 pray for them. And it proves further, that they are not the 
 natural powers of a living and intelligent being; else men 
 would be taught only to give thanks for them, as blessings al- 
 ready possessed. 
 
 The existence of such divine influence, as that now refer- 
 red to, cannot be denied by any but those who govern their 
 theology by their philosophy ; and these, to be consistent, 
 must take the ground of infidels, and go to the length of deny- 
 ing the inspiration of the scriptures. For if God could take 
 such possession of the minds of men, and so move them as to 
 make their thoughts and words properly his own, he can cer- 
 tainly exercise over them the less extraordinary influence in 
 question. And if he could exercise the former, without in- 
 terrupting the use of their natural faculties, he can the latter. 
 
220 SERMON r. 
 
 And what is there opposed to the principles of a sound philos*- 
 ophy, in the opinion that the Creator of the human soul can 
 gain access to its secret chambers, and govern its thoughts 
 and affections I What if philosophy cannot discover the mart- 
 ner, in whidi the infinite Spirit holds communion with crea- 
 ted minds ; can she discover enough to disprove the fact ? Or 
 can it be disproved by the consideration, that enthusiasts of 
 different religious creeds, profess to be taught by the Holy 
 Spirit, to believe things and to do things, directly opposed to 
 each other ? If it be asked, how we may know in such a case, 
 what comes fi-om God and what does not, it may safely be 
 answered, that nothing can come from God by his Spirit, at 
 variance with his written word. And it may be added, that 
 the design of the Spirit's influence is not to communicate 
 new truth, but to move the mind in conformity to the truth 
 already revealed. It may also be added, that when men pro- 
 fess to be led by this influence, to adopt a different interpre- 
 tation of any passage of scripture, the question between 
 them must be settled, by referring it to the rules in universal 
 use for ascertaining the meaning of language. To all this it 
 may be subjoined, that not every thing which may be sup- 
 posed to be the effect of the special operation of God's Spirit, 
 ought to be regarded as such, though it may be in accordance 
 with his word. The instruction which the ignorant and im- 
 aginative may sometimes derive from strange dreams and im- 
 pulses, and from what they think to be unearthly voices and 
 visions of supernatural brightness, may agree with that de- 
 rived from the bible, and yet not be the result of a direct 
 divine communication. For instance,, a man may conceive 
 himself to be warned immediately by God in some such man- 
 ner, to forsake some particular sin, or perform some particu- 
 lar duty, and yet be mistaken, though the sacred oracles be 
 full of such warnings, addressed to persons in circumstances 
 hke his, and therefore addressed to him. On the other hand, 
 men may be blessed with the silent and invisible influence of 
 the Divine Spirit, though they are not at the time conscious 
 of the fact, in any other way than by the effects produced. 
 
SERMON I. - 221 
 
 These remarks respecting the kind of divine influence,- in- 
 tended in the text, have been thus prolonged, from the per- 
 suasion, that its reaHty being once acknowledged, but little 
 need be said to produce the acknowledgment of its vast int- 
 portance to one, who is called to perform the work of God's 
 ambassador to men. If no room be left to doubt, that such a 
 divine influence as that now described, may be enjoyed, it can- 
 not be denied that the minister of God most needs it, and in 
 the largest measure, and that with the least interruption. 
 Who so much needs to be (aught of God, as the man who is 
 himself set apart according to divine appointment, to teach 
 others the eternal truth of God ? Who so much needs to be 
 sanctified by the Holy Spirit, as the man wh o is ordained to 
 minister in holy things ? Who stands in such need of the 
 guidance of the Spirit, as he who undertakes to direct others 
 into the way of life ? Who stands in such need of being warn- 
 ed away from sin and comforted in duty, as the man who is 
 to be a son of thunder to the proud transgressor, and a son of 
 consolation to the humble penitent ? Can any thing short of 
 the fullest measure of divine influence, fit a man to perform 
 the various labours of the ministry, and endure its many trials ? 
 What but the constant presence of the Spirit, to keep the eye 
 of faith fixed on the realities of an approaching eternity, can 
 so raise him above the world, that he shall not be tempted to 
 unfaithfulness, by the love of its flatteries, or the dread of its 
 censures ? What but this can furnish him with all that wis- 
 dom requisite to fit him rightly to divide the word of God, 
 and give to each a portion in season — a particular truth for 
 personal application, and an appropriate warning or exhorta- 
 tion ? If any man lack wisdom, let him ask of God and it shall 
 be given him. 
 
 Let the minister of Christ then look to Heaven for light in 
 the hour of darkness, for direction in the midst of difficulty 
 and danger, and for strength in the time of weakness. Let 
 him seek divine assistance in his efforts to obtain a correct un- 
 derstanding of the sacred oracles. What if prayer alone will 
 not give him a knowledge of the general principles of inter- 
 
222 
 
 SERMON I. 
 
 pretation, and of the peculiar idioms of difterent languages ? 
 Will it not in connexion with other means afford him the 
 most important aid in the investigation of truth ? Will it not 
 produce a disposition to use these means faithfully, and ap- 
 ply the principles of interpretation with candour? Will 
 it not remove pride of opinion, and prejudice against the 
 truth ; and produce a humble, teachable temper of mind, most 
 favourable to its reception ? Above all, will it not secure that 
 special assistance of the Spirit, which is promised in answer 
 to prayer? Let the preacher of the gospel depend on God, 
 to make him feel the weight of truth. After the knowledge 
 of it is obtained to his satisfaction, nothing will be done to 
 any good purpose, unless he likewise obtains some just ap- 
 prehensions of its bearing on the government of God, and on 
 the character and everlasting welfare of men. And where 
 but from the great Author of truth shall he obtain such ap- 
 prehensions ? Let him trust in God to enable him to declare 
 the truth to others in the best manner, — that is, the one most 
 agreeable to the divine will, and consequently best adapted to 
 secure the great end of preaching. In searching the oracles 
 of God, he is to inquire not only what they teach, but also 
 how they teach it. And in preaching as the oracles of God, 
 he is to preach not only what they do, but also in the manner 
 that they do, — that is, faithfully and affectionately, in simpli- 
 city and godly sincerity, with great plainness and seriousness. 
 That he may always exhibit divine truth in this manner, his 
 reliance must be on the ability which cometh from God. 
 
 in. Let the minister of God preach for the gloiy of God — 
 "that God in all things may be glorified." 
 
 The glory of God is the ultimate end for which he himself 
 acts in all that he does. For this he created the heavens with 
 all their shining hosts, and the earth with all its inhabitants. 
 For this he preserves and governs the creatures of his power ; 
 and for this he gave up his Son to death, to save a world of 
 immortals ruined by transgression. For this too he has es- 
 tablished the institutions of the gospel, and now sends down 
 his Spirit to bless them with a life-giving power. That God 
 
SERMON I. 228 
 
 thus seeks his own glory, in all that he does, is not because he 
 desires the praises of his creatures, to make him happy. He 
 seeks it not from any thing like the selfishness of sinful men. 
 All selfishness implies opposition to the general good ; where- 
 as God's glory is not only consistent with the general good, 
 but likewise results from it. All holy beings pursue the same 
 ultimate object that God pursues. The angels of heaven have 
 no private ends to answer in the praises that they sing, and 
 in the ministrations of mercy which they perform. God is 
 all in all to them. They act but for him in whom they live 
 and move and have their being. Every harp is strung for 
 him, and not a discordant note breaks in upon the harmony 
 of their songs. Every wing moves for him, and not a visit is 
 made beyond the boundaries of their happy world, but to 
 bring back some new honour to his name. 
 
 If we who dwell upon the earth would possess something 
 of the spirit of heaven, — if while here wc would bear some 
 moral resemblance to the angels of God and to God himself, 
 and enjoy a good hope of being wholly like them hereafter, 
 then must we make it the great object of life to promote the 
 divine glory. Men in every employment must do this, and 
 do it in earnest. But the minister of Christ is bound to do it 
 by obligations of peculiar weight, arising from the sacred na- 
 ture and immeasurable importance of his work. It is by the 
 preaching of the gospel, that God is pleased to deliver men 
 from the bondage of iniquity, and the chains of everlasting 
 darkness. God is glorified when he is obeyed and enjoyed. 
 His truth is honored when men are sanctified through its influ- 
 ence. His grace is magnified when men are made willing 
 to accept the blessings of forgiveness. Every new note of an- 
 gelic rejoicing over repenting sinners is a new note of praise 
 to God. Every soul added to the family of the faithful adds 
 lustre to the rainbow of glory round about the throne of the 
 Son of God. The infinite God is glorified in every triumph 
 of his truth over error, and of his grace over sin, and of his 
 kingdom over that of the great enemy of all good. God is 
 glorified when the gazing multitude see that his truth exerts 
 
224 SERMON I- 
 
 on the heart and the life of behevers the lieavenly influence 
 ascribed to it in his word ; M'lien they see that his grace re- 
 moves the heaviest burden of guilt and his kingdom grows in 
 extent, and beauty, and happiness, in the midst of a world in 
 arms against it. If then glory redounds to God by such 
 means, how much can the minister of the gospel do to pro- 
 mote that glor}\ And is not his obligation to be measured 
 by his ability ? Let him then acknowledge this obligation in 
 all its greatness, and never wish to throw it off or to lessen it 
 I^et him do more than acknowledge it, and act under its in- 
 fluence. Let him delight in it. Let it be the joy of his heart, 
 to labour for the glory of God, as well as in the cause of God, 
 and by the strength of God. Never let it cease to be the 
 great object of his labours, that God in all things may be glo- 
 rified through Jesus Christ. It is only through Jesus Christ 
 tliat ministers can glorify God. It is only on account of what 
 he has done, that they have the privilege of doing it, and only 
 in his kingdom of grace that they have the power of doing 
 it. God in Christ must be the great theme, the means, and 
 the end of their preaching. He must be first, and midst, and 
 last. He must be all in all. 
 
 From the view that has now been taken of the subject be- 
 fore us, we are led to the following inferences. 
 
 1,. Ministers of God are not at liberty to preach the opin- 
 ions of men in the place of divine truth. 
 
 Tliey are simply interpreters of the oracles of God. They 
 are ambassadors from the court of heaven. They come not 
 upon their own errand. They are not sent without a message ; 
 nor are they sent with one from the schools of ancient or 
 modern philosophy. The book containing their instructions is 
 put into their hands ; and eveiy page is filled with characters 
 of divine light and love. The prophet then that hath a dream 
 let him tell a dream ; and he that hath the word of God, let 
 him speak that word faithfully. What is the chaff to the 
 wheat? saith the Lord. Many and dreadful are the woes 
 denounced against the prophets, that dare to go beyond the 
 word of the Lord, or to stop short of it, or to tui-n aside from 
 
SERMON I. 925 
 
 it, or to publish their own imaginations in its stead. It is the 
 great business of the preacher to hold up to view the divine 
 requirements, and guard them on one side with all the threat- 
 enings of infinite justice, and on the other with all the promises 
 of everlasting mercy. With these he is to hedge up the way 
 of transgressors, and thus show them that if they turn to the 
 right hand or to the left from the path of life open before 
 them, they must break over these barriers of divine benevo- 
 lence, and must do it with their eyes open on their guilt and 
 their danger, and on the only means of escape from both. In 
 the midst of so serious a work as this, can he find time to en- 
 tertain his hearers with the speculations of a false philosophy? 
 Or can he have a heart to amuse them with an idle dream or 
 a lovely song, while they are listening for the word of life ? 
 Can he thus trifle with their eternal interests ? Or will they 
 permit him to do it, and applaud him for it, at the risk of lo- 
 sing their souls at last ? Will the day ever come, my dear 
 brethren and friends, when you will peaceably suffer your min- 
 ister so to forget the solemn charge which he has received, 
 and so to break his obligations to you and to your God, as to 
 come into this pulpit Sabbath after Sabbath, and here publish 
 his own vain fancies or those of other men, instead of the stat- 
 utes of the divine government and the wonders of redemp- 
 tion ? Will you ever cease to require that he preach nothing 
 but those momentous truths, by which you and your children 
 may be fitted for a happy eternity? 
 
 II. None are qualified to preach the truth of God, without 
 the influence of his Spirit. 
 
 It is not by the might of genius, the riches of learning, or 
 the charm of eloquence, nor by all united, that men are quali- 
 fied to be the messengers of Heaven to their fellow-sinners. 
 What can all accomplish without the Spirit of God ? Can 
 they enable a minister to obtain that spiritual discernment of 
 divine truth which he so much needs ? Can they render him 
 happy in declaring this truth to others ? Can they render 
 him successful in the work ? If they can avail nothing in the 
 
 few cases where they exist together, and in their eminence, 
 
 29 
 
226 SERMON I. 
 
 they surely can avail nothing in the multitude of cases, where 
 they are found but in part, or in but a humble degree. You, 
 brethren and friends, cannot expect that without much of the 
 special assistance of God, any important good will result 
 from the labours of him, who can be at best but a feeble in- 
 strument of the divine will. If you look to your minister, to 
 build up this church, you will crush him with your expecta- 
 tions, and prepare for yourselves a sad disappointment. The 
 ways of our Zion will mourn from one month to another, and 
 year after year, because no new friends come to her solemn 
 feasts. Let your eyes then be lifted to God. On him let 
 all your hopes be fixed. Expect nothing from me, without 
 constant prayer to God in my behalf. Let me derive encour- 
 agement in every labour, and support under every trial, from 
 the assurance that you daily intercede with God, that I may 
 ever enjoy the teachings and consolations of his Spirit. When 
 in the retirement of the study, I sit down to the investigation 
 of truth, to be proclaimed in your hearing, let me feel that 
 you are praying for me. Let me feel it in the shinmg of 
 heavenly light into my mind, and the kindling of heavenly 
 love in my heart. O let me feel that an unction from the 
 Holy One is poured out upon me, in answer to your united 
 and fervent supphcations. When I come to this house of 
 God to declare his word, let me feel that the way is prepared 
 before me by the prayers of my people. Then may we both 
 look for the blessing of God upon our services. 
 
 in. None are at liberty to preach from any selfish motive. 
 
 He that has the true spirit of a minister of Christ, will nev- 
 er dare to preach from any such motive. He Mdlliiever de- 
 sire to do it. It would be no privilege to him. In being 
 bound by the ties of immeasurable obligation, to preach for 
 nothing but the glory of God, he has all the liberty that his 
 heart can wish. No man is at liberty to enter the ministry 
 for the sake of obtaining the means of subsistence ; and con- 
 sequently no one is at hberty to pervert the truth, or to keep 
 back a part of it, from the fear of any on whom he is depend- 
 ant. No one can be at liberty to take upon him the high re- 
 
SERMON I. 
 
 22t 
 
 sponsibilities of the sacred office, in order to gain the ap- 
 plause of the world, by the display of a powerful intellect, 
 and a brilliant imagination ; and consequently no one can be 
 at liberty to preach in such a manner, as to please men, rath- 
 er than instruct and save them. If the truth be preached in 
 such a manner, that the hearers uniformly retire from the 
 sanctuary, not meditating in solemn silence on what they have 
 heard, but conversing with an air of lightness on the fine mod- 
 ulations of the preacher's voice, the gracefulness of his mo- 
 tions, the beauty of his language, and the eloquence of his 
 whole delivery, all cannot be right in him ; there must be 
 wrong some where ; and it will be well if it be not in the 
 secret motive that governs him. If the truth be so preached, 
 as to be always thus easily overlooked, to what good purpose 
 is it preached at all ? Surely it can hardly be worth the ne- 
 cessary time and labour and expense, to furnish a vain mortal 
 with an opportunity to exhibit himself for the entertainment 
 of his admirers. The truth may be so preached as to lose 
 its saving influence, if not to produce the deadly effect of er- 
 ror. The preacher may reason of righteousness, and temper- 
 ance, and a judgment to come, in such a manner, that the 
 wicked instead of trembling shall listen with delight. The 
 hand of taste may so scatter flowers along the brink of the 
 bottomless pit, that men can walk there without thinking that 
 their feet shall slide in due time. He is the best preacher, 
 who sends home the most hearers, in heart-felt silence, to 
 their bibles, to their secret chambers, and to the mercy-seat 
 of God. That preacher has found out the best mode of de- 
 livering his message, who succeeds best in keeping himself 
 out of view, and fixing the eyes of his hearers on God. The 
 evangehsts have written the fife of Christ so well, because 
 they have left themselves out of sight, and exhibited him as 
 speaking or acting in every line. And he that would be as 
 successful in preaching Christ, must imitate this example of 
 theirs. That course of preaching is the most useful, in which 
 God is most clearly and constantly presented to the mind. 
 In concluding this sermon, I could wish that this single truth 
 
228 SERMON I. 
 
 might be lodged in the memory of every hearer, and impress- 
 ed on every heart. Were this to be done, my labour would 
 not be in vain. 
 
 Such, my brethren and friends, is the course of preaching 
 that I shall endeavour to pursue, while I am permitted to be 
 a minister of God. To such a course you have been so well 
 accustomed, that it would seem as if it ought to be enough, to 
 exhort you to hold fast that which ye have received, and fol- 
 low on to know the Lord. Your beginning as a church and 
 society, is as unlike that of most others, as the beginning of 
 the colony first planted in New-England, is unlike that of oth- 
 er colonies. You start from elevated ground. I say this, 
 not to cherish a spirit of pride, but to forewarn you of what 
 will be expected as to your future progress. When I think 
 of the great and good men, by w^hom as spiritual guides, you 
 have been conducted to the present point in your journey to 
 another world, I tremble at the thought of undertaking to 
 continue the work which they have begun. A connexion 
 has now been formed between you and your minister, the 
 effects of which, can be measured only by the destinies of a 
 blessed and a miserable eternity. Here we now commence 
 a series of sermons and prayers and praises, which will be 
 found written for or against us, in the day when the books 
 shall be opened, and heaven and hell shall receive the divi- 
 ded multitude of immortals. O M'hat greetings of unutterable 
 joy, when ministers and people meet at the right hand of their 
 Judge. May the God of infinite mercy grant that, when the 
 Chief Shepherd shall inquire of me, " Where is the flock 
 that was committed to thee, thy beautiful flock," I may find 
 you and your children there to answer for me. And to this 
 end, may wisdom and grace from on high, enable me to 
 preach to you as the oracles of God, and to minister as of the 
 ability which God giveth, that God in all things may be glori- 
 fied through Jesus Christ ; to whom be praise and dominion 
 forever. Amen. 
 
SERMON 11. 
 
 JOHN , V. 22. 
 
 " For the Father judgeth no man, but hath committed all judgment unto the 
 Son, that all men should honour the Son even as they honour the Father." 
 
 Many and various are the arguments in proof of the divin- 
 ity of the Lord Jesus Christ. It is proper to consider these 
 arguments in their connexion with each other ; for in this 
 way they receive mutual support, and leave the mind, the 
 candid and devout mind, under the full conviction that the 
 amount of proof is irresistible. But it may also be proper to 
 confine our meditations occasionally to a single argument, if 
 at the same time we guard the mind against all suspicion 
 that we therefore give up the rest as unsound. 
 
 From numerous passages of the word of God, we learn the 
 solemn truth, that at the end of all things, when all the pur- 
 poses of Jehovah respecting his church on the earth shall have 
 been accomplished, when the last of this world's generations 
 shall have lived through their allotted period of trial, there will 
 be a day of general judgment, a day in which every member of 
 the human family will be tried in righteousness, and will re- 
 ceive a happy or miserable portion for eternity, according to 
 his works. 
 
 From other passages we learn, that the Son of God, who 
 came from heaven to be the Saviour of lost men, who hum- 
 bled himself to the shame of the cross and the darkness of 
 the tomb, and thence rose triumphant to the throne of inter- 
 cession, will on that great day take the seat of judgment, ere 
 he ascend his throne of full and final glory. 
 
 Among these passages, is the one that has just been read as 
 the theme of the present discourse. In this passage, it is 
 affirmed in the most direct and unequivocal language, that 
 
230 
 
 SERMON II. 
 
 tlie Father will not judge a single individual of the human 
 race, that he hath committed the work of judgment to the Son, 
 and that his object in doing it is to exhibit his divine glory, 
 and claim divine worship for him from all mankind. 
 
 It is my present design to show that, — The office of Christ 
 as Judge of the world proves his divinity. In establishing 
 this position, permit me to call your attention to the following 
 arguments. 
 
 I. The Scriptures ascribe the work of judgment both to 
 Christ and to God. 
 
 God is Judge. " Know thou, that for all these things, God 
 will bring thee into judgment." ** God shall bring every work 
 into judgment, with every secret thing, whether it be good 
 or whether it be evil." " Every one of us shall give an ac- 
 count of himself unto God.^^ " And I saw the dead, small 
 and great, stand before God ; and the books were opened ; 
 and another book was opened wliich is the book of life ; 
 and the dead were judged out of those things which were 
 written in the books, according to their works." 
 
 Christ is Judge. " We must all stand before the judg- 
 ment seat of Christ" " 1 charge thee, therefore, before God, 
 •and the Lord Jesus Christ, who shall judge the quick and the 
 dead at his appearing and his kingdom." 
 
 The conclusion drawn from these two classes of quotations, 
 is obvious. If God is Judge, and Christ is Judge — God and 
 Christ are one. 
 
 It is objected, that the Scriptures speak of the saints as 
 judges of the world ; and as the meaning must be, that they 
 are to be assessors with God in judgment, concurring in his' 
 righteous decisions, this may be the meaning, when Christ is 
 spoken of as Judge. 
 
 I answer, that the language in the two cases is essentially 
 different — as different as that used by Christ and his Apos- 
 tles in working miracles. Christ says, " I say unto thee, rise 
 up and walk." / command thee to come out of him" — a 
 manner of speaking which proves the power by whom the 
 miracles were wrought, to be divine. The Apostles say, " In 
 
SERMON II. 
 
 esi 
 
 the name of Jesus I say unto thee rise up and walk." — " In 
 the name of Jesus come out of him" — a manner of speaking 
 which proves the power by which the miracles were wrought, 
 to be divine, but not the person. The language used in 
 speaking of Christ as Judge of the world, is such as implies 
 absolute personal authority. It represents him on the throne 
 dispensing the destinies of the universe. " The Son of man 
 shall come in the clouds of heaven with power and greatglo- 
 ry — he shall sit upon the throne of his glory, with all nations 
 gathered before him — he shall separate them one from anoth- 
 er, and shall say unto those on his right, come ye blessed, and 
 to those on his left, depart ye cursed." 
 
 Now read this description on to the end of the chapter, 
 with the name " Son of Man" exchanged for that of the 
 highest saint that ever lived — read Paul in its stead — and 
 while you are shocked at the exchange, you will be convin- 
 ced that Christ is to be Judge in a very different sense from 
 the saints. 
 
 It is objected farther, that the Son executes the office of 
 Judge by delegation from the Father ; and such texts as the 
 following — " God hath appointed a day, in which he will 
 Judge the world in righteousness hy that man whom he hath 
 ordained" — " In that day shall God Judge the secrets of men 
 hy Jesus Christ" — are brought to establish the objection. 
 
 It IS granted that the office itself is delegated ; but the qual- 
 ifications necessary for discharging the duties of the office are 
 not and cannot be delegated. These qualifications are es- 
 sential attributes of the Godhead. No one will pretend that 
 these attributes, if they could be transferred at all, can be 
 transferred to a created being without destroying all distinc- 
 tion between the eternal Creator and the short-lived crea- 
 ture — without raising the dust and ashes of yesterday's for- 
 mation to a level with the self-existent and infinite glories of 
 divinity — without God's renouncing his right of supremacy,, 
 and coming down from his throne, or condescending to share 
 its honors with equals of his own making. The attributes of 
 the Judge, then, must be inherent, as they are incapable of 
 
233 SERMON II. 
 
 being transferred. Though the office of Judge, which seems 
 to be a consequence of the office of mediator, be committed 
 to the Son, this commission does not disprove the equahty of 
 the Son with the Father. Indeed, it appears from my text, 
 that the Father, in constituting the Son Judge of the world, 
 designed to make known his equahty, and to claim for him 
 the homage paid to himself — " For the Father judgeth no man, 
 but hath committed all judgment unto the Son, that men 
 should honor the Son, even as they honor the Father." 
 
 II. If Christ is to be the Judge of the world, his knowledge 
 must be infinite. 
 
 In order to ascertain what kind or degree of knowledge in 
 a judge, is requisite, to enable him to form correct decisions, 
 we must first ascertain the nature of the actions to be judged, 
 and the nature of the laws by which they are to be judged. 
 Human laws take cognizcmce only of the external actions. — 
 The knowledge of the human judge, therefore, must relate to 
 such actions. The divine law reaches the heart, as well as 
 the external conduct. The knowledge of the divine judge, 
 therefore, must relate to both. 
 
 But were only the outward actions of men to be brought 
 into the account at the bar of God, still the knowledge of the 
 judge, as it will not be gathered from the testimony of others, 
 must be more than human. At this moment, an innumerable 
 multitude of outward actions are performing on the earth, 
 which must be brought into judgment. Consider that this 
 has been the fact in every moment that is past, and will be the 
 fact in every moment that is to come. He who is to be 
 judge, therefore, must at the same moment be present in ev-' 
 ery place, beholding the evil and the good. He must witness 
 every circumstance, however minute, that attends each ac- 
 tion — all the consequences, however remote. He must be 
 one that can see through the thick cloud ; one to whom the 
 night shineth as the day. What human being, then, nay 
 what angel, could pass a just decision on all the outward ac- 
 tions of men ? 
 
 But when we read, that " the Lord searcheth the heart" — 
 
SERMON II. 233 
 
 that " he will make manifest the counsels of the heart"— and 
 that " the secrets of all hearts shall be revealed," we readily 
 perceive that no degree of knowledge less than infinite, could 
 qualify a being for the office of judge. He must be perfectly 
 acquainted with the inmost recesses of the soul, and discern 
 the secret spring of every thought and action ; that he may 
 be able to detect the hollo wness of the hypocrite, and bring 
 to light the sincerity of the trembling, doubting Christian. 
 
 As the design of the day of judgment is to display to the 
 universe the glory of God ; particularly his attributes of justice 
 and mercy — mercy to believers in Jesus, and justice to unbe- 
 lievers, the Judge must possess a perfect knowledge of the 
 counsels of eternal wisdom. He must see, in their full ex- 
 tent, all the consequences involved in the fall of man ; that he 
 may be able to estimate the expense of his restoration. And 
 he must have a complete knowledge of the price and the 
 means of salvation, to enable him to estimate the guilt of 
 those who reject it. In short he must possess a perfect 
 knowledge of the length, and breadth, and height, and depth 
 of that goodness and mercy, which God has manifested to-^ 
 wards the' children of men, in creation, providence, and re- 
 demption, in order to estimate the measure of man's ingrati- 
 tude, and of that love which could pardon it. 
 
 Ta be present in every place beholding the evil and the 
 good — to know the secrets of all hearts — and to know all the 
 plans and counsels of the Most High, is far, far above the ca- 
 pacity of any finite mind. 
 
 If Christ, then, is to be the Judge of the world, his know- 
 ledge is infinite. This conclusion accords with many texts of 
 scripture ; such as the following — " He knew all men, and 
 needed not that any should testify of man ; for he knew what 
 was in man" — and the answer of Peter, " Lord thou knowest 
 all things, thou knowest that I love thee" — and the address 
 in the prayer of the disciples at the election of one to take 
 the place of Judas — " Thou Lord, which knowest the hearts 
 of all men," 
 
 30 
 
234 SERMON II. 
 
 But if Christ possesses infinite knowledge, he is divine ; 
 for infinite knowledge is an attribute of divinity alone. 
 
 III. If Christ is to be the Judge of the world, his power 
 must be infinite. 
 
 The judgment day will be, not only the most important and 
 interesting of all days ; but it will also be the most sublime 
 and awful. Who can read the representations of this day 
 given in the word of God, and not be convinced at once, that 
 every transaction must be an exertion of infinite power ? The 
 Judge will first raise the dead. " The Son of Man shall come 
 in the clouds of heaven with power and great glory." The 
 trumpet will sound, and all that are in their graves shall hear 
 the voice of the Son of God, and come forth — all, in a mo- 
 ment, in the twinkling of an eye. Here is infinite power. 
 The Judge will then summon before his tribunal, from all na- 
 tions, and kindreds, and tongues, under the whole heavens, all 
 that have ever lived on the earth — from the beginning to the 
 end of time. " The sea shall give up the dead which were in 
 it ; and death and hell deliver up the dead which were in 
 them." 
 
 Not only must the knowledge of the Judge be infinite, that 
 that no son or daughter of Adam be forgotten ; but his pow- 
 er must be infinite, that no one escape. 
 
 When the judgment is set, and the Judge hath ascended 
 the great white throne ; the books shall be opened, and the 
 dead be judged out of those things which are written in the 
 books, according to their works. But who is worthy to open 
 the book ? The Lion of the tribe of Judah, the Root of David 
 hath prevailed to open the book, and to loose the seals there- 
 of. After the different sentences are pronounced, the Judge 
 must possess infinite power in order to execute them — to con- 
 duct the blessed into that " kingdom prepared for them from 
 the foundation of the world ;" and to drive away the wicked 
 into that " everlasting fire prepared for the devil and his an- 
 gels." 
 
 This is not the end. The fallen angels, that " are reserved 
 in everlasting chains under darkness unto the judgment of 
 
SERMON II. 235 
 
 the great day" will also be judged, and receive their final 
 doom.— And who but the being, who holds in his right hand 
 the keys of death and hell, — who openeth and no man shut- 
 teth and shutteth and no man openeth, is able to execute this 
 part of the work of judgment. — But even this is not the end. 
 We read that the heavens and the earth which now are kept 
 in " store, are reserved unto fire against the day of judgment 
 and perdition of ungodly men"— that the " heavens shall pass 
 away with a great noise, and the elements melt with fervent 
 heat" — "the stars shall fall unto the earth, even as a fi[g-tree 
 casteth her untimely figs, when she is shaken of a mighty 
 wind." The most vivid descriptions of an inspired and sanc- 
 tified imagination, and the most striking visions that mortals 
 could behold and live, but faintly shadow forth the real ter- 
 rors of that day. It will be indeed "the great and dreadful 
 day of the Lord." Who then but the same Almighty Word, 
 by whom the worlds were made, and who upholds them by 
 liis power, is able to direct the events of this great day? — this 
 day of revolutions in the system of the universe? — this day of 
 overturning, and throwing down, and building up anew — not 
 in one little empire of men, but throughout the material and 
 moral kingdom of Jehovah — not by the intervention of slow 
 and imperceptible means, like those producing the revolutions 
 in human governments and in the seasons of the year, but 
 by the immediate and rapid, the audible and visible move- 
 ments of an omnipotent hand, breaking up at once the whole 
 system of nature's long established laws — turning order into 
 confusion, and again out of confusion bringing order in its per- 
 fection of beauty and gloiy ? — Did Jehovah himself spread out 
 these heavens as a curtain over our heads, and estabhsh this 
 earth under our feet, and will he commission a man, or an 
 angelic intelligence, to destroy these works of his hand, and 
 create the new heavens and earth of surpassing splendour 
 and loveliness? Does the Father of lights control and di- 
 rect in this fair frame of nature at present, while all things are 
 moving on in peaceful uniformity, through successive days 
 and nights, seasons and years; and will he resign his govern- 
 
236 SERMON ir. 
 
 ment to a being of human or angelic rank, on the day ap- 
 pointed for the termination of this peaceful uniformity, for the 
 end of time, the end of the world, the end of all things, and 
 for the creation of a new fabric to be imperishable, and the 
 introduction of a new order of things to continue forever im- 
 mutable ? Is it to be believed, that a being, possessed of less 
 than infinite power, will hold the reins of government, amid 
 the dreadful, and the glorious revolutions of the last day? If 
 not, Christ possesses infinite power. 
 
 This conclusion is in accordance with his own express de- 
 clarations, such as the following — "All power is given to me 
 in heaven and on earth" — " I am Alpha and Omega, the be- 
 ginning and the ending, which is, and which was, and which 
 is to come, the Almighty," If then Christ possesses infinite 
 power, he is divine; for infinite power is an attribute pecuhar 
 to Divinity. 
 
 IV. If Christ is to be the Judge of the world, his justice 
 must be infinite. 
 
 In order to obtain a full conviction of the truth of tliis 
 sentiment, let a man consider, that every work, with every 
 secret thing, is to be brouglit into judgment, and that all man- 
 kind are to be judged according to their works ; then let him 
 send his thoughts abroad over the milhons of the human fam- 
 ily, and contemplate their innumerable varieties and shades 
 of moral character — let him think too of the endless diversity 
 of circumstances in which their sevej-al characters are form- 
 ed ; let him think of the incalculable diflference in their means 
 of moral improvement in different ages and nations, in the 
 quanjtity of light received from heaven, in natural understand- 
 ing, in their employment and relative situation in society, in 
 the length of life, and in other like particulars, all to be brought 
 into the final account. Amid this inconceivable diversity of 
 characters and circumstances — amid the whole collected 
 multitude of sins and virtues in the human race, of fair ap- 
 pearances and foul realities in human nature through all the 
 generations of time, who, is qualified to hold the balance of 
 distributive justice, but a being possessed of that infinite rec- 
 
SERMON II. 237 
 
 titude flowing from the union of omniscience and infinite 
 goodness? An angel, or a man perfectly holy, would decide 
 justly, to the extent of his faculties ; but, his faculties being 
 limited, he must necessarily fall short of completing the work 
 of righteous judgment. He would be disposed to render to 
 every one, with impartial exactness, the fruit of his doings; 
 yet he would nevertheless be utterly unfit for the task, not 
 only from the want of sufficient knowledge of facts, but also 
 from the want of capacity to estimate, with unerring preci- 
 sion, the various degrees of guilt and innocence, upon the im- 
 mutable principles of equity established in the government of 
 Jehovah. Are then the destinies of the universe for eternity 
 to be committed to a being possessed of the finite capacities 
 of a man or an angel ? If so, may it not with propriety be ask- 
 ed, who but the saint of visible and eminent piety, one shining 
 bright with the external beauty of holiness, can have any thing 
 to hope ? — and who but the sinner of open immorality, one 
 with the mark of reprobation WTitten in his forehead, can have 
 aught to fear? Or if we suppose a created being to be made 
 capable of drawing correctly the general line of separation 
 through the whole multitude of the righteous and the wicked, 
 and passing upon the former the general sentence of acquittal, 
 and on the latter that of condemnation, still it must remain 
 forever impossible for him, to proportion the rewards or pun- 
 ishments, of every individual of both classes, to the relative de- 
 gree of good or evil in his character. It must be no less im- 
 possible for such a being, to exhibit to assembled worlds, the 
 full glory of God's eternal law, in every case of condemnation, 
 and, in every case of justification, the eciual glory of his grace 
 through the blood of atonement. No degree of justice less 
 than infiinite can render it certain that no soul shall ever suflTer 
 the least wrong, nor the government of God receive the least 
 dishonour. 
 
 Christ Jesus, the Judge, therefore, possesses infinite jus- 
 tice. 
 
 (This conclusion is agreeable to various scriptural represen- 
 tations of his character and offices, and to those passages, in 
 
23S 
 
 SERMON II, 
 
 which he is called, by way of eminence, tlie Just One, as Je- 
 hovah is called the Holy One. 
 
 From the possession of the divine attribute of infinite justice, 
 the divinity of Christ is correctly and clearly infeiTcd. 
 
 V. If Christ is to be the Judge of the world, his mercy 
 must be infinite. > + 
 
 The necessity of infinite mercy, in the judge of the world, 
 rests not on the same ground with the necessity of infinite 
 justice. The latter is essential to his character, in an abso- 
 lute sense, under all possible circumstances. It is as neces- 
 sary with the atonement, as it would have been without it. 
 Indeed, the express object of Christ's death was, that God 
 might be just, and yet the justifier of the believing penitent. 
 The necessity of infinite justice is not superseded nor dimin- 
 ished by the blood that was shed on Calvary. Its dignity 
 and excellence are preserved in all their inherent perfection. 
 It is the same high and glorious attribute that it ever was. 
 It has the same respect that it ever had, to the divine law, in 
 its immutable purity and goodness. The extent of its domin- 
 ion is not lessened^ Heaven is not wrested from its empire 
 by the arm of mercy, nor won from it by her sufferings and 
 weeping entreaties. No ! justice reigns as absolutely in the 
 destiny of those who walk at liberty in the paradise of God, 
 as in that of those who are shut up in the prison of despair. 
 The Judge is equally just in condemning the unbeliever for 
 his own wickedness, and in justifying the believer on account 
 of the perfect righteousness of his great substitute. The eter- 
 nal Father is under obligation to the Son, to admit into hea- 
 ven, as an act of justice, all that are included in the covenant 
 of redemption. But the divine Being is under no such obli- 
 gation to the redeemed themselves. The nature of their sins 
 is not changed, nor their guilt destroyed, by the atonement. 
 They still deserve to endure the proper punishment of trans- 
 gression. Their justification must, therefore, be wholly an 
 act of sovereign grace. Notwithstanding their penitence and 
 faith, nothing but infinite mercy can save them. Hence comes 
 the need of this attribute in the character of their final Judge. 
 
SERMON II. 289 
 
 It is not necessaiy in an absolute sense, because in this sense 
 it is not necessary to the honour of God's law, that the trans- 
 gressor be pardoned on any account. But it is necessary 
 under existing circumstances, in connexion with the purpose of 
 God to save all penitent believers in Christ, notwithstanding 
 their desert of destruction. And are not the offences of 
 Christians so many and great, as to require the exercise of in- 
 finite mercy in their Judge ? Where is the saint that thinks 
 so lightly of his sins, as to feel willing to trust his soul to the 
 limited compassion of a creature like himself? Who is there 
 among you, my brethren, that feels conscious of having fall- 
 en so little short of loving God with all the heart, soul, mind, 
 and strength, and fearing before him always, and trusting in 
 him only, and obeying him perfectly, as to need but little mer- 
 cy at the judgment of the great day ? Who is there, that re- 
 gards his violations of the divine law as so few and slight, 
 that he can look forward, without trembling, to a trial before 
 a judge, whose clemency is limited by the faculties of a crea- 
 ted nature? If such a being is to sit on the throne of final 
 judgment, what is your hope ? On what is it built ? If it be 
 built on justice, it will avail you nothing ; and it cannot be 
 built on mercy, for there is not mercy enough for its founda- 
 tion. Such a being, then, will not take the throne, in the 
 great day of account. For it is already decided by the voice 
 of inspiration, that, of our apostate race, a multitude that no 
 man can number, shall be pardoned in that day. The son of 
 God, therefore, being the appointed Judge, is possessed of 
 the divine attribute of infinite mercy. 
 
 This conclusion accords entirely with the whole tenour and 
 spirit of his gospel, and receives confirmation from every part 
 of his great work of redemption. 
 
 And with this conclusion, we are brought again to the truth 
 of his essential divinity ; at which we have before arrived, in 
 so many similar ways. 
 
 To accomplish my present purpose, the establishment of 
 this grand truth, it is not necessary to pursue any further, the 
 course of argument, that has now been adopted; for the pos' 
 
240 SERMON II. 
 
 session of even one divine attribute involves the possession of 
 all. 
 
 From the view taken of this subject, we are led to the fol- 
 lowing reflections. 
 
 I. The divinity of Christ will not be denied at the day of 
 judgment. 
 
 Though many may deny it in this life, while he is pouring 
 down blessings upon the earth, in the character of a Redeem- 
 er and Intercessor, will they be able to do it when he shall 
 appear as the Judge of the quick and the dead ? Though 
 the pride of false philosophy and a hatred of the light may, at 
 present, lead men to reject all the evidence derived from the 
 divine titles, the divine attributes, and divine works of Christ, 
 as the Creator of all things and the Saviour of a lost world, 
 will it always be thus ? Will it be thus when he comes to 
 bring all things to their destined consummation, and to judge 
 the world which he died to save ? If to have made the prin- 
 cipalities and powers of heaven, to have spread out the sky 
 as a molten looking-glass, and to have laid the foundations of 
 the earth amid the songs and shouts of all the morning stars, 
 will not convince men of the divinity of Christ, will they not 
 be convinced when he shall come in the clouds of heaven 
 with power and great glory, and all his holy angels with him, 
 to reward his saints and render vengeance to his enemies, 
 and doom the earth and the works that are therein to be burnt 
 up ? If they see no evidence of this truth, while all tilings 
 are subsisting by him in grand and peaceful order, while he 
 preserves suns and planets in their courses, bears the eai'th 
 forward through its daily and yearly changes, and holds the 
 ocean in the hollow of his hand, will they see none when he * 
 shall rend the heavens and come down, and the stars shall 
 be quenched in the flood of glory around him, the earth shall 
 be stopt in its course, the elements shall melt around him, the 
 mountains flow down at his presence, the sea shrink away, 
 and every island flee out of his place ? If they can discover 
 notliing divine in the Son of God, as he expires on the cross 
 amid the sytnjjathetic changes of nature, the fading sun, the 
 
SERMON II. 241 
 
 rending rocks, and the opening graves, will they discover 
 none, when, awful in majesty, he takes the throne of judg- 
 ment amid the convulsions of a dissolving universe ? Will 
 they then see any occasion for looking up to him, and saying 
 with contemptuous mockery, " Save thyself, and come down, 
 and we will believe ?" When they hear the voice of the 
 Son of God, calling upon the great congregation of the dead, 
 to rise and come to judgment, will they be able to persuade 
 themselves that they hear only the voice of a man like one of 
 themselves ? And when they behold the work of judgment 
 proceed till the last sentence is pronounced on the divided 
 multitude, can they believe it to be any being but God, who 
 is thus measuring out the rewards and punishments of eter- 
 nity, and fixing the destiny of a world of immortals ? When 
 they behold the King of Zion riding on his chariot of clouds 
 to the New Jerusalem, with all his redeemed children shout- 
 ing " Hosanna to the Son of David ! Hosanna in the high- 
 est ! Lift up your heads, ye everlasting gates, and the King 
 of Glory shall come in," will it be necessary to bring any 
 more arguments to keep men from stripping him of his di- 
 vine honours ? No, brethren, we shall have to plead for the 
 Son of God no more ; he will arise, and plead for himself 
 with the terrors and glories of the last day, till every knee 
 shall bow to him, and every tongue confess that he is Lord 
 to the glory of God the Father. 
 
 II. The friends of Christ have reason to rejoice in him as 
 their Judge. 
 
 They have cause for joy in the infinite knowledge of 
 their Judge. They cannot but be sensible of the consolation 
 to be derived from the fact, that while man judgeth accord- 
 ing to the outward appearance ; — the Being to whom they are 
 accountable, judgeth righteous judgment. Though they dare 
 not challenge the scrutiny of the Searcher of hearts, they re- 
 joice that he sees the bitter tears of penitence shed in secret, 
 and knows the pains of the broken heart — that he sees the 
 inward conflicts with sin, and aclinowledges the willing spir- 
 it when the flesh is weak — that he sees the alms given, when 
 
 31 
 
242 
 
 SERMON II. 
 
 the left hand knoweth not what the right hand doeth— that he 
 sees them when they have entered their closet and shut the 
 door, and are praying to their Father, who seeth in secret, and 
 will reward them openly. 
 
 They rejoice that he knoweth their down-sitting and their 
 up-rising, and understandeth their thoughts afar ofi' — that he 
 compasseth their path, and is acquainted with all their ways. 
 His promises that, ' where two or three are gathered togeth- 
 er in his name, there he will be in the midst of them and 
 bless them' — and that ' he will be with them always, even to 
 -the end of the world,' afford his disciples unspeakable joy. 
 
 It is to them a matter of much consolation, that their Sa- 
 viour and Judge knows all their wants, and will supply them 
 out of his abundant fulness — that he knows the best means 
 to train them up for his coming and kingdom, and enable 
 them to give up their account with joy and not with anguish. 
 
 When, therefore, affliction is sent, they consider it as sent 
 in love. And when the messenger of death comes, they re- 
 ceive him in peace, and often, in the fulness of faith, welcome 
 him as an angel of mercy, " bringing the glad tidings of deliv- 
 erance to captives, and the opening of the prison to them that 
 are bound." They can then commit their bodies to the dust, 
 in the joyful belief that their Redeemer and Judge will ever 
 guard them with the sleepless eye of love, and remember them 
 at the rising of the just. 
 
 It may be asked, if the infinite knowledge of their Judge 
 can afford Christians any comfort in the expectation, that 
 their sins, even the most secret, will be disclosed. The con- 
 cern manifested by some Christians, at the thought of such .a 
 disclosure, and that trembling interest with which they en- 
 deavour to limit the meaning of the divine declarations, " that 
 every work shall be brought into judgment with every secret 
 thing, whether it be good or whether it be evil" — and — " the 
 secrets of all hearts shall be revealed," can be accounted for 
 on no other ground, but that of an erroneous opinion respect- 
 ing the design and effect of this universal disclosure, so far as 
 it relates to them. Deeply impressed by a sense of their 
 vileness in the sight of God, they may not be able to rid 
 
SERMON II. 
 
 243 
 
 themselves of the idea, that such a disclosure must bring up- 
 on them the scorn and derision of the ungodly, particularly of 
 those who in this life were accustomed to regard them as 
 eminent saints. This, they suppose, would fill them with 
 such shame and confusion, as would be inconsistent with a 
 state of perfect happiness. But when Christians consider, 
 that their Judge will not publish their sins, to give them pain, 
 or to condemn them ; but to magnify the wonders of his own 
 redeeming mercy in the eyes of the whole universe of intelli- 
 gent beings, why should not their distress be turned into joy ? 
 Should they not rejoice to see their Saviour honoured to 
 their own confusion. 
 
 What if the impenitent of their acquaintance, do behold 
 their secret sins ! They will also behold their secret repent- 
 ance. What if they do behold them stript of their own right- 
 eousness ! they will also behold them clothed in the perfect 
 righteousness of Christ. What if they behold them speech- 
 less ! they will see their Saviour and Judge open his lips and 
 plead for them. — " I was an hungered and ye gave me meat ; 
 I was thirsty and ye gave me drink ; I was a stranger and 
 ye took me in." 
 
 Well then may Christians rejoice, though with trembling 
 humility, in view of the infinite knowledge of Christ. 
 
 His infinite power, also, is to them a source of constant joy. 
 It is the infinite power of Christ that ensures to his followers 
 a complete triumph over all their spiritual foes — over the 
 world and the flesh — over sin and Satan — and at length over 
 Death, the last enemy that shall be destroyed. 
 
 It is because the Head of the Church is Almighty, that the 
 gates of hell can never prevail against it. In all her trials, 
 the Church may look forward with confidence, exulting in the 
 strength of her Deliverer. The spiritual temple is not built 
 upon the sand. The storm of persecution may beat, and the 
 floods of infidelity and iniquity rage against it ; but it will 
 never fall, while its foundation is the Rock of Ages. 
 
 The power of Christ is pledged for the future triumph and 
 glory of the Church upon earth. Zion shall arise and shine. 
 But why ? Her Light shall come, and the glory of the Lord 
 
244 
 
 SERMON II. 
 
 shall rise upon her. The kingdoms of this world shall be- 
 come the kingdoms of our Lord. But how ? The King of 
 kings, himself shall go forth conquering and to conquer. 
 
 My Christian friends, could you triumphantly exclaim — 
 "Who shall separate us from the love of Christ," if he were 
 not more able than a fellow mortal to keep you from falling, — 
 if he were not able to save to the uttermost all that come to 
 him ? Could you confidently say, " I am persuaded that neither 
 death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor 
 things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor 
 any other creature shall be able to separate us from the love 
 of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord ;" if you could not as 
 confidently say " In all these things we are more than con- 
 querors through him that loved us?" And you could not say 
 this, if it were not for the infinite power of Christ. 
 
 Could Paul have so often looked into the grave without fear, 
 if he had not expected there to sleep secure, as in the arms 
 of him who is the Resurrection and the Life, — a Being able 
 to collect his scattered dust and re-animate it at the last day?" 
 "I know" says he with assurance, "I know in whom I have 
 believed, and am persuaded that he is able to keep that which 
 I have committed unto him against that day." Supported by 
 the same assurance, the martyrs of Jesus, in every age, have 
 triumphed in the flames, and given their ashes to the winds. 
 Supported by this same assurance, my Christian friends, why 
 should you shudder at the darkness and corruption of the 
 tomb? 
 
 The infinite justice of their Judge is a subject of consola- 
 tion to the righteous. They feel that the interests of the uni- 
 verse are safe in his hands, and that *no individual can be 
 wronged in the retributions of eternity. Though they are 
 far from expecting to be justified on their own account-, yet 
 they cannot but rejoice that in their justification respect is had 
 to the perfect righteousness of their divine substitute, so that 
 the immutable principles of justice are not sacrificed to de- 
 liver them from condemnation. 
 
SERMON II. 345 
 
 Yet they are deeply conscious, that they all the while de- 
 erve to be condemned ; and that, therefore, their only refuge 
 from impending wrath, is in the infinite mercy of their Judge. 
 In this, then, they have an overflowing source of joy. From 
 it they receive their present blessings, and on it they build 
 their hopes of everlasting happiness ; they look to it for the 
 smile of forgiveness here, and the sentence of welcome into 
 the abodes of glory hereafter ; and in the God of their salva- 
 tion is their chief delight, till they see him as he is in the world 
 above, where is fulness of joy, and sit down at his right hand, 
 where are pleasures forever more. 
 
 III. The enemies of Christ have reason to tremble at the 
 thought that he is their Judge. 
 
 They have reason to tremble at the infinite knowledge of 
 their Judge. They cannot sin without his notice. They 
 cannot hide one sinful action, nor one sinful thought; not 
 even the most secret desires of their hearts. What says the 
 Judge of the world ? " I am he ihat searcheth the heart, and 
 trieth the reins." He sees the deeds of darkness ; writes them 
 down, and seals them up to be reviewed at the judgment. 
 Wherever sinners go, his eye follows them. Should not this 
 make them tremble? When tempted to sin, let them stop and 
 reflect. Let them not listen to the suggestion, that they are 
 alone — no eye seeth them. Let them remember, that the 
 transgression is no sooner committed, than it is marked in the 
 court of Heaven. 
 
 When arraigned at the bar of Christ, the hearts of his ene- 
 mies will shrink and die within them before that eye as a 
 flame of fire penetrating all disguises, shining into their in- 
 most recesses, and discovering the pollution hid in every 
 corner. O what disclosures will then be made ! We shall 
 be let into a new world, my hearers; into the mysteries of 
 the human breast. 
 
 It is to be feared that many, considering the day of judg- 
 ment as a day of great tumult and confusion, indulge an in- 
 definite but deceitful hope, that in some way or other, at least 
 one solitary person may escape unnoticed, and voluntarily 
 
246 SERMON II. 
 
 sink into oblivion. They do not venture to give this hope a 
 distinct form. But the human heart itself is so subtle, that a 
 hope which cannot be defined is of all the most dangerous. 
 Would that rational creatures could be convinced of the truth, 
 before it be too late to profit by conviction. 
 
 As all hope of escaping the knowledge of the Judge will be 
 vain, so will be all hope of resisting his power. Sinners are 
 now able to keep at a distance from Christ, and shut their 
 ears against his calls ; but the call to rise from their graves 
 and come to judgment they jnust hear and obey. And, my 
 impenitent hearers, your Judge will not meet you as a man. 
 You have seen that he is not merely the babe of Bethlehem — 
 not merely the man who died on Calvary; but "he, which 
 was, which is, and which is to come, the Almighty." 
 
 In vain will you cry to the rocks and mountains, "Fall on 
 us, and hide us from the face of him that sitteth on the tlirone, 
 and from the wrath of the Lamb ; for the great day of his 
 wrath is come, and who shall be able to stemd?" Shall they 
 who have not believed in him as their Saviour? — they, whose 
 hearts have not been won by all the shame and toil and suf- 
 fering of his humiliation, all the blessings and promises of his 
 gospel, all the instructions and entreaties of his ministry'-, and 
 all the agonies of the garden and the cross ? 
 
 Shall they be able to stand before him, when he appears 
 in the majesty of infinite justice ? And will not even his infi- 
 nite mercy then be turned against them ? Will it not en- 
 hance the misery of their condemnation, to receive it from 
 Him who came into our guilty world not to condemn it, but 
 that the world through him might be saved ? O the friendless 
 and hophless destiny of those, that meet in their final Judge a 
 rejected Redeemer! O to be reminded, in that day, of all 
 the dying love of Calvary, of all the days of grace on earth, 
 and all the calls of redeeming mercy — to hear the compas- 
 sionate Jesus say " I have called, but ye refused" — how will 
 it wring the heart of the lost sinner, as he stands in expecta- 
 tion of hearing, in a moment more, the sentence of banish- 
 ment down to the world of final despair ! 
 
SERMON II, 247 
 
 My dear impenitent hearers, Christ has not yet ascended 
 the throne of judgment. He still keeps the mercy-seat wait- 
 ing to be gracious. Shall he wait in vain for your accept- 
 ance of him, and the blessings of his eternal salvation? 
 Will you not let him see of the travail of his soul, by re- 
 nouncing your sins, and giving him your hearts ? Can you be 
 so hardened in ingratitude, as to turn a deaf ear to his entrea- 
 ties, and reject his offers of mercy ? If you can, remember, 
 though he bear long with you, the day of vengeance is in his 
 heart. He will not keep his anger forever. And what think 
 you, must be the guilt, and what the punishment of those who 
 sin so long as to wear out the forbearance of the compassion- 
 ate Jesus? 
 
 Sport not thus with his dying love. Provoke him not to 
 swear in his wrath, that you shall never enter into his rest. 
 
 But "to-day, after so long a time, if ye will hear his voice, 
 harden not your hearts." Come humbly to the foot of his 
 cross. He will hft you up and speak peace to your troubled 
 spirits, and fix upon you a smile of everlasting love. He will 
 pardon all your sins. He will call you friends. He will 
 wash you clean, and array you in the white robe of his right- 
 eousness. He will cause all things to work together for your 
 good. He will give unto you eternal life, and none shall be 
 able to pluck you out of his hand. He will prepare you by 
 his grace to abide the day of his coming, and to stand whea 
 he appeareth. 
 
 Let us all watch against that day: for in such an hour as 
 we think not the Son of Man cometh. ~ "Behold I come 
 quickly, and my reward is with me, to give to every man ac- 
 cording as his work shall be." 
 
 "Even so, come Lord Jesus. Amen." 
 
SERMON III. 
 
 PSALM Ivij, 7. 
 " My heart is fixed, O God, my heart is fixed : 1 will sing and give praise." 
 
 The sweet Psalmist of Israel, though surrounded by the 
 pageantry of a throne, and accustomed to the external pomp 
 of the Jewish worship, falls below few if any of the sacred 
 writers, in his views of the religion of the heart. He seems 
 always to regard the pure eye of God as looking through this 
 splendour of circumstances, and searching the inmost re- 
 cesses of his soul, and judging of the character of his actions by 
 that of his motives and affections. Accordingly in all the ex- 
 ercises of devotion, he aims to keep the heart alive. 
 
 When he comes to the mercy seat, and makes confession 
 of sin, he feels in the anguish of his spirit, the absolute neces- 
 sity of doing more than to bring before God a ceremonial of- 
 fering. He says to the Searcher of hearts, "Thou desirest 
 not sacrifice, else would I give it : thou delightest not in burnt 
 offering. The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit : a broken 
 and a contrite heart, O God, thou wilt not despise." 
 
 In speaking of the means by which the righteous man is 
 enabled to hold on his way, he observes — " The law of his 
 God is in his heart ; none of his steps shall shde." In ad- 
 dressing the divine Being on the same subject, in relation to 
 himself, he says, " Thy word have I hid in mine heart, that I 
 might not sin against thee." 
 
 When he would celebrate the glory of Zion, and of her di- 
 vine King, he commences as it were from the bottom of his 
 heart — " My heart is inditing a good matter," that is, accord- 
 ing to the meaning of the original Hebrew, my heart is gush- 
 
SERMON III. 249 
 
 ing forth of its fulness, like a fountain from its secret depths. 
 He pours it out in a stream of holy love. 
 
 In every strain of meditations on God, his works, and his 
 laws, and on the duties of love, faith, obedience, supplication 
 and thanksgiving, he brings in the heart as the moving spring 
 of all. 
 
 With respect to prayer, his language at one time, is, " When 
 thou saidst seek ye my face, my heart said mito thee. Thy 
 face. Lord, will I seek ;" and at another, " With my whole 
 heart have I sought thee." 
 
 But it is in the angelic work of praise, his favourite employ- 
 ment, that he mentions the heart most frequently, and with 
 the strongest emotion. The sum and spirit of his language^ 
 on this subject, may be represented in the exclamation, " I 
 will praise thee, O God, with my whole heart" and in that of 
 the text, " My heart is fixed, O God, my heai^t is fixed : I 
 will sing and give praise." Though the hundreds of voices, 
 the multitude of musical instruments, and other circum- 
 stances, in the acts of public praise performed under his di^ 
 rection, may seem to us, who are accustomed to the greater 
 simplicity of Christian worship, to be calculated to bury every 
 devout feeling beneath an overflowing tide of admiration 
 or animal feinfour, yet upon a mind like his, in which spiritual 
 religion habitually maintained her rightful ascendency over 
 every thing else, they produced the far different effect of 
 heightening devotion, and Hfting the soul to a more heavenly 
 elevation above the world. 
 
 We can be at no loss how to account for the deep spiritu- 
 ality, manifested in all the psalms of David, notwithstanding 
 the adventitious splendour around him, when we recollect 
 that his heart was right with God from his youth. When 
 the prophet Samuel, at the command of the Lord, went to 
 the house of Jesse, to anoint one of his sons for the throne of 
 Israel, the reason that the seven eldest, after passing in suc- 
 cession before him, were rejected, and David the youngest 
 was chosen, is said to have been, " The Lord seeth not as 
 
 man seeth ; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but 
 
 32 
 
850 SERMON III. 
 
 the Lord looketh on the heart." The vital principle of piety, 
 thus early implanted in his breast by the divine Spirit, and af- 
 terwards cherished continually by a large measure of his influ- 
 ences, soon exhibited the vigour of its grow^th in its all-perva- 
 ding power. By this sleepless activity of life in the heart, 
 he speedily attained the stature and strength of maturity. He 
 soon became an established and exalted saint ; he rose to an 
 eminence reaching far upward towards heaven, on which he 
 stood firmly, when, with an eye lifted above the storms of 
 earth that assailed him, he uttered the strong and fervent ex- 
 clamation, " My heart is fixed, O God, my heart is fixed : I 
 will sing, and give praise." 
 
 In pursuing the theme thus introduced, I design to give a 
 brief and general description of the man whose heart is fixed 
 on God, and then show that such a man will praise God in 
 every situation. 
 
 I. It is proposed, as the first thing, to describe the man 
 whose heart is fixed on God. 
 
 The heart is the seat of the affections, the source of good 
 and evil in moral character, the fountain of love to God, and 
 of enmity against him. The heart is likwise the seat of con- 
 fidence and distrust, and of happiness and misery. He whose 
 heart is set upon the world, loves it supremely, places his trust 
 upon it, and looks to it for his enjoyment ; and he, whose 
 heart is fixed on God, loves him above every other object, 
 confides in him entirely, and goes to him for happiness. But 
 supreme love to God, and entire confidence in him, possess 
 various degrees of strength in different persons, and in the 
 same person at different periods of life. The peculiar lan- 
 guage of the text, taken in connexion with the character and 
 circumstances of the man who uttered it, leads me to confine 
 my present remarks to a description of the established saint — 
 one who possesses a high degree of love to God, great de- 
 light in him, and great firmness of faith. In the passage be- 
 fore us, the idea o^ fixedness is repeated with much emphasis 
 and feeling, and in this beautiful and striking manner is ren- 
 dered prominent. It is only this fixedness of love to God 
 
SERMON III. 251 
 
 and reliance upon him, that will enable a man, under all cir- 
 cumstances, to rejoice and sing praise. He who possesses it, 
 regards the divine Being, at all times, with unmingled com- 
 placence. Thus he regards all the attributes of the Godhead, 
 holiness and justice, as well as goodness and mercy. He 
 takes constant pleasure in contemplating the perfections of 
 God, in holding communion with him, in following after him, 
 and in rising toward him in moral excellence. Gratitude 
 lends him her wings, to help him onward in a steady, unin- 
 terrupted course. He feels continually her quickening influ- 
 ence. He is all the while drawn nearer and nearer to God 
 by the cords of love. Nay — he is bound to Ms throne with its 
 golden chain. God is all in all to his soul. In him he has a 
 satisfying portion ; and his affections wander after no other. 
 So firmly is he united to God in love, that he feels as if he had 
 no existence but in him. " His life is hid with Christ in God." 
 " In him he lives, and moves, and has his being," as the child 
 of his grace, as well as the creature of his power. " He that 
 dwelleth in love, dwelleth in God, and God in him." Through- 
 out this language, the idea of enduring steadfastness is kept 
 conspicuous. It is language that can be applied, in its high- 
 est sense, to none but the established saint. 
 
 In further describing the man whose heart is thus firmly 
 fixed on God, I shall consider him as exhibiting, in several 
 ways, the proofs of his peculiar excellence. The existence 
 of direct love to God, is often made evident by that which is 
 indirect ; and the existence of a high degree of the former, 
 shows itself by a high degree of the latter. 
 
 The man whose heart is fixed on God, manifests it, by an 
 unwavering adherence to his truth. 
 
 Strong affection for an absent friend leads us to take a 
 deep interest in whatever we hear from him, particularly in 
 the written expressions of his friendship. The bible is the re- 
 cord of God's love to men, sent to them for their instruction 
 and their salvation. It brings from heaven the glad tidings of 
 peace and good will to the world. It is filled with truths of 
 infinite importance to human welfare. God exhibits himself, 
 
252 SERMON III. 
 
 in every sacred page, as a being wortiiy of all that devoted- 
 iiess of heart which he requires. The man then whose heart 
 is fixed on God will be firm in his adherence to divine truth. 
 His spiritual edifice will be erected on the fundamental doc- 
 trines of religion. He will be rooted, and grounded, and 
 built up, in the truth. He will not be continually fluctuating 
 from one opinion to another. His mind will be settled down 
 into a calm of belief, that nothing can disturb. He will be 
 fortified by the truth against every attack of sin and error. 
 In the spirit of meekness he will contend earnestly for the 
 faith once dehvered to the saints. He will feed continually 
 on the truth, as the bread of life divine ; and drink deeply 
 from its living springs. It will be sweeter to his taste than 
 honey, and more precious in his sight than gold. He will re- 
 ceive from it a daily addition to the strength of his faith, and 
 hope, and joy in God. With David he can exclaim, in ad- 
 dressing his Maker, " O how love I thy law ; it is my medita- 
 tion all the day." No one can say this but the man of firm, 
 enduring piety. Neither can any but such a man, say to 
 God, at all times, " Thy word is very pure, therefore thy ser- 
 vant loveth it." We need a high degree of established holi- 
 ness, always to love the word of God, not because we regard 
 it as supporting the peculiar tenets of our sect, nor chiefly on 
 account of its promises of happiness, but for the strictness of 
 its requirements, the perfect purity of its doctrines and pre- 
 cepts. It is this exalted kind of unwavering adherence to di- 
 vine truth, that shows clearly a steadfastness of love to the 
 high and holy One. 
 
 Another way in which the man whose heart is fixed on 
 God, manifests it, is by an unwearied constancy in his wor- 
 ship. He suffers no light thing to break in upon the devo- 
 tions of the closet, the family, or the sanctuary. From one 
 month to another, and from year to year, every morning and 
 evening finds him on his knees before the throne of mercy, 
 and every Sabbath finds him in his seat in the temple of Je- 
 hovah. During the season of worship, he permits no trivial 
 circumstance to interrupt his heavenly serenity, to render him 
 
SERMON III. 253 
 
 languid and formal, or to scatter his thoughts and turn them 
 into vanity. But though he is thus constant in observing the 
 set periods of devotion, and in observing them with a calm 
 fervour of soul, he is not satisfied with this. He prays with- 
 out ceasing. In his daily employments, and in his necessary 
 intercourse with the world, he carries about with him a de- 
 votional spirit, that falls but little below an unbroken com- 
 munion with God. Such habitual devotion affords uuques- 
 tionable evidence of springing from a heart firmly united to 
 the great object of its worship. 
 
 Again : the man whose heart is fixed on God, manifests it 
 by a steady attachment to his people. 
 
 His attachment to them is of an exalted kind. It is raised, 
 and refined, above that of natural affection, and common hu- 
 manity, and is purified from the earthly mixtures of selfish- 
 ness and sectarian partiality. He loves them, not merely be- 
 cause they happen to belong to the same family, or neigh- 
 bourhood, or church, that he does ; not merely because they 
 coincide with him in belief, and feel and act in concert with 
 him ; but chiefly because they ai-e the spiritual children of 
 -God, bear something of his moral image, are redeemed with 
 the blood of his divine Son, and are loved by him with an 
 everlasting love. This pure and exalted attachment to his 
 brethren, the established saint feels in a liigh degree, and with 
 unchanging constancy. He suffers it not to be interrupted 
 by a word or a look, nor by great and repeated personal of^ 
 fences. In him it becomes that charity, which suffereth long, 
 and is not easily provoked, which beareth all things, and 
 never faileth. "If we love one another," says the apostle 
 John to his christian brethren, " God dwelleth in us, and his 
 love is perfected in us." 
 
 Another way, in which the man, whose heart is fixed on 
 God, manifests it, is by uninterrupted faithfulness in his ser- 
 vice. He is not contented with engaging in this heavenly 
 employment only at intervals, in seasons when he is under 
 the excitement of peculiar circumstances. He does not 
 grow weary of it, on account of the exertion and self-denial 
 
254 SERMON III. 
 
 which it requires. He is not driven from it by the frowns 
 of the world, nor seduced from it by her flatteries. He is 
 not disheartened in it, by the want of immediate or continu- 
 al successs, or that degree of it answering to his expectations. 
 He does not pursue it for a time, in order to purchase the in- 
 dulgence of spending the remainder of life in serving himself. 
 He looks forward to no day of rest on earth. He feels that 
 there will be rest enough in the eternity of heaven. While 
 here he labours, satisfied with the certainty of reaping a full 
 reward hereafter. Difficulties he expects to encounter, and 
 to suffer trials ; but none of these things move him, neither 
 counts he his life dear to himself, so that he may finish his 
 course with joy. The cost of his undertaking has been count- 
 ed, his decision for eternity formed ; and, with entire willing- 
 ness to meet the consequences, he " continues steadfast, un- 
 moveable, always abounding in the work of the Lord." 
 
 Again: the man whose heart is fixed on God, manifests it 
 by an invariahle interest in the prospei'itij of his kingdom. 
 The absolute nature, and universal extent, of the divine gov- 
 ernment, are subjects of continual joy to his soul. But he 
 takes a peculiar delight in the enlargement, and glory of that 
 reign of righteousness and peace, through Christ Jesus, estab- 
 lished in this fallen world. This delight, pure in kind, and 
 great in measure, is also uniform in duration. It does not 
 burst into a flame at one time, and die away into nothingness 
 at another. The interest that he takes in the success of di- 
 vine truth, the spread of the gospel, and the conversion of 
 sinners, is not a transient passion, but an abiding principle. 
 It does not rise to enthusiasm to-day, and sink into indifler- 
 ence to-morrow. It is not a paroxysm of feeling, that works 
 up his mind to the sudden resolution of making sacrifices 
 of which he soon repents, and entering upon undertakings in 
 which he soon comes to a stand. It is not the occasional fer- 
 vour of a heated imagination, under the influence of which he 
 for a while sees visions of glory in the prospects of Zion, and 
 seems to be looking for the new heavens and earth to burst 
 upon his view, and afterwards shuts his eyes in sleep, or turns 
 
SERMON III. 
 
 355 
 
 them away from these coming realities, to cast them on the 
 fleeting shadows around him. It is a hght of the mind and 
 a warmth of the heart blended in one steady flame, which 
 leads his eye onward continually to the future enlargement 
 and beauty of the church, and keeps it fixed on these objects, 
 with the calm expectation of faith in the promises of an immuta- 
 God. . This enduring interest in the prosperity of Zion, enters 
 so deeply into all his habits of thinking and feeling and acting, 
 and is so much a constituent part of his character, as to be- 
 come his own interest. In the daily supplications of his clos- 
 et and his family, and in his constant breathings of silent de- 
 votion, he remembers, in intimate connexion with his desires 
 for blessings on himself, he always remembers, to pray that 
 the kingdom of his divine Saviour may come, in the fulness of 
 its extent and glory. To hasten its coming, he is steadfast in 
 the systematic employment of the means, that Heaven has 
 put into his hands. His labours and charities have the regu- 
 lar flow of smooth and peaceful streams sent forth from a 
 perennial fountain. Thus in all that he does for the good of 
 the church, there is a consistent uniformity, which could pro- 
 ceed from no other source but the deep interest of unfailing 
 love. 
 
 Once more : the man whose heart is fixed on God, mani- 
 fests it hy a ijerpetual regard to his glory. In all that he 
 does, the honour of his Maker and Redeemer must be pro- 
 moted, or he is not satisfied. He has acquired the habit of 
 always regarding this as paramount to every other consider- 
 ation. He rejoices in the conversion of sinners, chiefly be- 
 cause God is glorified by the power of his Spirit, and the rich- 
 ness of his grace, in their deliverance from the slavery of sin 
 and the condemnation of hell, and in their admittance into 
 the mansions of everlasting purity and bliss. He delights in 
 the spread of divine truth, because it carries with it, in every 
 direction, the honour of its Author. He rejoices in the diflfu- 
 sion of this light that shines down from heaven, because it 
 reflects up to heaven the glorj"^ of its eternal Source. He de- 
 sires to have the boundaries of Zion widened, on the right 
 
256 SERMON III. 
 
 hand and on the left, till they reach round the globe, and 
 take in the M'liole of its population, that the name of her king 
 may be regarded with universal homage, and that he may 
 reign in the midst of her, crowned with all honour and glory, 
 and surrounded with the multiplied trophies of his all-con- 
 quering grace. He longs to have heaven opened to receive 
 him at last, that he may behold the blaze of glory that encir- 
 cles the throne of God and the Lamb, and fills the celestial 
 regions with a light, above that of the sun and the moon for- 
 ever. There he expects to see the glory of God collected 
 into an ocean, in which every thing else will be swallowed 
 up and lost. This prevailing regard to the honour of the di- 
 vine Being, is a striking trait of character in the saint of es- 
 tablished eminence — a trait, that appears conspicuous in his 
 daily prayers, and conversation, and conduct ; pervades all 
 his opinions, and practices ; and seems wrought into the very 
 essence of all his religion — a trait, that distinguishes him not 
 only from the men of the world, but from those who occupy 
 the common level within the precincts of holy ground. It 
 makes him like David, who, in the short psalm from which 
 the text is taken, exclaims twice, "Be thou exalted, O God 
 above the heavens ; let thy glory be above all the earth." 
 
 Having now given a summary sketch of the character of 
 the man whose heart is fixed on God, I proceed to show as 
 was proposed, 
 
 H. That such a man will praise God in every situation. 
 
 The fixedness of heait, the stability of godliness, which has 
 been spread out before us, forms the basis, on which the re- 
 marks under this head are to be built. To some it may, at 
 the first thought, seem altogether unnecessary to stop here, 
 to say that such a man, as we have been contemplating, will 
 rejoice in God, and praise him, in the midst of prosperity, in 
 the calmness and sunshine of life, in the vigour of health, and 
 with exhilarating spirits, when every thing around him wears 
 a smiling aspect, and the bounties of providence are poured 
 into his lap, and friends are numerous and faithful, when he 
 is crowned with present blessings, and the wearisome days 
 
SERMON III. 257 
 
 and nights of sickness, the pangs of death, and the darkness 
 of the tomb, appear to be distant. Some may be ready to 
 exclaim, Why should he not sing praises to God in such cir- 
 cumstances ? and who else, with the least sense of obligation 
 to divine goodness, would not do the same ? Notwithstand- 
 ing the theoretical wisdom of these inquiries, a shght view of 
 Christian experience will justify the remark, that it is no weak 
 and wavering piety which can always pass safely through the 
 trial of worldly prosperity, incessantly prompting the songs 
 of gratitude. A fulness of earthly good, instead of naturally 
 producing, in every Christian, a corresponding measure of 
 love to the Giver, has in many a tendency to draw their af- 
 fections down from him, and fix them on the dust at their 
 feet, or send them wandering after the phantoms of honour 
 and pleasure. Amidst a profusion of temporal blessings, a 
 settled principle of love to God, and an established habit of 
 reliance upon him, are needed, to keep the heart free from all 
 idolatry and vanity, and swelling with emotions of joyful 
 thanksgiving. 
 
 Every situation in life, every variety of circumstances, has 
 its peculiar temptations, calling for great fixedness of heart 
 on God, that the soul may always rejoice in him, and the lips 
 be constant in his praise. While the dead calm of worldly 
 prosperity is unfavourable to the cheerful progress of the soul 
 toward its destined haven, the storm of adversity is calculat- 
 ed to drive it aside from its direct course, to fill it with dis- 
 tress, or sink it in despondency. This is often, for a time, 
 its lamentable effect on the weak and wavering in heart. 
 
 It is more particularly my object, at present, to show that 
 the man, whom we have been contemplating, will continue to 
 praise God in all the adverse circumstances of life, in the midst 
 of afflictions and hardships. I am led to take this particular 
 view of the subject, by the situation of David when he utter- 
 ed the exclamation of the text. He was beset by determin- 
 ed enemies, who were plotting to destroy him. Some were 
 urged on by the restless corrodings of envy, some by the set- 
 tled malignity of hatred, and others by the bhnd impulse of 
 
 33 
 
SERMON III. 
 
 factious passion ; but all were united in hunting his hfe, as 
 they would that of a hart upon the mountains ; so that he 
 cries out, in a verse or two before the text, " My soul is among 
 lions, — whose teeth are spears and arrows, and their tongue 
 a sharp sword," He was driven from his house, from the 
 holy and beloved city of his habitation, and from the quiet 
 possession of the throne given to him directly by God, and 
 forced to seek a refuge in the thickets of the wilderness and 
 caves of the rocks, to become a homeless wanderer beyond 
 the dwellings of men. But under the pressure of all these 
 hardships, instead of sinking into despair and closing his lips 
 in joyless silence, or uttering complaints against the allot- 
 ments of Providence, or spending his breath in fruitless sighs 
 over the miseries of his life, he breaks out into songs of tri- 
 umphant gladness and praise. While around him all is dark 
 and tumultuous, all is bright and peaceful within. His soul 
 is at rest with the fulness of its hidden enjoyments, while his 
 tongue moves with the notes of adoration and thanksgiving. 
 What now is the great source of his joy and his praise, that 
 continues thus active in circumstances of such disheartening 
 power ? A devout acknowledgement of his own furnishes 
 the true answer. He says to the God of heaven, " All my 
 springs are in thee." He begins the psalm, in which the text 
 occurs, with the language of supplication, followed by strong 
 expressions of confidence and love : " Be merciful unto me, 
 O God, be merciful unto me : for my soul trusteth in thee : 
 yea, in the shadow of thy wings will I make my refuge, until 
 these calamities be overpast." He next proceeds to mention 
 the severity and multitude of his calamities, bringing in occa- 
 sional protestations of faith and holy devotedness, till he comes 
 to the triumphant exclamation, " My heart is fixed, O God, 
 my heart is fixed : I will sing and give praise." Thus sud- 
 denly he turns away from his suflferings, from himself, and 
 from the world, rises above them all, and with all put out of 
 sight, with nothing but God in view, he mounts with the im- . 
 pulse of new liberty, to the empyreal region of devotion. He 
 does sing, and give praise : " Awake up my glory ; awake 
 
SERMON III. 259 
 
 psaltery and harp : I myself will awake early. I will praise 
 thee, O Lord, among the people : I will sing unto thee among 
 the nations. For thy mercy is great unto the heavens, and 
 thy truth unto the clouds. Be thou exalted, O God, above 
 the heavens : let thy glory be above all the earth." 
 
 How clearly does this lofty strain of praises, sung in the 
 midst of deadly enemies, rise directly from a holy fixedness 
 of heart. And if such be the truth in this instance, it is ra- 
 tional to infer, that whenever the same cause exists in similar 
 circumstances, an effect essentially the same will follow. 
 
 Similar circumstances are often found. Eveiy child of 
 God is encompassed with spiritual foes combined to harrass, 
 and if possible, to destroy him. His own natural appetites 
 and passions, the world with its various temptations, Satan 
 with his snares and fiery darts, pursue him with unyielding 
 hostility. With this formidable band he has to maintain a 
 perpetual warfare. At one time he is called upon to make 
 open resistance, at another, to retire out of the way hi cau- 
 tious silence. Now he must meet the enemy face to face, 
 and now escape for his life. This incessant conflict with sin 
 is the great trial of earth, entering deeply into all the rest, 
 extending through all the degrees of Christian improvement, 
 and over all the varieties of human condition. To this uni- 
 versal trial add others that are more particular, many of the 
 smaller ones and some of the greater, both of which fall to 
 the lot of every saint ; add the loss of worldly good, that of 
 property, of health, or of friends ; add the pressure of pover- 
 ty amid the wants of a helpless family, or the destruction of 
 domestic order by the conduct of rebellious children, or the 
 return of evil for good, from an ungrateful world, or the la- 
 bours and hardships of apostolic self-denial ; add the failure 
 of many a benevolent enterprise, the departure of God's most 
 eminent servants in the height of their usefulness, and that of 
 personal relatives and friends in the prime of affection, the un- 
 interrupted pains of long lingering sickness, the sufferings of 
 violent disease, or the multiplied infirmities of old age, then 
 add to the end, the descent into the dark valley of the shadow 
 
260 SERMON III. 
 
 of death, and still it is not too much to say, that, under any, or 
 any number of these trials, the man whose heart is fixed on 
 God can and will rejoice and give praise. Did not Paul en- 
 dure the loss of all things, and still count it all joy ? Through 
 the midst of perils by land and by sea, in the wilderness and 
 among the heathen, through hunger and thirst, cold and na- 
 kedness, watchings and fastings, shipwrecks, and stripes, and 
 dungeons, and deaths, he goes on with undeviating steadfast- 
 ness, and triumphant joy ; as it were, exclaiming with every 
 breath, " My heart is fixed, O God, my heart is fixed ; I will 
 sing and give praise." In his contest with principalities and 
 powers, with the rulers of the darkness of this world, with 
 spiritual wickedness in high places, with the law in his mem- 
 bers, and with the whole body of death, he sings, " Thanks 
 be to God, who giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus 
 Christ." And when he draws nigh to death, he looks back 
 on the world, and sings with holy exultation, " I have fought 
 a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith," 
 then adds, as he turns and looks into eternity, " henceforth 
 there is laid up for me a crown of glory." Such was Paul's 
 fixedness of heart ; and so unceasing were his joy and praise. 
 In these sublime attainments most of the apostles and martyrs 
 bore to him a near resemblance. They took joyfully the 
 spoiling of their goods, in the tortures of persecution thanked 
 God that they were counted worthy to suffer for the name 
 of Christ, and in the flames of the stake breathed out their 
 spirits in notes of praise. Surely then if Christians of the 
 present day have any fixedness of heart on God, they can 
 triumph in him, with anthems of gratitude and adoration,- in 
 all their light afflictions. The missionary of the present day 
 can do it. And he does. Who that contemplates the devot- 
 ed Martyn, travelling over the burning plains of Persia to 
 open the word of life to its inhabitants, and listens to his fear- 
 less defence of the truth before the chief priest of Mahommed, 
 and his exclamations of confidence and delight in God, as he 
 wastes away and sinks into his grave far off from every earth- 
 ly friend, docs not seem to hear him repeating continually 
 
SERMON III. 261 
 
 " My heart is fixed, O God, My heart is fixed ; I will sing 
 and give praise ?" But he stands not alone on this eminence 
 of devotion ; nor is he surrounded by those only, whose pub- 
 lic labours make them extensively known and long remem- 
 bered. The private Christian in the humblest condition, if 
 he possess the same stability of heai't-felt godliness, will rise 
 to the same constancy of joy and praise, under the more com- 
 mon trials of life, and even in that which closes the scene of 
 mortality, dissolving the ties of body and spirit, and those of 
 social affection, blotting out from the view every thing be- 
 neath the sun, and openmg the eyes on the realities of the 
 eternal world. All of us have seen the Chi'istian possessing 
 such unshaken confidence in God, as to be able to rejoice with 
 thanksgiving, under the accumulated ills of poverty or pro- 
 tracted sickness, in the midst of repeated family bereavements, 
 or in the struggles of nature with his last enemy. We may 
 have known of instances, in which the spirit has grown more 
 vigorous with the faihng and sinking of the flesh ; and its con- 
 flict with sin, with the world, and the powers of darkness has 
 seemed to be over ; and its triumph celebrated alone with its 
 great Deliverer, upon ground entirely won on this side of the 
 grave ; ground possessing so much of the hallowed security 
 of heaven, that earthly enemies can approach, only just near 
 enough, to witness, in impotent dismay, their own defeat, and 
 hear, to their confusion, the songs of heaven's exultation an- 
 ticipated below.* Such emotions of joy have often been 
 felt, and such strains of celestial music sung, in the dying 
 
 * The devoted missionary to Palestine, who lately died in Egypt, leaving^ 
 behind bim a mourner in every acquaintance, and every friend to piety 
 in her loveliest form, gives utterance to his feelings, but a day or two be 
 fore his death, in the following language : ' My mortal frame is growing 
 weaker and weaker, and is just ready to dissolve into dust ; but my im- 
 mortal spirit grows more and more vigorous, and is about to take wing 
 from its prison of flesh : the world is fading away, and receding from my 
 view; while heaven is coming nearer, and growing brighter : the world 
 will soon vanish forever, and all will soon be heaven.' 
 
 Many a time, has the death-bed been a scene of triumph like this. 
 
262 
 
 SERMON III. 
 
 hour. Such things have often been ; and they will continue, 
 and be multiplied, till the end of time. 
 
 From the view, now taken of this subject, we are led to 
 several interesting reflections. 
 
 I. It is of great importance, to human happiness, to have 
 the heart fixed on God. 
 
 In such a world as this, so filled with changes and afflic- 
 tions, and perils, how much do we need a deep source of 
 joy that will not fail in every trying hour ; one that will last 
 through all the days of darkness, for they are many ; one that 
 we can carry with us into the hut of poverty, the house of 
 mourning, the chamber of sickness, — into the field of holy 
 warfare, into all the labours and sacrifices of the divine life» 
 into all of the distressing and dispiriting scenes, through 
 wiiich we may have to pass in our pilgrimage below, and 
 finally into the dark valley at the end, there to give light, to 
 sustain, and to cheer. We need more than a weak and wa- 
 vering faith, more than a cold and inconstant love. We need 
 that warmth and vigour of piety, that fixedness of heart, 
 which has been described. And, blessed be God, it is with- 
 in our reach. This settled principle of happiness, that will 
 not vary with every change of external circumstances, may 
 be possessed by all, that pant after it as their only sure de- 
 pendence. 
 
 As then, my hearers, you value a source of joy, that will 
 not fail, and leave you desolate, aim at a high degree of con- 
 sistent stedfastness in piety. Be solicitous, not merely to 
 have your feet taken out of the miry clay and horrible pit, 
 and set upon a rock, but also to have your goings established 
 thereon, that the new song of praise to God may not only 
 be put into your lips, but be continued there, through life, and 
 through death, till it end in the song of Moses and the Lamb 
 in heaven. 
 
 II. To praise God with a heart fixed on him, is the most 
 exalted employment. 
 
 All praise must be the sincere expression of the heart's 
 warm feelings, in order to reach the ear of him who reigns in 
 
SERMON III. 263 
 
 the heavens. When we speak the praises of God, when we 
 utter them in our solemn addresses to his throne, and no less 
 when we sing them, the fire of devotion must burn within, 
 or our words and sweet tones will vanish into air, and leave 
 us far as ever from God, and under the guilt of mocking 
 him. An apostle exhorts his christian brethren " to be filled 
 with the spirit, speaking to themselves in psalms and hymns 
 and spiritual songs, singing, and making melody in their hearts 
 to the Lord." This melody of the heart, inspired by a ful- 
 ness of divine influence, is the essence of all acceptable praise. 
 Without it there may be, in the music of the sanctuary, much 
 to delight the ear, to send along the nerves a thrilling sensa- 
 tion of pleasure, to kindle the animal feehngs to a living glow, 
 and elevate the imagination above the grossness and bitter- 
 ness of earth, but there will be nothing to please the Searcher 
 of hearts, nothing to gain his everlasting smile. It is from a 
 bosom ever swelling with the fulness oflove, that the seraph's 
 lips pour forth a continual stream of melody. To sing praise 
 with a heart fixed on God, is, of all employments on earth, 
 the most heavenly. Such praise is the odour of burnt in- 
 cense, that rises nearest to the throne above. It is an act of 
 devotion, in which the soul makes its nearest approach to the 
 great object of worship. It is a sacrifice, in which, as in 
 that of Manoah, the man turns into an angel, takes wing, and 
 ascends in the flame. While in prayer the divine Being is 
 brought down to us in the manifestations of his mercy, in 
 praise we are borne up to him in our thoughts and affections. 
 In every age of the world, to give praise to God has been the 
 delight of his most eminent servants. In all those parts of 
 the sacred volume, that are strictly devotional, the leading and 
 prominent thing is praise. In this angelic work, the royal 
 psalmist pours forth his whole soul, in the overflowings of a 
 full inspiration. Again and again does he exclaim, " I will 
 praise thee, O God, with my whole heart ; while I live, will 
 I praise the Lord ; I will sing praises unto my God, while I 
 have any being" — and, " O that all men would praise the 
 Lord for his goodness, and for his wonderful works to the 
 
264 SERMON III. 
 
 children of men !" He calls upon his soul, and all that is 
 within him, to wake up, and engage with intense activity in 
 this exalted employment. He calls upon every thing animate 
 and inanimate to bear a part in it. He calls upon the angels 
 of heaven and the inhabitants of earth, the sun, moon, and 
 stars, the elements in all their variety, the mountains and 
 forests, vallies and floods, beasts and flying fowls, and every 
 thing that hath breath, to praise the Lord. He gives life to 
 every object around him, and to every one a voice to join in 
 the general song. The heavens and earth form one grand 
 temple, and all the creatures and works of Jehovah contain- 
 ed within, are his willing or involuntary worshippers. 
 
 HI. The final praises of heaven will be infinitely great. 
 
 In the history of revelation there are four grand periods, 
 in which heaven has been opened to the eye of inspiration ; 
 and, at each period, the sound of celestial praise has come 
 down to our world. When the foundations of the earth were 
 laid, " the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God 
 shouted for joy." When the babe of Bethlehem was born, a 
 multitude of the heavenly host appeared in the sky, singing 
 " Glory to God in the highest, peace on earth, and good will 
 to men." In a vision of Saint John, in which he beheld the 
 downfall of Antichrist, he heard the voice of a great multitude 
 in heaven, singing, " Alleluiah ; for the Lord God omnipotent 
 reigneth." And in another vision of the upper world, in its 
 full glory, after the consummation of all things, he hears the 
 myriads of the redeemed singing, " Worthy is the Lamb that 
 was slain, to receive power, and riches, and wisdom, and 
 strength, and honour, and glory, and blessing." 
 
 Thus has the praise of God been the employment of hea- 
 ven in past ages, and will continue to be in the ages to come. 
 
 And, brethren, if a heart fixed on God will enable us to re- 
 joice and give praise under all the trials of this vale of tears, 
 this world of sin, and darkness, and sorrow, and death, how 
 will it fit us to rejoice and give praise in that world where all 
 tears shall be wiped away, and all shall be bright, and holy, 
 and happy, and everlasting. 
 
SERMON III. 
 
 205 
 
 If a fixedness of heart on God could make Paul, and Silas, 
 amid the horrors of a dungeon, and at the gloomy hour of 
 midnight, forget the pain of their stripes, and sing praises so 
 as to turn their darkness into day, and bring an angel from 
 heaven to unloose their chains, and throw open their prison 
 doors — and if the same fixedness of heart often enables the 
 servants of Christ, with like joy and triumph, to cast off" the 
 fetters of mortality, and break away from this dungeon of 
 earth, and change its gloom into the eternal light of heaven, 
 how will it prepare them to exult and smg, when they shall 
 walk at liberty in the paradise of God. 
 
 If the children of Israel, after being delivered from the host 
 of Pharaoh by a passage through the Red Sea, could unite in 
 a song of triumphant thanksgiving, though a wilderness lay 
 before them, how will all the chosen people of God lift up 
 their voices in shouts of victory and praise, when they shall 
 be delivered from their pursuing enemies by a passage 
 through the river of death, opened by the hand of their divine 
 Leader, and their feet are planted firm on the shores of im- 
 mortahty, and a paradise unfading and interminable spreads 
 out before them. 
 
 When the children of Israel from all parts of Judea, as- 
 cended their sacred mount to worship in their holy and beau- 
 tiful temple, they went up singing as they went ; and when 
 they all stood together before the Lord, the praise was great. 
 If, like them, the people of God, of all generations, and from 
 all quarters of the globe, can go singing through all their pil- 
 grimage, up to the temple above, how great beyond concep- 
 tion will be the praise, when all the ransomed of the liOrd 
 shall return from their earthly wanderings, and come home 
 to the heavenly Zion with songs, and everlasting joy upon 
 their heads, and shall there obtain joy and gladness, where 
 sorrow and sighing shall forever flee away. 
 
 When the end of all things has come, — when these visible 
 
 skies have passed away, and this world and the works that 
 
 are therein have been burnt up, and the new heavens and the 
 
 new earth have been commanded into being amid the singing 
 
 34 
 
^^ SERMON III. 
 
 and shouting of all the sons of light, — and when, in that bright 
 creation, the general assembly and church of the first born, 
 who shall be saved from the ruins of our world, shall be uni- 
 ted to the innumerable company of angels, and all shall be 
 prepared to begin together the work of eternity, — every heart 
 shall be wholly fixed on God, and every eye directed to him, 
 every soul shall be filled with his fulness, and every harp and 
 every voice tuned anew, how will the pillars of heaven trem- 
 ble as they bow and sing ! 
 
 God is enthroned in the centre of these adoring myriads ; 
 the single object of their vision, their thoughts, their affections, 
 and their hosannas. Behold him reigning thus in the midst 
 of his holy and happy family. Behold him pouring forth 
 fft)m his throne to heaven's utmost boundaries, a flood of 
 light and joy, and receiving in return, from all quarters, a 
 gathering and rising tide of praise, in the songs of " Blessing 
 and honour and glory and power," like the voice of many wa- 
 ters, and like the voice of mighty thunderings. 
 
 There, my hearers, may you all be found at last, united to 
 that multitude which no man can number, partaking in their 
 purity and bliss, in their absorbing and unchanging love to 
 God, and mingling your notes with theirs, in the everlasting 
 hallelujahs of Heaven. 
 
SERMON IV. 
 
 JOB, xlii, 5, 6. 
 
 1 have heard of thee by the hearing of the ear : but now my eye seeth thee. 
 Wherefore I abhor myself, and repent in dust and ashes. 
 
 There is often, in the course of divine providence, a com- 
 bination of circumstances, calculated, in a peculiar manner, 
 or in an eminent degree, to call forth the confession of the 
 text. 
 
 On that dreadful morning, when Abraham, at an early 
 hour, in expectation of beholding the overthrow of Sodom 
 and Gomorrah, according to the revelation of the preceding 
 day, ascended the eminence on which that revelation was 
 made, and, as the sun rose upon the earth, saw the smoke of 
 those devoted cities, and of the whole burning plain around 
 them, rolling upward as the smoke of a great furnace, with 
 how much propriety might he have said to the most high God, 
 in view of this exhibition of his hohness, and in view of his 
 own sinfulness, "I have heard of thee by the hearing of the 
 ear" — I have heard of thy purity and justice in driving fallen 
 man out of paradise, and bringing a deluge of waters on the 
 world of the ungodly, " but now mine eye seeth thee" — I 
 behold these perfections of thine in illustrious exercise, where- 
 fore I abhor myself, and repent in dust emd ashes — by the 
 sight before me I discover my pollution and exposure to thy 
 wrath, and fall down in the dust at thy feet with the deepest 
 self-loathing and penitence. 
 
 When Moses stood in safety, with the nation of Israel, on 
 the shore of the Red Sea, and beheld the divided waters re- 
 turning over the host of Pharaoh — when he saw the manna 
 
SERMON IV. 
 
 raining down from heaven, and the water gushing from the 
 rock of the desert — and especially, when, after the wander- 
 ings of forty years, he ascended a mountain on the bank of 
 Jordan, and looked over the verdant hills and valleys of the 
 good land beyond, how justly might he have said to the God 
 of Abraham, and Isaac, and Jacob, in view of the goodness 
 and faithfulness manifest in the fulfilment of his promises, 
 and in view of his own unbelief and reluctance toward the 
 appointed service of Heaven, " I have heard of thee by the 
 hearing of the ear, but now min€ eye seeth thee ; wherefore 
 I abhor myself, and repent in dust and ashes." 
 
 Had Peter stood before the dying Son of God on the hill 
 of Calvar}% and amid the sympathetic changes of nature — the 
 fading sun, the quaking earth, the rending rocks, the opening 
 graves, and the rising dead — had heard the exclamation, It 
 is finished, and had understood its mighty import, in its bear- 
 ing on the divine government, and on the endless state of 
 myriads of its subjects, with what an emphasis of meaning 
 might he have cried out to the God of heaven, in view of the 
 infinite wisdom, justice, mercy, and faithfulness, all displayed 
 in living characters before him, and in view of his own aggra- 
 vated vileness, "I have heard of thee by the hearing of the ear, 
 but now mine eye seeth thee ; wherefore I abhor myself 
 and repent in dust and ashes." 
 
 It was under circumstances, exhibiting, in some degree like 
 those now enumerated, the attributes of the divine Being, 
 that Job uttered the words of the text. 
 
 By a rapid series of judgments he had been stript of his 
 children and his possessions, afflicted with a painful and loath- 
 some disease, and deprived of the light of God's countenance. 
 In his loneliness and misery three of his former friends came 
 to commune with him. But instead of comforting him, as 
 might have been expected from their professed friendship, 
 they added a bitterness to his grief, by regarding the peculiar 
 judgments with which he had been visited, according to the 
 common opinion of the times, as designed, not for the trial of 
 
SERMON IV. 
 
 269 
 
 his great virtue, but for the punishment of some peculiar 
 crime, such as fraud, oppression, idolatry, or murder. 
 
 From the secret iniquity and hypocrisy, thus laid to his 
 charge, he declared himself free ; and maintained the doctrine, 
 that the allotments of providence in this life furnish no test of 
 moral character. And the truth was on his side ; since, in 
 the conclusion of the controversy, God says to Eliphaz, My 
 wrath is kindled against thee, and against thy two friends ; for 
 ye have not spoken of me the thing that is right, as my ser- 
 vant Job hath done. His cause was righteous ; yet, be- 
 sides repining under the chastisement of Heaven, and cursing 
 the day of his birth, he sinned in maintaining that cause with 
 too much vehemence and impatience, too much self-compla- 
 cency, too great a regard to his reputation and too little for 
 the honour of his Maker. 
 
 The contest was carried on in this manner with increasing 
 warmth on both sides, till the Almighty, coming in a whirl- 
 wind, breaks in upon it, in a voice of thunder, stopping every 
 mouth at once, and exclaims, with reference to Job, Who is 
 this that darkeneth counsel by words without knowledge ? 
 Gird up now thy loins like a man ; for I will demand of thee, 
 and answer thou me. He then proceeds, through a long se- 
 ries of sublime interrogatories, to bring into distinct view the 
 greatness of his power, and the universality of his kind provi'. 
 dence. He begins with the laying of earth's foundations, and 
 the rejoicing of angels over the event ; then leads the mind 
 onward, over the immensity of his works — through the earth, 
 the ocean, and the air, all peopled with his own dependant 
 creatures — through the elements in all their variety of com- 
 bination and effect, up to the high ordinances of heaven, 
 and the sweet influences of its bright constellations. From 
 every quarter of the creation he collects the scattered 
 rays of divine light of his own transcendent glory, and, in 
 one overwhelming flood, pours them on the trembling 
 mortal before him. At the close of this grand display of his 
 perfections, we find the convicted and penitent man sunk down 
 
270 
 
 SERMON IV. 
 
 into his own littleness and worthlessness. We find him pros- 
 trate at the feet of his Maker, with this confession on his lips — 
 Behold, I am vile ; what shall I answer thee ? I will lay mine 
 hand upon my mouth. Once have I spoken ; but I will not 
 answer ; yea, twice ; but I will proceed no further. I know 
 that thou canst do every thing, and that no thought can be 
 withholden from thee. "I have heard of thee by the hearing 
 of the ear : but now mine eye seeth thee. Wherefore I ab- 
 hor myself, and repent in dust and ashes." As if he had said, 
 men of former generations have borne testimony to thy pu- 
 rity, thy rectitude, and thy benevolence, and the report has 
 reached my ears : these friends of mine have talked of the 
 same perfections in thy character, and I have listened to 
 them ; but now thou hast spoken to my heart, and the eyes 
 of my understanding hast thou enlightened to discern thy 
 glory, which thou hast gathered from all the universe, and 
 caused to pass before me ; wherefore I abhor my ingratitude 
 and unbelief, my proud and repining spirit ; and here at thy 
 feet I repent of all, in the deepest self-abasement. 
 
 Such is the language of penitence, as it appears in one, 
 who had for years been a servant of God ; and such is uni- 
 formly its language at its commencement in the heart of a 
 sinner. Repentance itself is the same thing, at its commence- 
 ment, and at every subsequent period of this imperfect life. 
 It is exercised in view of the same objects, and produces es- 
 sentially the same effects. It is every where the same thing, 
 both as it is felt in the heart, and as it is manifested in the con- 
 duct. 
 
 From these remarks, considered in connexion with the pre- 
 ceding illustrations of the text, may be derived the following 
 sentiment. 
 
 All genuine repentance springs from a clear view of God. 
 
 It is my present design to talie this truth, and carry it along 
 as a test through every part of the work of repentance — 
 through each particular act commonly included in the idea 
 of repentance. 
 
 As preparatory to this examination, it is proper to remark — 
 
SERMON IV. 271 
 
 that, as it respects the knowledge of God, the most which 
 can be said of men, under the blinding influence of sin, is, 
 that they hear of him by the hearing of the ear. They see 
 him not. Their acquaintance with him has none of the pro- 
 perties, and produces none of the effects, of near and distinct 
 vision. And even their hearing of him has all the faintness 
 and indistinctness of great distance. The report of his 
 mighty acts of justice and goodness, coming down to them 
 through the lapse of time, does not grow clearer and louder 
 from age to age, till it strike in thunder on the ear, and wake 
 up the soul to the recognition of a present God. When the 
 Almighty marches through the land in judgment or in mercy, 
 they hear the sound of his goings as from afar. The procla- 
 mation of his glory, made in his written oracles, and by the 
 living minister of truth, is heard as an idle tale. It dies away 
 on the ear, like an unheeded whisper. Or if it rouse the at- 
 tention, it is but for a moment. The sinner soon relapses 
 into his former listless state, and again hears as though he 
 heard not. But when the deafening and blinding power of 
 sin is removed, men hear and see the infinite God as a being 
 ever nigh them. Yes, my brethren, they see him. To you, 
 the meaning of this language is not obscure ; nor is the truth 
 of the idea doubtful. They behold with admiring eyes the 
 exhibition of his glory — the glory of his character, of his law, 
 of his gospel, and of his universal government. They behold 
 in him all that is vast in power, all that is comprehensive in 
 knowledge, all that is awful in majesty, all that is glorious in 
 holiness, all that is lovely in benevolence, all that is perfect in 
 every excellence ; and the sight cannot but show them their 
 own weakness, their ignorance, and their vileness. Here, 
 under the all-seing eye of God, repentance begins — here, at 
 the discovery of the divine character and glory. 
 
 This brings me to observe, 
 
 I. All genuine conviction of sin springs from a clear view 
 of God. 
 
 Genuine conviction of sin is never manifested by an indefi- 
 nite acknowledgment that we are sinners — that we, like the 
 
ftn 
 
 SERMON IV 
 
 rest of mankind, are inclined to the love and practice of ini- 
 quity. Such an acknowledgment is often made without the 
 least distress — nay, with the greatest indifference, or with the 
 intention of escaping in the crowd, under the general implica- 
 tion of the human family. Such an acknowledgment never 
 costs any sacrifice of inward corruption, or of outward trans- 
 gression. The lips may utter it, and the heart remain as un- 
 humbled as ever. Pride may rankle as deep, and rise as 
 high. The vilest of men may join the multitude in making it ; 
 and, the next moment, turn about and resent, with a revenge- 
 ful spirit, the least word of friendly reproof from another. 
 
 Real conviction of sin, on the contrary, is personal and par- 
 ticular. Its language is, not / am one of a sinful race, but 
 / am the diief of sinners. It is an absorbing consciousness 
 of guilt, which takes full possession of its subject, showing 
 him turpitude in himself, that he can see in no other, because 
 he can see the heart of no other, and making him feel singled 
 out from the mass of mankind as peculiarly obnoxious to pun- 
 ishment. It seals his lips in self-condemning silence, covers 
 his face with confusion, and bows down his spirit with over- 
 powering heaviness. 
 
 The inquiry now is, by what means this subduing sense of 
 guilt is produced — in view of what principles of rectitude. 
 Those of the world are not pure enough, to make the amia- 
 ble moralist feel himself thus vile ; they are not high enough 
 to sink him so low in his own estimation. He may be just 
 what the opinions of the world, the demands of human soci- 
 ety, require him to be. What occasion then for distress and 
 self-accusation ? The world acquits him ; why should he 
 pronounce sentence against himself ? The honest and hu- 
 mane hail him as their brother ; they smile upon him with fa- 
 vour ; they follow him with applause ; they point him out as a 
 perfect example for imitation. Why then should he hide his 
 head, and cover himself with reproaches ? Why should he 
 not walk abroad in the dignity of conscious innocence, and 
 say to every one below him on the world's scale of rectitude, 
 Stand by thyself, come not near to me ; for I am holier than 
 
SERMON IV. 275 
 
 thou ? Plainly because he judges himself at a higher bar than 
 that of human opinion, and by a purer law. He regards him- 
 self, not merely as a member of human society, and under ob- 
 ligation to perform its requirements, but as a subject of the 
 divine government, a member of the great community of in- 
 telligent beings, scattered over the universe, under the do- 
 minion of one Almighty Head, to whom they are all account- 
 able on the same perfect and eternal principles of justice. 
 He looks up to heaven, and sees on the throne a God of infi- 
 nite excellence, and at the sight sinks down into his own 
 worthlessness. He reads in the statute-book of heaven, 
 " Thou shalt love the Lord thy God, with all thy heart, and 
 with all thy soul, and with all thy mind, and with all thy 
 strength, and thy neighbour as thyself ;" — and when this com- 
 mandment comes home to his bosom, enforced by its right- 
 eous sanctions, sin revives, manifests itself in its living malig- 
 nity, and he dies. And well may he despair of receiving the 
 sentence of life from that law, which requires the supreme 
 homage of his heart, and the entire devotedness of all his fa- 
 culties — which requires, that every thought, and feehng, and 
 word, and action, of every day of his existence, be conformed 
 to its perfect holiness, under penalty of death. In such a tri- 
 al, well may he feel, that every sun, which has rolled over his 
 head, can testify many things against him — nay, that he has 
 fallen far short of sinless obedience in every thing, that his 
 whole life calls for the sentence of condemnation. To such 
 a trial he must sooner or later be brought — either in this sea- 
 son of time, while the angel of mercy stands with open arms 
 to receive him, a condemned criminal as he is, from the hands 
 of the Judge, and pronounce his forgiveness ; or in that eter- 
 nity to come, when Justice will rise, and assert her rights ; 
 claim her victim, and hurry him away to execution. 
 
 If, then, my hearers, we would become convinced of our 
 true character, while such a conviction may prove the har- 
 binger of salvation, we must endeavour to obtain a clear dis- 
 covery of the true character of God. If we would know 
 
 ourselves, we must first know him. If we would ascertain 
 
 3.5 
 
274 SERMON IV. 
 
 what we are, we must ascertain what his law reqtiires us 
 to be. We are not to stand here upon his footstool, and 
 judge ourselves by comparing ourselves among ourselves, or 
 by the standard of this world's morality. While we are do- 
 ing this, the judgment of heaven is proceeding against us. Be 
 the opinion of the world concerning us what it may, how will 
 it effect the unchanging character and destiny of eternity for 
 which we are preparing ? We are to stand or fall before 
 another Master. In judging ourselves, therefore, we are to 
 take more elevated ground than that of the world ; we are 
 to go, as it were, to heaven. There is the place of judgment ; 
 there the tribunal is erected ; and there, in the immediate 
 presence of the God of purity and glory, the perfect and ho- 
 ly One, we are to try ourselves by the high standard of heav- 
 en, and then, if ever, we shall exclaim in the fulness of convic- 
 tion, Father, we have sinned against heaven and in thy sight. 
 We are to take our original rank, but a little lower than the 
 angels, if we would see to what a depth we have fallen. Thus 
 may we discover what we are, and what we ought to be, by 
 what we should have been, had we never transgressed. 
 Above all, we are to stand trembling before the heart-search- 
 ing Jehovah, till we see that every corner of pollution within 
 our breasts is naked and open to his eye of infinite purity, if 
 we would feel how unfit we are for an eternal seat at his 
 right hand. We are to contemplate the divine Being on his 
 throne, in the character of a righteous Law-giver and omnis- 
 cient Judge, if we would see our guilt, and wretched- 
 ness, and ruin — if we would be thoroughly convinced that 
 nothing but the grace of the gospel can save us. It .was 
 when Isaiah beheld the Lord sitting on a throne high and hft- 
 ed up, surrounded by the spotless seraphim, crying one unto 
 another. Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts, the whole 
 earth is full of his glory, that he exclaimed. Wo is me ! for I 
 am undone ; because I am a man of unclean lips ; for mine 
 eyes have seen the King, the Lord of Hosts. 
 
 But it is time to observe, 
 
 II. All genuine sorrow for sin springs from a clear view of 
 God. 
 
SERMON IV. 275 
 
 There is a sorrow, which is no part of true repentance ; 
 which is no where conunanded ; and whicli needs to be re- 
 pented of. It is that which is felt solely in view of the vari- 
 ous undesirable consequences of sin — such as the loss of re- 
 putation, health, property, friends, or any other temporal 
 good ; the reproaches of conscience, and the woes of hell. 
 No elaborate arguments are necessary to show that this sor- 
 row is wholly selfish, and therefore wholly displeasing to God. 
 A familiar example will suffice for this purpose. If a crimi- 
 nal, in a court of justice, perceive that the crime, for which 
 he is arraigned, and of which he knows himself guilty, can- 
 not be proved, in consequence of some mismanagement or 
 want of evidence, he may lose at once all regret on account 
 of its commission, in the joy of his anticipated acquittal ; 
 where, on the contrary, if he perceive that, as the examina- 
 tion of testimony proceeds, light is coming in from every 
 quarter to make his guilt clearer and clearer, till all the dark- 
 ness in which he had hoped to escape be scattered and gone, 
 he may feel very poignant sorrow for the fatal deed, while he 
 stands in full exposure in the midst of a thousand penetrating 
 eyes, and hears himself doomed to the suffering and igno- 
 miny of the dungeon or the scaflfold. But is there any virtue 
 in such sorrow ? Does it afford any assurance that the man, 
 if he were again at liberty, would not embrace the first op- 
 portunity for repeating the crime with impunity, or at a risk 
 which in his estimation amounted to impunity ? Can you, 
 my hearers, discover in this sorrow, any thing that is amiable, 
 any thing that is worthy your commendation, of your confi- 
 dence and love ? Do not apostate angels possess it in a high 
 degree ? What wretched inhabitant of the world of despair, 
 is not stung with anguish at the remembrance of the sins, that 
 brought him down to that dreadful abode ? Hell is full of 
 such sorrow for sin. But destroy its gnawing worm, and put 
 out its flames, and sorrow for sin will be felt there no lon- 
 ger. 
 
 Like the case of the criminal at a human bar, is often that 
 of a sinner upon a sick bed. If, from the anxious looks and 
 
276 SERMON IV. 
 
 cautious whispers of his physician, and the half-stifled emo- 
 tions and starting tears of his friends, he perceives that he is 
 about to be given up to death, he not unfrequently, just at that 
 turning point, that fii'st moment of despair, begins, in view of 
 his anticipated summons before the tribunal of heaven, and 
 condemnation to eternal ignominy and woe, to break out in 
 lamentations over his iniquities, in self-reproaches, and cries 
 for mercy, or promises of amendment if again restored to 
 health ; but should the wished-for restoration be granted, be- 
 comes ashamed of his misgivings, laughs at his fears, and 
 gives his sorrows to the winds. It is not sin itself, but the 
 wages of sin, the wrath to come, that is the cause of this dis- 
 tress, which vanishes so quickly, as the day of doom again 
 recedes before his eye, and appears to leave him a long inter- 
 val for sinful indulgence. This transitory distress springs 
 wholly from the dread of approaching punishment. And is 
 there any virtue in fearing to be punished 1 — in hating mis- 
 ery ? — in dreading to fall into the hands of an angry God ? — 
 in shrinking back from the brink of the opening pit ? If so, 
 what shall we say of the horrors of the dying Voltaire, and 
 Paine ? 
 
 Who of you, my hearers, could regard with approbation 
 the man, that should uniformly manifest towards you an un- 
 relenting enmity, till he found that by such conduct he was 
 procuring his own ruin, and should then come to you, not with 
 a melting heait, but with concessions, and exclamations of 
 pretended grief ? Could you feel any complacence in such a 
 mixture of selfishness and hypocrisy? And can any one of 
 you expect that God will look with favour on the man who 
 mourns for sin with a supreme regard to his own private in- 
 terests ? Can such selfish sorrow work any thing but death ? 
 It is not, then, that sorrow required in the gospel. It is the 
 sorrow of the world. It is exercised upon the great govern- 
 ing principles of the world, and therefore will not bear the 
 test of heaven. 
 
 In opposition to this worldly sorrrovv, that which is genu- 
 ine is denominated godly sorrow, because it springs from a 
 
SERMON IV. 277 
 
 clear discovery of the character and requirements of God. 
 The true penitent mourns for sin itself — as an abomination 
 to God, an offence to his infinite excellence, and a transgres- 
 sion of his law, which is acknowledged and loved as holy, just, 
 and good, in all its high claims and dreadful sanctions. Yes, 
 the true penitent acknowledges, and loves, the justice of that 
 law which condemns him. He accepts the judgment of 
 Heaven against himself, with the subdued spirit of an affec- 
 tionate child. How have I sinned against the high and holy 
 One ! This is the burden of his complaint. The various 
 views which he takes of the divine Being, all conspire to 
 humble and break his heart. Now he contemplates him in 
 the character of the righteous Lawgiver and moral Governour 
 of the universe, and now in that of the benevolent Father of 
 one great family of creatures — at one time, he views him in 
 the exercise of unyielding justice ; and, at another, in that of 
 condescending mercy — now he looks on the son of God ex- 
 piring on the cursed tree to save the lost, and now he beholds 
 him coming in the clouds of heaven to judge the quick and 
 the dead, and at every view he smites upon his breast, and 
 cries out with deep contrition, God be merciful to me a 
 sinner. 
 
 The true penitent regards all his sins as offences against 
 God, and is grieved for them on that account. Thus he re- 
 gards even those committed more directly against [his neigh- 
 bour, because God commands him to love his neighbour as 
 himself. The crimes lamented so bitterly by David, in the 
 fifty first psalm, were committed more immediately against 
 the laws of human society ; yet he seems to overlook this ; 
 and the conviction of his criminality before God takes such 
 full possession of his thoughts and feelings, and his whole soul, 
 that he exclaims, against thee, Xhe&only, have I sinned, and 
 done this evil in thy sight. The wrongs of the confiding, and 
 faithful, but betrayed, and robbed, and murdered Uriah, seem 
 forgotten in the all-absorbing remembrance of the violated 
 laws of Heaven. 
 
278 
 
 SERMON IV. 
 
 Such is the sorrow of genuine penitence. It is not the 
 selfish grief of the slave. It is not the chagrin of wounded 
 pride or di>>appointed ambition. It springs not from a sense 
 of self-degradation ; nor principally from any of the unhappy 
 consequences of sin, but from a discovery of the perfections 
 and claims of the infinite Jehovah. 
 
 With this remark, I pass, to observe, 
 
 III. All genuine reformation of life springs from a clear 
 view of God. 
 
 The work of repentance is not complete till it be manifested 
 in its purifying eflects on the conduct — till sin be forsaken 
 and holiness embraced. And how is this to be accomplish- 
 ed ? Though the hypocrite, when the dread of punishment 
 disturbs him, may break off from the commission of open im- 
 moralities, and go through the performance of certain exter- 
 nal duties, yet he seeks only to cover his sins, in order to al- 
 lay his fears ; he does not heartily and unreservedly forsake 
 them. He falls short of thorough reformation, because he 
 begins the work where he should finish it. He attempts to 
 cleanse the streams, while the fountain is left in its original 
 impurity ; and no wonder if it continue to send forth polluting 
 waters, to thwart his utmost exertions. The real penitent 
 knowing that what he cordially hates he can easily renounce, 
 begins the work of renouncing sin, by striving to overcome 
 all internal relish for it. And this he does, because he feels 
 that while men look on the outward appearance, the God, to 
 •w^hom he is accountable, looks on the heart, and judges of the 
 external act by the inward disposition, and therefore regards 
 that as no abandonment of sin, which proceeds not from cor- 
 dial abhorrence of it. The real penitent forsakes all his ini- 
 quities, his vain pleasures, his projects of ambition, his habits 
 of sloth, or hitemperance, or avarice, together with his wick- 
 ed companions and the scenes of his former transgressions — 
 in short he forsakes the broad way to death with all its allure- 
 ments, and chooses the narrow way to life with all its trials ; 
 and this he does in obedience to the high authority of 
 Heaven. 
 
SERMON IV. 279 
 
 The real penitent does not suffer himself to be frequently 
 overcome by some besetting sin, and rest satisfied with plead- 
 ing in his excuse the strength of temptation, or constitutional 
 temperament. He shudders at the thought of retaining a 
 single enemy to prove a deceiver, and in the end a dreadful 
 destroyer. He has no desire to make any compromise with 
 sin, any covenant with death, or any agreement with hell — 
 and because he sees in the Most High every excellence, to 
 support his claim to perfect obedience. 
 
 The true penitent shuns temptation. He never yields to 
 it, with the intention of repenting afterwards, nor does he 
 venture toward compliance with it as far as he thinks he can 
 and preserve the name and appearance of rejecting it. He 
 stops not to catch a taste of the forbidden fruit before he 
 flies — and because he sees, that the Being, with whom he has 
 to do, cannot but regard such conduct as daring mockery. 
 His language at the first approach of temptation is. How can 
 I do this great wickedness, and sin against God ! 
 
 The real penitent forsakes his secret sins ; for never so 
 clearly, as when alone, does he behold the pure and pene- 
 trating eye of God fixed upon him. 
 
 He perseveres in his renunciation of sin. He does not 
 leave it one day and return to it the next. Nor does he suf- 
 fer himself to commit the same transgression again and again, 
 and immediately after each commission fall down on his 
 knees, and confess and bewail it with strong cries and many 
 tears, and then rise with a conscience wholly unburdened, 
 and with the calm self-complacent feeling that his Maker is 
 thus appeased, and that his obligations to him are thus dis- 
 charged — and he dares not do this, because he knows that 
 such an allowed course of alternate transgression and repent- 
 ance must be an abomination in the sight of heaven. 
 
 In the conclusion of this discourse, permit me, my Chris- 
 tian friends, affectionately, but with becoming solemnity, to 
 apply to you, and to request you to apply to yourselves, the 
 test of repentance which has now been presented to your 
 view. Do you feel altogether conscious, that the trial, were 
 it ever so faithfully made, would issue in your favour ? 
 
280 SERMON IV. 
 
 Does your repentance spring from a clear view of God ? — 
 In the first place, does it spring from a clear view of his 
 character ? Do you discover the deep deformity of sin by a 
 contrast with the infinite beauty of his holiness ? — by the 
 light of his glorious perfections ? And is it this contrast, that 
 convinces you of the necessity of repentance ? Is it this that 
 alaj-ms you ; that fills you with grief, and causes you to de- 
 part from iniquity ? Is it the desire to be reconciled to God, 
 and assimilated to his moral excellence, that prompts you to 
 the renunciation of sin ? Is it the high and holy hope of grow- 
 ing in friendship with him, and likeness to him, through inter- 
 minable ages ? And do you dread a state of impenitence be- 
 cause it would deprive you of this happiness ? — because it 
 would remove you farther and farther, through time, and 
 through eternity, from the centre and sum of all perfection ? 
 
 Again ; Does your repentance spring from a clear view of 
 the law of God ? Do you acknowledge its justice, and take it 
 as the rule of your life, in all its extent and strictness, and 
 moiu'n over sin as the violation of its sacred requirements ? — 
 and do you dread a state of impenitence because it is in defi- 
 ance of its righteous authority ? The law of the Lord is per- 
 fect, converting the soul. Have you been turned from ini- 
 quity under its mighty influence ? Have you forsaken the 
 way of transgressors, by following the light of this lamp of 
 heaven ? 
 
 Again ; does your repentance spring from a clear view 
 of the mercy of God in the gospel ? Are you brought to abhor 
 yourselves, and to abstain from evil, by contemplating the 
 price of your redemption, and the magnitude of the work — 
 by gazing upon the height and depth, the length and breadth, 
 of this grand system of divine benevolence ? Does the love 
 of Christ constrain you to deny ungodliness and wordly lusts, 
 and live soberly and righteously in the world ? Is it when you 
 look on him whom you have pierced, that you mourn ? Does 
 the munificence of his everlasting grace make you feel poor, 
 and wretched, and miserable, and blind, and naked, and in 
 want of all things ? 
 
SERMON IV. 281 
 
 Once more ; Does your repentance spring from a clear 
 view of the righteousness of God as your final Judge ? 
 
 God commandeth all men, every where, to repent ; because 
 he hath appointed a day, in which he will judge the world in 
 righteousness. Have you repented because there is a day of 
 judgment coming ? — a day in which the secrets of all hearts 
 shall be revealed, and the hidden works of darkness be brought 
 to light, and the eternal portion of each shall be allotted to 
 him according to the deeds done in the body ? Have you re- 
 pented because a single sin unforsaken will then and there, 
 in the presence of your heart-searching Judge, weigh like a 
 mountain upon the soul 1 Have you repented because it will 
 be a day for the fuller and brighter manifestation of God's 
 glory, and for the grand consummation of his purposes? — a 
 day for the exhibition of his perfections, and the triumph of 
 the principles of his government ? If you have, it will also be 
 a day of triumph to you ; you will hail its dawning with un- 
 speakable joy. Then will all your past knowledge of God 
 appear like that of an infant. It will seem to you, that, 
 through all the years of your existence on earth, you had only 
 heard of him by the hearing of the ear, as the glorious Sove- 
 reign of a distant and invisible world : for then you shall be 
 in that world, and shall there see him as he is ; and from that 
 near view of his glory shall take into your bosoms the fulness 
 of joy. Thenceforth you shall live in the light of his unveiled 
 countenance, partake of his sinless purity, admire the perfec- 
 tions of his nature, and the principles of his government, and 
 chant hallelujahs for the wonders of his redemption. Then 
 shall God himself wipe away all tears from your eyes. 
 
 To such of you, my hearers, as may be conscious that you 
 are impenitent, or may give lamentable proof to others that 
 you are so, I have only to say, that you are at war with a 
 Power, who, in every thing, is infinitely above you. And 
 have you no fears for the termination of such a contest ? Are 
 you prepared to stand it out to the last ? Do you fondly ima- 
 gine that the Most High will never execute his threatenings 
 
 against final ungodliness ? Is he a man, that he should lie ? 
 
 36 
 
SERMON IV. 
 
 or the son of man, that he should repent? Hath he said, and 
 shall he not do it ? Hath he spoken, and shall he not make it 
 good ? Has he no regard for the honour of his law, the ma- 
 jesty of his throne, and the good of his universal kingdom ? 
 
 But your very character of impenitence, no less than the 
 constitution of the divine government, will demand your eter- 
 nal banishment from the presence of the Lord, and the glory 
 of his power. This sentence of banishment will not be exe- 
 cuted as a mere arbitrary act of sovereignty ; for without ho- 
 liness no man can see the Lord. Into the holy city above, no- 
 thing that defileth can ever enter. None but the pure in 
 heart can see God. 
 
 Were an unsanctified being to steal unseen into the midst 
 of heaven's holy worshippers, his own sense of unfitness for 
 their employment would betray him there ; he would throw 
 off the mask and stand exposed to every eye ; and though his 
 presence should suspend the songs of the happy myriads 
 around him, there would be no need that all heaven should 
 rise to cast him out ; no need that every eye should look to 
 the insulted throne for sudden wrath to blaze forth against 
 him ; no need that every voice should call for his banishment ; 
 his own conscience would pass the sentence on himself, and 
 he would feel in his inmost soul the necessity of its immediate 
 execution. He would himself hurry away from a world 
 where " Holiness to the Lord" is written on every object, and 
 where " Holy, holy, holy Lord God of Hosts" is sung and 
 echoed and re-echoed by all the companies of pure and bless- 
 ed spirits. 
 
SERMON V. 
 
 ECCLESIASTES, xii. 1. 
 
 "Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth, while the evil days come 
 not, nor the years draw nigh, when thou shaltsay, I have no pleasure in them." 
 
 It is often the practice of the sacred writers, to express 
 the whole of reUgion by some essential and prominent part 
 of it. They call it " the knowledge of God," " the fear of 
 the Lord," and " the wisdom that is from above." In ex- 
 horting men to become religious, they often think it enough 
 to exhort them to the performance of some one of the essen- 
 tial and prominent duties of religion. For each of these par- 
 ticular exhortations there exists an appropriate season. 
 
 It is because forgetfulness of God is an all-pervading ingre^ 
 dient in human depravity, that the writer of the text stops 
 short with exhorting mankind to remember their Creator — as 
 if this were the whole of their duty — as if it would certainly 
 bring along with it the gratitude, the love, the faith, and the 
 devotedness of the whole moral man — as if these and all oth- 
 er virtues were included in the single idea of remembrance ; 
 and thus have they come to be included in it, in consequence 
 of uniformly existing in connexion with it. 
 
 The text is therefore an exhortation calling mankind to the 
 performance of all the duties of religion. Its specific object 
 is, to excite to the practice of early piety ; and the specific 
 object of the present discourse is to exhibit, to the younger 
 part of my audience, motives to induce them to become pi- 
 ous now in the days of their youth. 
 
 Before entering upon the consideration of these motives, 
 however^ I would observe, that I am aware of the manner, in 
 
284 
 
 SERMON V. 
 
 which sermons addressed to the young, exhibiting their pe- 
 cuHar facilities for obtaining an interest in the salvation of 
 Christ, are received by the impenitent among the aged. They 
 say to the preacher, " You give to our condition a sad, dis- 
 heartening aspect. By exhibiting the advantages for becom- 
 ing children of God in youth, you leave us to infer the disad- 
 vantages for becoming such in old age. In showing to 
 the young the brightness of their prospect, you show to us the 
 gloominess of our own. You put us into the back ground, 
 and bring forward the multitudes of the young to profit by our 
 lamentable situation, and almost to triumph in our shame and 
 misery. You leave us to stumble on in the darkness of ap- 
 proaching despair, and encourage them to walk over us and 
 our fallen hopes, to take possession of the rewards of immor- 
 tality. Surely, say they, we, of all men, most need to hear 
 the language of encouragement, to save us from utter des- 
 pondency, and cause us to make the best of our state and 
 our httle remnant of life. Instead of being told of the obsta- 
 cles in our way, we should be told of every possible facility 
 of which our condition admits." 
 
 To such persons, if there be any such present, it may be 
 sufficient to observe, that, if preaching to the young, on their 
 peculiar advantages for repenting of sin and believing in 
 Christ, make you feel the impediments under which you la- 
 bour, what is so likely, as this feeling, to rouse you to immedi- 
 ate and successful efforts, in the work of your salvation ? At 
 all events, if you are convinced of the truth and importance of 
 religion, and are possessed of common humanity, you can 
 patiently, and even gladly, hear the young exhorted to make 
 sure of the blessing which you have as yet neglected. If you 
 are at all sensible of the multiplied hindrances in your way, 
 you cannot have the cruelty to wish others to be left undis- 
 turbed, till they come to be surrounded by the same. No — 
 instead of this, you will look back, over the waste of years, 
 to the morning of life, and from the borders of the eternal 
 world echo the command of God to the young, " Remem- 
 ber now thy Creator in the days of thv youth, while the evil 
 
SERMON V. 285 
 
 days come not, nor the years draw nigh, when thou shalt say, 
 I have no pleasure in them." 
 
 Among the motives to induce the young to become pious, 
 the first that I shall mention, is, Their susceptibility of re- 
 ligious impressions. 
 
 Youth is particularly the season of feeling. The heart is 
 then comparatively tender ; and the conscience is seldom 
 seared, as it often is in riper years. This tenderness of heart 
 and conscience is not, as the infidel would have us believe, 
 necessarily nor generally allied to mental weakness. It often 
 exists in connexion with the most vigorous intellect ; while it 
 always goes far towards preserving the understanding en- 
 tirely from the darkening and perverting influence of preju- 
 dice. It does not necessarily nor generally receive the im- 
 press of opinions directly from without, instead of receiving 
 it through the medium of an enlightened mind. On the con- 
 trary it serves to keep the mind ever open to conviction. 
 The young are not, like many in advanced life, shielded, and 
 fortified, and armed at all points, against the arrows of truth. 
 The truths of revelation are directed ultimately to the con- 
 science and heart. The understanding must indeed be won ; 
 but only as ground, on which to stand, and push the conquest 
 forward to the moral faculties of the soul. Hence that ten- 
 derness of conscience and heart, so general in youth, renders 
 it a season peculiarly favourable for the reception of divine 
 truth in its all-subduing power. When will the love of Christ, 
 the sufferings of Calvary, the wonders of redemption, the 
 holiness of God and his law, and the glories and terrors of 
 the coming judgment, call forth the tears of deep and cordi- 
 al penitence, if not in the susceptibility of youth ? Will they 
 do it when the man has perhaps reached that hardihood in 
 sin, which renders the heart almost proof against any abiding 
 impressions ? They may ; but it is a bare possibility. And 
 will any of you, my young friends, quiet yourselves in pre- 
 sent impenitence, with the confident expectation, that at some 
 distant period, an increase of the power of divine truth and 
 grace will be put forth, to overcome the increased hardness 
 
286 SERMON V. 
 
 of your hearts ? Will you not rather with a trembling inter- 
 est, seize the advantage of present tenderness of feeling, lest 
 your future insensibility prove the sleep of death ? 
 
 A second motive to induce the young to enter upon the 
 service of God without delay, is, 
 
 Their freedom from long-confirmed habits of transgres- 
 sion. 
 
 ** Can the Ethiopian change his skin, or the leopard his 
 spots? Then may he, who has long been accustomed to do 
 evil, learn to do well." From this moral impossibihty of re- 
 nouncing established habits of iniquity the young are for the 
 most part exempted. Except in some instances of premature 
 depravity, sinful practices have not become so uniform and 
 inveterate, as to constitute a character openly and grossly vi- 
 cious. It is seldom, for instance, that we see a youth of con- 
 firmed intemperance. But leaivng out of the present ac- 
 count those practices, that are denominated vicious, and con- 
 fining our attention to those included in the idea of neglect of 
 Christian duty, and considering the difficulty of overcoming 
 even these, after they have for a long time been persisted in, 
 we shall be furnished with a powerful motive to excite the 
 young to immediate compliance with the requisitions of the 
 gospel. When a man has lived fifty or sixty years in the 
 neglect of prayer, for instance, with how many difficulties 
 will he meet in the commencement of this duty at this late 
 period, especially in its commencement as an act of family 
 worship, in the midst of children whom he never taught to 
 pray by precept or example, never instructed in the doctrines 
 and duties of Christianity, and never restrained from the com- 
 pany and practices of the irreligious. The mental agony of 
 the parent in such circumstances, while he hears, or, with 
 conscience all awake in view of his past life, imagines that he 
 hears, among his thoughtless children, the half-stifled laugh of 
 contempt, and the noise of wearisome constraint, has some- 
 times overcome, for a while at least, his best resolutions, and 
 driven him well nigh to the renunciation of all his hopes of 
 the favour of God and the rewards of his kingdom. This is 
 
SERMON V. 287 
 
 but an example of many like difficulties and trials, from which 
 the young may escape by timely precaution — by beginning 
 at once the practice of universal obedience — before habits of 
 sin become inveterate by long contmuance. 
 
 A third motive to early piety is The happiness attending its 
 exercise. 
 
 The happiness afforded in the performance of Christian 
 duties, and the enjoyment of Christian hopes, is a motive ad- 
 dressed to all of every age. But it deserves to be introduc- 
 ed in this connexion, in consequence of the common idea of 
 thoughtless youth, that there is in the very spirit of religion a 
 gloomy austerity, at war with the cheerful nature of felicity. 
 
 The pleasures of vital religion consist in deliverance from 
 the reigning and destroying power of unhallowed passions ; in 
 a growing conformity to the holy character and perfect law 
 of God ; in the exercise of devout, benevolent, heavenly affec- 
 tions; in the favour of God, and the approving whispers of a 
 good conscience ; in the humble hope of present and ever- 
 lasting forgiveness of sin ; in that settled calm of the soul, 
 which cannot be entirely broken up by any or all of the agi- 
 tations of the world ; and in the sustaining, animating pros- 
 pect of the full enjoyment of God in the midst of his holy and 
 happy family in heaven forever. Who sees any thing in all 
 this calculated to take away from the young, the cheerful, 
 contented spirit of true felicity, and make them a morose, un- 
 social class of beings — unpleasant in society, and miserable in 
 solitude ? What has the world to present you, my young 
 friends, that can for a moment bear the most distant compari- 
 son with these pure, substantial, divine pleasures of the child 
 of God? The mirth of the world is madness while in posses- 
 sion ; and the end of it is heaviness and despair. Is there any 
 thoughtless, riotous mirth in heaven ? Say not that every 
 thing on earth can be turned into vanity and nothingness at 
 once by such a test. No— there are things here that will bear 
 to be thus transferred to that world of purity and glory. 
 These are the graces and enjoyments of vital godliness. Most 
 of them are common in kind, in saints on earth and in saints 
 
288 
 
 SERMON V. 
 
 and seraphs around the throne above. And in this religion 
 of heaven is there not enough to cheer the spirit — to make 
 the bosom swell with the fulness of delight? If the worship 
 and service of Jehovah bow down the spirit and spread over 
 it a settled gloom, heaven must be a world of universal and 
 uninterrupted melancholy ; for its inhabitants rest not day nor 
 night from this worship and service. We know, however, 
 that the inspired writer, who was favoured with visions of the 
 celestial world, gives us the clearest and the highest idea of 
 its raptures when he describes it as filled with humble and 
 holy worshippers. And doubtless the purest and most exalt- 
 ed enjoyment on earth is found in the nearest approach to the 
 adoration and praises of heaven. 
 
 A fourth motive to early piety is. Its power to preserve 
 from the snares of the world. 
 
 When the young come forward upon the stage of active 
 life, they are beset with temptations that try the strength of 
 their moral principles, and in the trial often gain the victory, 
 and procure their ruin. Youth is to an important extent a 
 season of preparation for subsequent life. Who can safely 
 venture forth into the busy world without the guiding and 
 protecting influence of the religion of Christ ? What but this 
 will certainly preserve the inexperienced youth from being 
 led far astray by vicious companions, to the destruction of 
 his character, his peace and that of his friends, and to the an- 
 noyance of society, till he terminate his career in the infamy 
 of the dungeon or of the scaffold? What but this will certainly 
 preserve him from the gulf of intemperance, which every 
 year swallows up the reputation, domestic comfort, health, 
 fortunes, lives, and souls of thousands ? If the restraints of di- 
 vine grace be withheld, who can set bounds to human depravity? 
 Who can say what crime he himself may not be tempted to 
 commit ? These restraints God has not uniformly granted to ev- 
 ery individual of any class of persons, but his own sincere and 
 devoted servants. To become one of this class, therefore, is 
 the only sure way of always enjoying these restraints, and 
 escaping the fatal consequences of their loss. 
 
SERMON V. 289 
 
 A fifth motive to early piety is — The exposure to early death. 
 
 There is no order in death. The eldest of a family, for in- 
 stance, does not uniformly die first, and then the next in age, 
 and so on to the youngest. The whole multitude of the liv- 
 ing, from the man tottering beneath the weight of fourscore 
 years down to the infant of yesterday, are all confounded to- 
 gether, and the arrows of death are flying among them pro- 
 miscuously in every direction. So great a proportion of man- 
 kind never pass beyond the season of youth, that the young, 
 if they would overcome their natural aversion to the naked- 
 ness of calculation on this subject, would tremble at their 
 prospect for a long life, and feel the importance of doing 
 quickly whatever is to be done as a preparation for death. 
 Were all men to live here to the age of fifty, it might perhaps 
 be safe for youth to put off awhile the work of repentance ; 
 but, as it now is, they can do it only at a hazard which the 
 passing hour may prove fatal. 
 
 If a title to a blissful immortality, and the necessary prepa- 
 ration for it, can be obtained only in such a dying world as 
 this, how ought every faculty of the soul to be waked up to 
 immediate exertion, lest the invaluable prize be lost forever. 
 
 A sixth motive to early piety is — The fact that almost all 
 the pious become such in early life. 
 
 It is beyond all dispute that by far the greater part of the 
 followers of Christ become such in youth. Abundant proof of 
 this assertion may be found, by a reference to revivals of re- 
 ligion. Among those introduced, at such seasons, into the 
 kingdom of God, we see here and there a solitary individual 
 of threescore years and ten, and a small number in middle 
 life ; while the rest, forming a very large majority, are in the 
 days of their youth. The young come not one by one into 
 the courts of the Lord, to profess their allegiance to him, but 
 flock together, and crowd the sacred gates. It is from among 
 them that converts to righteousness are multiplied as the 
 drops of the morning dew. The infidel and the man of the 
 world, who in the pride of their heart will not seek after God^ 
 may look at this fact with a triumphant sneer, and regard it 
 
 37 
 
290 
 
 SERMON V. 
 
 as fixing upon the christian faith the charge of fooHshness, 
 and upon its disciples that of enthusiasm ; but what of all this, 
 my young friends, if while they are beholding, and wonder- 
 ing, and despising, they are also perishing, and you are secu- 
 ring your eternal salvation ? Their laughter will soon be turn- 
 ed into mourning, and their triumph into everlasting shame ; 
 when the day of your vindication shall come, and with it the 
 fulfilment of your hopes. 
 
 Though the fact, that most of the children of God become 
 such in early life, be treated with derision by an unbelieving 
 world, it is confidently hoped, that it will be regarded, by the 
 impenitent youth in this assembly, with the utmost seriousness, 
 as having an important bearing on their eternal interests. To 
 youth of this character it is my dirty to say, if you delay com- 
 pliance with the merciful offers of the gospel to some future 
 stage of your mortal existence, the general course of divine 
 providence in filling up the church will then be against you, 
 in addition to the numerous other circumstances, that are con- 
 stantly diminishing the probability that you will ever comply 
 with these offers. By present neglect, you are passing out of 
 the sphere of this course of providence, into the desolate re- 
 gion of exceptions, and risking your salvation on the mere pos- 
 sibility of your becoming one of them, by an extraordinary act 
 of divine interposition. 
 
 Another motive to early piety is — The particular promise 
 of God in its favour. 
 
 The language of God on this subject is, " they that seek me 
 early shall find me." In no part of the sacred volume is it 
 expressly said, they that seek in old age, or in the midst of 
 their days, shall find me. We are indeed taught, from the 
 genera] promises and iijvitations of scripture, that God may 
 be found at these seasons ; but here the subject is left, with- 
 out the addition of pecuhar encouragement in the form of a 
 prominent distinguishing promise. God smiles upon the sea-, 
 son of youth with a peculiar token for good. He takes it out, 
 as it were, from the whole term of human life, gives it a kind 
 of separate existence, places it on higher grounds, spread* 
 
SERMON V. 291 
 
 over it a brighter aspect of hope, and sheds down upon it ex- 
 traordinary manifestations of his favour. This, then, is the 
 time, above all others, for securing an interest in the love of 
 God, and in the salvation of his Son. 
 
 One more motive to early piety is — The obligation of man- 
 kind to give to God the best of their days. 
 
 Under the reign of the Mosaic law, the best of the flocks, 
 and the first ripe fruits of the field, were required by God as a 
 sacrifice to himself. And are not we, with at least equal 
 strictness and propriety, required to consecrate to him the 
 first and best of our affections and services ? Shall we receive 
 all our blessings from God, and in the contented enjoyment 
 of them forget the Giver during the prime of life, when the 
 ardour of our affections and the vigour of our faculties best fit 
 us for his service ? Shall we spend our strength, g«d health, 
 and activity, in the service of the world, and then offer to 
 God our weakness and infirmity ? Will it not overwhelm us 
 with shame and confusion of face to make such an offering ? 
 Will it not be sacrificing to God the halt and the lame ? O the 
 forbearance of Jehovah, that he ever pardons and receives 
 into his favour, a single soul in the evening of life, after a long 
 day wasted, and worse than wasted, in the service of the 
 world ! Our Creator requires, not only the homage of our 
 hearts, but also the active energy of our minds, and the la- 
 bour of our hands, in doing good to his creatures and promo- 
 ting the interests of his kingdom. But how little can a man 
 do for God, who never begins to serve him till the last year 
 of a feeble old age ! Piety implanted in youth is like seed 
 sown in the spring time of the year. It takes deep root, and 
 grows to maturity, and bears fruit in this season of life. Pi- 
 ety implanted in extreme old age is like seed sown in autumn. 
 It springs up, indeed, but bears no fruit, before the winter of 
 death. 
 
 To put off* the work of repentance to the last years of the 
 time allotted to man on earth, looks like an artifice to avoid 
 the trial and self-denial of the Christian course, and yet make 
 sure of its happy end, and its everlastmg rewards — to obtain 
 
292 
 
 SERMON V. 
 
 the crown of triumph without enduring the conflict — to se- 
 cure heaven w^ithout giving up the world. Have any of you, 
 my young friends, the hardihood to treat the God of all your 
 mercies with such indignity, as to serve yourselves during the 
 prime of your days, with the deliberate intention of devoting 
 the poor remainder to him ? If you have one spark of grati- 
 tude, you cannot thus insult the Lord of Glory. No, you can- 
 not. 
 
 But you are bound by every tie of sacred obligation, to 
 consecrate to God, not only the commencement, but also the 
 whole of your existence. You have entered on an endless 
 state of being. Will you not now begin to live for the whole 
 of it ? to live as you would wish to live forever ? that is, in 
 the service and enjoyment of God ? Will you not devote the 
 whole of your immortal existence to the God of your salva- 
 tion ? All is too little, to make any adequate return for the 
 unspeakable gift of a Saviour. Should you now begin to 
 serve him, and continue this service for threescore years and 
 ten in this world, and then rise to the exaltation of the sera- 
 phim around his throne, and serve him in the praises and 
 thanksgivings of Heaven for unnumbered ages, you would find 
 a debt of gratitude remaining, whose long arrears you could 
 never pay, till you had exhausted the treasures of eternity. 
 
 There is still another motive to piety in youth. It is the 
 one brought to view in the text, viz. 
 
 A consideration of the " evil days" of after life. 
 
 The necessary employments and perplexing cares of man- 
 hood render even that a state far less favourable to the at- 
 tainment of piety than that of youth. The young may, indeed, 
 be sometimes heard to plead want of time, as an excuse for 
 deferring the great concern of the soul's eternal welfare. 
 They are so constantly occupied with the vanities of the 
 world, with its dissipating amusements, that they have no 
 time left to be serious and devout, no time to think of God 
 and to serve him. Then what is the prospect, that they will 
 find time for these duties, amid the multiplied employments 
 and anxieties of middle life ? 
 
SERMON V. 
 
 293 
 
 I appeal with confidence to the middle-aged in this assem- 
 bly, to decide this point between them and the young — to 
 say on which side the advantage lies. Ye that have families 
 whose education and government, and whose numerous wants, 
 demand your hourly attention, from morning to night, and 
 whose temporal support, sometimes, in the fluctuations of bu- 
 siness, requires you to rise early, and sit up late, and eat the 
 bread of carefulness, say, had you not more leisure to think 
 of eternity and prepare for it, when you were in the unin- 
 cumbered season of youth ? 
 
 But the " evil days," and " the years which bring no pleas- 
 ure with them," spoken of in the text, refer more particularly 
 to old age — when the body is bowed down with the weight 
 of years and infirmities — and when the faculties of the soul 
 are impaired by disease, or benumbed by the frost of time. 
 Weak, worn out, tottering frames, trembling limbs, dimness 
 of eyes, incurable maladies, — and with these afflictions of bo- 
 dy, sympathetic afflictions of mind, shortness of memory, dis- 
 traction of thought, peevishness of temper, and the imbecility 
 of childhood, are the general consequences of extreme old 
 age. Add to all these things, hardness of heart, blindness of 
 understanding, apathy of conscience, and the irresistible 
 strength of long-continued habits of sin, and impenitent old 
 age will appear shrouded in almost utter hopelessness. O ! 
 it is enough to break the benevolent heart to see an impeni- 
 tent mortal, at the age of four score years, tottering on the 
 brink of the grave, on the verge of the eternal world, and 
 consider how hard it is for one who has so long been accus- 
 tomed to do evil, now to learn to do well ! 
 
 It must be dreadful, my young friends, to drag out the 
 evil days of old age without the supports and consolations of 
 religion — dreadful to go stumbling down the hill of life into 
 the valley of the shadow of death, without a lamp to guide the 
 dim eye along the dreary way, or an arm to bear up the 
 sinking frame — to behold the world receding till almost out 
 of sight, and still no heaven of glory opening to view — to see 
 the shades of night fast gathering round, without any good 
 
39^ 
 
 SERMON V. 
 
 hope of the morning of an eternal day. Now, my young 
 friends, all this misery may be avoided. 
 
 And, now, by all the motives that have been presented be- 
 fore you, be persuaded to take that course which will save you 
 from it. By your susceptibility of religious impressions — by 
 your freedom from long-confirmed habits of transgression — 
 by the happiness of a holy life — by the preserving influence 
 of piety amid the snares of the world — by your exposure to 
 early death — by the alarming fact that almost all the pious 
 become such in early life — by the peculiar promise of God in 
 your favour — by your obligation to give God the best, nay, 
 the whole of your existence — by all the infirmities and disad- 
 vantages of old age — by all these considerations be persua- 
 ded to remember your Creator now. 
 
 By deferring this concern to the close of life, you would 
 resemble the man, who had a journey to perform sufficiently 
 long to employ the whole day, but should sit down to eat and 
 drink, or linger to sport or sleep, and when at last the dark- 
 ness of night was coming on, start up in distraction to set 
 forth on his journey. By such conduct you would resemble 
 the seaman who should never begin to learn the art of guid- 
 ing his ship, till just as it is rising on the last wave to dash 
 upon the fatal rock, or taking the last turn in a devouring 
 whirlpool, aad should then fly to his chart and compass. 
 
 Not long since, a young man in the vigour of health, with 
 the fairest prospect of a long and prosperous life, was thrown 
 from a vehicle, and conveyed to the nearest house, in a state 
 that excited instant and universal alarm for his safety. A 
 physician was called. The first question of the wounded 
 youth was, " Sir, must I die ? must I die ? deceive me not 
 in this thing." His firm tone and penetrating look demand- 
 ed an honest reply. He was told that he could not live more 
 than an hour. He waked up, as it were, at once, to a full 
 sense of the dreadful reality. " Must I then go into eternity 
 in an hour ? Must I appear before my God and Judge in an 
 hour ? God knows that I have made no preparation for this 
 event. I knew that impenitent youth were sometimes cut 
 
SERMON V, 295 
 
 off thus suddenly, but h never entered my mind that I was to 
 be one of the number. And now what shall I do to be sav- 
 ed ?" He was told that he must repent and believe on the 
 Lord Jesus Christ. " But how shall I repent and believe ? 
 Here is no time to explain the manner — Death will not wait 
 for explanation — The work must be done. The whole busi- 
 ness of an immortal being in this probationaiy life is now 
 crowded into one short hour — and that is an hour of mental 
 agony and distraction." Friends were weeping around, and 
 running to and fro in the frenzy of grief. The poor sufferer, 
 with a bosom heaving with emotion, and an eye gleaming with 
 desperation, continued his cry of " What shall I do to be 
 saved ?" till, in less than an hour, his voice was hushed in the 
 stillness of death. 
 
 Who among you, my young friends, can be willing, thus 
 to leave to the mercies of an hour, the vast concerns of an 
 eternal scene ? 
 
 In view of all the motives now set before you, will you not 
 be persuaded to make religion your first and chief concern, 
 that you may be prepared for death whenever it comes — 
 that you may be prepared, should God spare you till old age, 
 to change its evil days into days of happiness, then to " re- 
 new your strength and mount up as on an eagle's wings," even 
 then " to run and not be weary, to walk and not faint." So 
 shall your age be clearer than the noon-day — without a cloud, 
 and bright with the visions of an approaching heaven. Then 
 will the hour of death find the work of life accomplished — 
 and you will have nothing to do, but to bid farewell to friends 
 and to the world with the high triumph of faith or the com- 
 posure of holy and happy resignation, and fall asleep in the 
 arms of your Redeemer, in the full assurance of waking in his 
 likeness on the morning of the resurrection, and ascending 
 with him to the heaven of heavens. 
 
 But, if you will not listen to the voice of heavenly wisdom 
 — if you will break through all this array of motives, and, in 
 spite of them all, live as you list — why go on a little longer. 
 It can be but a little. — " Rejoice, O young man, in thy youth, 
 
S90 
 
 SERMON V. 
 
 and let thy heart cheer thee in the days of thy youth, and 
 walk in the ways of thy heart and in the sight of thine eyes," 
 — give yourself up to the pursuit of vanity ; hurry away from 
 one scene to another of dissipating and riotous mirth ; raise 
 the song of midnight revelry ; make as much of the world as 
 you can ; resist the striving Spirit of mercy ; stifle the rising 
 conviction of conscience ; disregard the entreaties and admo- 
 nitions of pious friendship ; make a mock at sin, and the ever- 
 lasting burnings of hell ; live a few more precious days of 
 grace in forgetfulness of your Creator, " but know thou," — 
 yes, " know thou, that for all these things God will bring thee 
 into judgment." 
 
SERMON VI. 
 
 LUKE, i. 66. 
 
 " What manner of child shall this be ?" 
 
 This question of wondering interest was asked respecting 
 John the Baptist not many days after his birth. It was occa- 
 sioned by miraculous circumstances, that clearly showed him 
 to be the object of peculiar attention from Heaven. The 
 holy character that he was to possess, and the work that he 
 was to perform as a preacher of repentance, had been fore- 
 told by an angel to his father Zacharias, as he executed the 
 priest's office before the Lord at the altar of incense. The 
 language of the angel on this subject is " Thou shalt have joy 
 and gladness ; and many shall rejoice at his birth. For he 
 shall be great in the sight of the Lord, and shall drink neither 
 wine nor strong drink ; and he shall be filled with the Holy 
 Ghost, even from his mother's womb. And many of the 
 children of Israel shall he turn to the Lord their God. And 
 he shall go before him in the spirit and power of Elias, to 
 turn the hearts of the fathers to the children, and the disobe- 
 dient to the wisdom of the just; to make ready a people pre- 
 pared for the Lord." At the time this prophecy was ut- 
 tered, Zacharias was struck dumb, as an attestation of its 
 truth, and a chastisement for his unbelief He had been 
 speechless ever since ; and now at the beginning of the fulfil- 
 ment of this prophecy, immediately after the child was dedi- 
 cated to God according to the covenant of grace, and was 
 named as the angel had directed, his tongue was loosed, and 
 he spake and praised God. Being filled with the Holy Ghost, 
 he poured forth the overflowings of a happy inspiration in 
 praises to God for his great mercy, and in predictions respect- 
 ing the future usefulness of this child of promise, in proclaim- 
 
 38 
 
298 
 
 SERMON VI. 
 
 ing the nearness of Messiah's kmgdom, and announcing the 
 glad tidings of salvation through him by repentance and faith, 
 and thus preparing his way before him. In view of these 
 events, fear came on all that dwelt round about ; and all these 
 sayings were noised abroad ; and all they that heard them 
 laid them up in their hearts, saying, What manner of child 
 shall this be ? 
 
 This exclamation was uttered, or this question asked, res- 
 pecting a child in circumstances remarkably pecuUar ; and it 
 was done with some foreknowledge of his future character 
 and condition. But it was not done, without any reference 
 to the means, by which he was to be made so holy and use- 
 ful. His parents were both righteous before God, walking 
 in all the commandments and ordinances of the Lord blame- 
 less. They possessed the views and feelings, and performed 
 the actions, required of God's children. They loved and 
 •obeyed him ; they trusted in his promises ; they kept his co- 
 venant ; they offered many a prayer of faith for their child ; 
 they dedicated him to God, and brought him up in the nurture 
 and admonition of the Lord, under the influence of religious 
 instruction and religious example. It was by the blessing of 
 God upon these means thus faithfully used, that he' became 
 what he did — a burning and a shining light in the church. It 
 was not in consequence of the miraculous circumstances at- 
 tending his birth. It was through the means of grace faith- 
 fully used, and rendered effectual by the Spirit of God, that 
 he was fitted for the course of sublime self-denial and active 
 benevolence which he pursued. As the same means tnay 
 now be enjoyed by multitudes, and the same Spirit is ready 
 to bless them, we may draw from this example some impor- 
 tant instruction in relation to our duty and our happiness. 
 
 While we look upon an interesting child, the object of ma- 
 ny cares, and many fears and hopes, and the loved one of ma- 
 ny hearts ; and while we think of the part that he is to act 
 on the theatre of life, and of the lot that he is to enjoy or suf- 
 fer, and while we think of the rational and accountable soul 
 in his little frail form of dust, and of the unending existence 
 
SERMON VI. 
 
 299 
 
 which he has commenced, under the government of the great 
 God and Saviour, how can the question fail to rise in our 
 minds, What manner of child shall this be ? When we think 
 of the strong principle of depravity within him, and of the 
 many strong temptations that he must meet, and the many 
 stronger ones that he may, — when we think of the ten thous- 
 and circumstances, under the influence of which his charac- 
 ter is to be formed, for the trial of the last day, and for the 
 retributions of eternity, — and when we think too of the cloud 
 of uncertainty, that to our mortal eyes hangs over his future 
 course, and over his everlasting destiny, how can we help 
 exclaiming with a fearful interest. What manner of child 
 shall this be ? How often, and with what heart-thrilling soli- 
 citude, must the parent ask this question, respecting the 
 helpless and thoughtless little being, in whose life and happi- 
 ness his own are bound up ? Will he be that wise son, who 
 maketh a glad father ? or that foolish one, who is the heavi- 
 ness of his mother ? What return will he make for all the la- 
 bours and sacrifices of parental love ? When in the critical 
 season of youth he leaves his father's house, what report will 
 be from time to time brought back respecting him ? Will it 
 be such as to give higher and higher joy ? or deeper and 
 deeper sorrow ? Will it call for the smiles of delightful ap- 
 probation ? or the tears of heart-rending shame ? 
 
 When the patriot contemplates the child, that is to be a 
 blessing or a curse to society, by spreading around him the 
 influence of a virtuous or vicious life, and thus strengthen- 
 ing or weakening the foundations of government, and helping 
 to build up or pull down its good institutions, it is no unbe- 
 coming anxiety that prompts him to ask. What manner of 
 child shall this be ? When the minister of the gospel contem- 
 plates one of the young immortals of his flock, and calls to 
 mind the two paths through the world, in one of which he is 
 to walk, — and the two characters, with one of which he is to 
 die, — and the two multitudes before the judgment-seat, in one 
 of which he is to stand, — and the two abodes of eternity, in 
 one of which he is to dwell, — with what trembling concern 
 
300 
 
 SERMON VI. 
 
 must he exclaim, What manner of child shall this be ? When 
 he baptizes that child into covenant with the Father, and the 
 Son, and the Holy Ghost, how can he but ask with deep soli- 
 citude. Will the Father adopt him into his holy family, and 
 make him an heir of heaven 1 Will the Son redeem him from 
 death, and present him faultless before the throne of his Fa- 
 ther ? Will the Holy Ghost pour divine light into his mind, 
 and shed abroad divine love through his heart, and implant in 
 his soul the principle of a new life, and cherish it till it rise to 
 angelic vigour ? Will his name be written in the book of life ? 
 Will his voice be heard among the millions, who shall walk 
 in white upon the plains of immortality, and sing together the 
 song of Moses and the Lamb 1 Who can contemplate with- 
 out emotion the childhood of a being, that may one day be 
 exalted to such a height of glory 1 Should we view with 
 breathless admiration the starting of a new planet in the 
 heavens, ordained to move on through years and centuries, 
 till the end of the world ? And can we behold with indiffer- 
 ence, the setting forth of a living and rational being, on a ca- 
 reer, which will be but just begun, when suns and planets 
 shall stop, and will be continued beyond them and without 
 them through eternal ages ? Can we behold, without intense 
 interest, the commencement of an existence, which is to be 
 perpetuated in another world, and there made happy or mis- 
 erable forever, according to the character formed in this state 
 of probation ? 
 
 To the child himself it must be a thing of infinite impor- 
 tance, that his life should be spent in such a manner, as to be 
 followed by a blessed eternity. Every affectionate parent 
 must feel an earnest desire, that the life of his child may be so 
 spent ; and every benevolent acquaintance must feel some- 
 thing of the same desire. It becomes then a question of deep 
 interest, whether any thing in the circumstances of the child, 
 within the reach of human agency, can render it highly pro- 
 bable, that such will be his future course, and what can ren- 
 der it most probable. It cannot be rendered very probable, 
 merely by such circumstances as wealth or poverty, exalted 
 
SERMON VI. 
 
 301 
 
 rank or humble, secular learning or the want of it. Concern- 
 ing the degree of probability that may be inferred from an 
 education strictly religious, there is a difference of opinion 
 among men of different moral principles and feelings. By 
 such an education I mean not one conducted with unkind and 
 unreasonable rigidness, but one conducted faithfully and af- 
 fectionately upon principles purely christian, in distinction 
 from that education, which is sometimes called religious be- 
 cause it is received in a religious community, and under the 
 general influence of the institutions of the Gospel. The infi- 
 dels who have attempted to sunder all the ties of moral obli- 
 gation that bind man to his fellow and to Heaven, and thus re- 
 store the human family to what they call the innocent simpli- 
 city and happy freedom of a state of nature, are quite con- 
 sistent in calling it blind and hard-hearted bigotry to instruct 
 a child in any religion as true, before he is capable of weigh- 
 ing for himself the arguments for and against it. They are al- 
 together consistent in representing it as unjust to the child 
 himself, and to the community of which he is to be a mem- 
 ber, not to permit him to grow up with his mind free from all 
 bias in favour of any religion, that when he comes to maturi- 
 ty, he may choose his own, or reject all, according to the de- 
 cisions of his unfettered reason. They would fain represent 
 it as impossible, for a man to believe sincerely, or to know that 
 he believes upon evidence, what he has been taught from child- 
 hood to regard as unquestionable truth. And they venture 
 to affirm, that to be instructed in the doctrines and duties of 
 Christianity in childhood, furnishes no more ground to hope 
 that the future life will be virtuous and happy, than not to be 
 thus instructed. In proof of this assertion they adduce in- 
 stances, in which the children of Christian parents have bro- 
 ken through all the restraints of a religious education, and 
 rushed onward to the rank of leaders in the way of iniquity 
 and death. It cannot be denied that such instances may be 
 found. It must even be granted that when men become 
 openly vicious in such circumstances, they may sometimes go 
 faster and farther in their career, in consequence of the re- 
 
302 
 
 SERMON VI. 
 
 straints through which they have broken. But are not such 
 instances comparatively few ? Are they not mere exceptions 
 to the general course of things ? — exceptions that only ex- 
 hibit the natural strength of human depravity ? Besides they 
 are far from being in any degree the proper effects of a reli- 
 gious education itself, though they may now and then be ren- 
 dered worse by circumstances sometimes attending it, such 
 as severity or irritability in the temper of parents, or want of 
 consistency and uniformity in their government. It remains 
 after all a general truth, that children educated on Christian 
 principles are more Ukely than others, to be truly virtuous and 
 happy in after life. This cannot be denied without denying 
 the connexion between cause and effect, and leaving us en- 
 tirely in doubt respecting the path of duty, It cannot be de- 
 nied, without turning back the natural course of things in the 
 moral world, almost as much as to turn backwai'd the de- 
 scending streams. It can be denied only by taking the 
 ground, that the great doctrines, and moral precepts, and per- 
 vading spirit of Christianity, are not eminently fitted in their 
 nature, to purify and elevate the character. But this ground 
 is never taken by an enlightened infidel. The ground com- 
 monly taken is, that a course of particular instruction in these 
 doctrines and precepts in childhood, while the tastes and pas- 
 sions are not under the direction of reason, is calculated to 
 produce opposition or disgust towards them. And this opin- 
 ion is embraced by some professed believers in revelation, 
 whose views of natural depravity afford them no adequate 
 cause for such opposition or disgust, whenever it is manifested. 
 In every other subject but religion, and in every kind of reli- 
 gion but the true one, the influence of early education and 
 habit is acknowledged to be great and lasting. 
 
 " 'Tis education forms the common mind ; 
 Just as the twig is bent the tree 's inclin'd." 
 
 This sentiment is universally adopted and acted upon, in the 
 various departments of secular learning and employment. 
 And it must be universally acknowledged that the children 
 
SERMON VI. 
 
 of Hindoo parents and those of Mohammedan parents, uni- 
 formly become in the natural course of things, by the influ- 
 ence of early instruction and habit, the confirmed disciples of 
 their respective religions. And must early instruction and 
 habit go for nothing in Christianity? It is true that they are 
 less likely to be successful, upon natural principles alone, be- 
 cause the doctrines of the Christian system do not, like those 
 of other religious systems, leave the motives and affections of 
 the heart untouched, or only fall in with the natural course 
 of our evil propensities. But is there not some other 
 ground, on which a Christian education might become equal- 
 ly successful ? Though men are never made Christians in 
 heart, merely by a course of early instruction and discipline, 
 independently of the special influences of the Holy Spirit, are 
 they not frequently made so by such a course in connexion 
 with these influences ? And would they not uniformly be, if 
 the instruction and discipline in question were not more or 
 less neglected ? Is there not fulness and firmness enough in 
 the promise of God, to furnish ground for such an opinion? 
 Can any thing be plainer than the language, " Train up a child 
 in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not de- 
 part from it ?" Has not God promised to bless the means of 
 grace, when they are faithfully used ? Has he not by a partic- 
 ular covenant given such a promise to faithful parents in re- 
 lation to their children ? May they not plead that covenant 
 with success before the mercy-seat, whenever they perform 
 all their parental duties ? And when they are unsuccessful in 
 their plea, is it not because they have broken their part of 
 this covenant, by not performing their whole duty ? True it 
 is, that no parent does in fact perform without the least fail- 
 ure his whole duty to his children, and therefore God never be- 
 stows the blessings of this covenant on account of any claim 
 founded on such performance. Here is always room, and 
 room enough, for the mercy of God ; but this mercy is exer- 
 cised with so much regard to the terms of his covenant, as to 
 be generally granted in proportion to the various degrees of 
 parental faithfulness. The question respecting the general 
 
304 
 
 SERMON VI. 
 
 result of early instruction in religion, will bear to be examined 
 by a reference to facts. In one of the towns of a neighbour- 
 ing State, there were admitted into the church, in the course 
 of forty years, five hundred persons, on their giving evidence 
 of being Christians. Of this whole number, more than four 
 hundred and fifty were the children of pious parents ; they 
 were dedicated to God in infancy, and were brought up under 
 the influence of Christian instruction. A multitude of similar 
 facts might be collected from those towns, in which parents 
 and ministers and churches are most faithful, in discharging 
 their duty to the rising generation. But enough has already 
 been said, to furnish an answer to the question respecting the 
 probability, that by any thing within the reach of human 
 agency, the future course of a child may be rendered one of 
 true virtue and happiness. After making all proper allow- 
 ance for peculiar circumstances, we may rest in the conclu- 
 sion that a good degree of faithfulness in the Christian instruc- 
 tion of a child will render it highly probable that such will be 
 his future course. In other words, an education strictly 
 Christian in childhood, affords the best ground to hope for the 
 fruits of piety in after life. 
 
 We come now to several inferences. 
 
 I. We may infer that there is great guilt in neglecting the 
 religious instruction of children. If such instruction, when 
 faithfully given, affords so much ground for the expectation, 
 that it will be followed by a holy life and a happy eternity, 
 then it cannot be neglected without incurring great guilt, — 
 The child is naturally ignorant of divine truth, and needs to 
 be taught. He will probably grow up in ignorance, unless he 
 is taught. And from such ignorance, what but evil can be 
 expected ? What but an irreligious life and miserable death ? 
 The child is prone to go astray, and needs to be led into the 
 path of heavenly wisdom and peace. He will be in imminent 
 danger of wandering from it forever, unless he is led into it in 
 early life. And yet they who should thus teach him and 
 thus lead him, — they who are required to do it, by all that is 
 tender in natural affection, by all that is strong in the claims 
 
SERMON VI. 305 
 
 of society, by all that is high in the authority of God, and by 
 all that is glorious and all that is dreadful in the decisions of 
 the last day, — they neglect to do it. Is there but little guilt in 
 this ? Is there but little to weigh upon the soul in the dying- 
 hour ? Who can look forward without trembling, to the pros- 
 pect of being summoned to the bar of God with such guilt ? 
 
 II. We may infer that it is highly important to give reli- 
 gious instruction to children in the best manner. Much of 
 the efficacy of it depends upon the manner in which it is giv- 
 en. It should be so given as to excite a lively interest in the 
 child, and make on his mind and conscience a deep impres- 
 sion. It should be given affectionately. This is of the ut- 
 most importance. The child must see and feel that it is giv- 
 en from the most tender regard to his welfare. " It should be 
 given with a plainness and simplicity adapted to the capaci- 
 ties of the child. It should be given with a happy mixture of 
 interesting variety and systematic constancy. It must be ac- 
 complished with a mild but decided and uniform government. 
 And it must be enforced by consistency of temper and con- 
 duct, in those by whom it is given. Children are eagle-eyed 
 in discovering the want of such consistency. It should be 
 commenced very early, before the memory is pre-occupied, 
 and evil passions are strengthened by exercise. And it should 
 ever be accompanied with humble and fervent prayer, and 
 conducted from the beginning to the end with entire reliance 
 on the grace of God for success. 
 
 III. We may infer that it is necessary to raise the stand- 
 ard of religious education above what it has been. If an ed- 
 ucation in childhood strictly Christian, conducted with all 
 faithfulness, afford good ground for expecting the fruits of 
 piety in after life, what must we conclude from the fact, that 
 there have always been in Christian lands vast multitudes 
 giving no evidence of piety ? Can we hesitate to say, that 
 such education has not received the attention demanded by 
 its absolute importance ? And ought we not to go further, 
 and say that there has been, in the Christian world, a wrong 
 estimate of its relative importance, among the means of grace? 
 
506 
 
 SERMON VI. 
 
 Has not too little been expected from it ? Have not some 
 good men felt too much afraid, that, by being carried to a 
 great extent, it would prepare children to be afterwards de- 
 ceived, as to their real character in the sight of God, and thus 
 to fill the church with unsanctified members ? Have they 
 not been too much afraid, that it would give encouragement 
 to the opinion, that men may be made Christians by educa- 
 tion, without the special grace of God ? Have not many act- 
 ed under the impression, that youth is the earliest season, in 
 which religion can be expected to appear, and that religious 
 mstruction in childhood must therefore be in a great measure 
 lost ? Have they not been contented with providing for the 
 instruction of children, in the various departments of secular 
 learning, and for the various employments of life, and left 
 them to be taught the truth of Heaven, from the pulpit, and 
 by the Spirit of God, in after years 1 Have not Christian com- 
 munities left far too much to be done by the public preaching 
 of the Gospel ? Have they not in their schools taught their 
 children to burn with the unhallowed fire of lust and pride 
 and revenge, caught from the pages of heathen poets and or- 
 ators, and then brought them to the house of God, to have 
 the evil, that has been done, counteracted and undone by the 
 purifying and humbling and concihating principles of Chris- 
 tianity, as they are published from the pulpit ? In short, has 
 there not been a great error committed by the Christian 
 world, in regard to the religious education of children ? And 
 must not that error be corrected, before the earth can be fil- 
 led with the knowledge of God ? Must not more importance 
 be attached to such education — more relative importance 
 among the various means of grace ? Must not the standard 
 of thinking, and feeling, and acting, on this subject, be raised 
 far above what it has been, in the generations that are gone ? 
 There must be the breathing of a more benevolent spirit, and 
 the circulating of a warmer interest, through the Christian 
 world, before that day will come when all shall know the 
 Lord from the least to the greatest. A work of immense 
 
SERMON VI, 30^ 
 
 magnitude is to be accomplished. And, thanks to the God of 
 truth and grace, it is begun. 
 
 IV. We may infer that the Sabbath Schools for children 
 are eminently worthy of support. The whole object of these 
 schools is to give that instruction, which, when faithfully pur- 
 sued, affords the best ground for the hope, that it will issue in 
 piety here and immortal life hereafter. This system of in- 
 struction is becoming one of the great public systems of be- 
 nevolence peculiar to the age. Its beneficial effects on the 
 parents, and teachers, of the children instructed by it, are of- 
 ten great and lasting, as facts abundantly prove. But I am 
 led by my text, to confine my remarks under this head, to its 
 beneficial effects on the children themselves. In the Sabbath 
 School they are taught their duty to their parents and to so- 
 ciety, and to their Maker and Redeemer. And they are 
 taught from the pure word of God. Their memories are 
 stored with its most important truths. Many of its select 
 passages are thus fixed in their minds while they are tender, 
 and will remain there through Ufe, to check them in the hour 
 of temptation, and to cheer them in darkness and sorrow. If 
 so many in past ages have testified, that texts of scripture, 
 impressed on their memories in childhood, kept them after- 
 wards from sleeping the sleep of death, may we not confi- 
 dently believe that multitudes, in the Sabbath Schools now 
 existing, will testify the same thing, even in eternity to their 
 unspeakable joy ? Or is this too much to hope from the two 
 millions now instructed in the schools ? Do not the several 
 thousands, that have already become hopefully pious even in 
 childhood, furnish good ground for the belief that a multitude 
 more of them will yet become so ? Respecting the effects 
 of the Sabbath School system on the pupils, as members of 
 civil society, we have the testimony of the venerable founder 
 of the system, that out of the three thousand whom he had 
 known, he never met with but one in prison for a crime, 
 though he was for a long time a frequent visiter of prisons 
 and houses of correction. According to the opinion of an 
 eminent writer in England, this system is doing much to- 
 
308 SERMON VI. 
 
 wards changing the intellectual and moral state of society, in 
 various parts of the British empire. And another writer of 
 respectability in Ireland, affirms, that out of the one hundred 
 and fifty thousand children and seventy thousand adults, 
 that have entered the schools of the Hibernian Society since 
 its formation, he had never heard of one, that, after his 
 education there, had been arraigned for any crime. What, 
 then, my brethren, would soon be the moral condition of 
 any province or nation, if every child were now to become a 
 pupil in the Sabbath School, and were there to be in- 
 structed in the principles of the bible, with persevering faith- 
 fulness ? If this were now to be done throughout the con- 
 tinent of Europe, how long would it be, ere the profane 
 fooleries and insufferable oppressions of popery would pass 
 away, and the reign of darkness and despotism come to 
 an end ? If this were now to be done over the whole earth, 
 how many years would elapse, before infidelity, and ev- 
 ery false religion, and slavery, and tyranny and war, would 
 cease from under heaven ? But, to come nearer home ; if 
 every child in this city — or to come nearer still ; if every 
 child in this congregation were to be faithfully instructed, 
 from one year to another, in the Sabbath School, in addition 
 to the instructions of parents in the family, and of ministers 
 in the house of God, how soon should we see a generation 
 rising up in the midst of us, to do honour to the religion of 
 the bible by their dailj' conduct. And how soon too should 
 we find, that the Sabbath School is the nursery of the 
 church. From this beginning, and from what we trust 
 will follow for years to come, we may derive much on 
 which to build the hope that these young immortals will be 
 sanctified through the truth, and thus made useful in Christ's 
 kingdom on earth, and happy at his right hand in heaven. O 
 the bright boundless prospect, that opens before them !-r— to 
 the eye of faith no visionary scene. Ye, that are parents, see 
 you not in this prospect your children walking in the ways of 
 wisdom and peace through the world, and entering the valley 
 of the shadow of death without fear by the light of Heaven's 
 
SERMON vr. 309 
 
 lamp, and flying into your arms on the shores of immortahty ? 
 Or see you not their Httle forms, bending over your early 
 grave, with mute and wondering sorrow, till in the desolation 
 of their hearts they remember their bible, and say, " When 
 my father and mother forsake me, then the Lord will take 
 me up ?" 
 
 Ye, that are teachers, behold in this prospect the reward 
 of your labours. Behold it in the glory with which your pu- 
 pils shine in the realms of light, and in the grateful smile with 
 which they greet you in happy companies. 
 
 Ye, that are members of the church, behold in this pros- 
 pect, a generation rising up, to keep the fire of devotion burn- 
 ing on this altar, when you are sleeping in Jesus. 
 
 Parents, teachers, and members of the church, is there not 
 enough in the prospect before you, to bear you forward with 
 increasing zeal in the work that you have undertaken ? The 
 time given you to perform this work for the young immortals, 
 now on the stage, will be short. Soon will the period for 
 their receiving instruction be gone forever. And soon will 
 it be decided what manner of children they shall be — what 
 shall be their character here, and what their condition here- 
 after. 
 
 V. We may infer that there is much ground to hope for the 
 speedy coming of better days to the church and the world. 
 If the good, flowing from the faithful instruction of children, 
 in the truths of the bible, be as great as represented in this 
 discourse, how wide and lasting must it be, when the full ef- 
 fects of the present extensive and extending system of reli- 
 gious education shall be seen and felt ? These effects are al- 
 ready beginning to appear in the conversion of many parents 
 and teachers and pupils, and in their addition to the multi- 
 tudes that are giving themselves to the high and holy work of 
 spreading the dominion of righteousness and peace over the 
 world. For several years it has been a common remark, that 
 of the number who have been made followers of Christ, a 
 greater proportion than formerly have been youth, and par- 
 ticularly young men. And from this fact it has commonly 
 
310 
 
 SERMON VI. 
 
 been argued, that God designs to increase the number of ac- 
 tive and long-devoted servants, especially heralds of the cross, 
 for the great vrork of evangelizing the human family, in fulfil- 
 ment of the predictions of his v^'ord. But has not the time 
 come, v^^hen we may reason thus from the fact that a far 
 greater number than formerly are brought into the kingdom 
 of Christ in childhood ? Through the blessing of God on the 
 present extending system of religious education, are not ar- 
 mies to be trained up for the conquest of the world ? And 
 is it not by the blessing of God on this system in pagan lands, 
 that a great part of the work of bringing them under the do- 
 minion of Christianity is to be accomplished ? Are not chil- 
 dren already coming to Christ in the ends of the earth ? 
 From the schools in the West and in the East there comes a 
 cheering answer on the wings of every wind. Are not the 
 rising generation to lead the way into the glories of the mil- 
 lenium ? In that promised flowing of the nations to the moun- 
 tain of the Lord's house, will not children be foremost, and 
 press forward with the warmest zeal ? Will they not crowd 
 around the chariot of Zion's King, and attend him in his tri- 
 umphal march, into the New Jerusalem of the latter days, 
 shouting " Hosanna to the Son of David ; hosanna in the 
 highest V 
 
SERMON Vil. 
 
 MARK, xii. 30. 
 
 " Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, 
 and with all thy mind, and with all thy strength." 
 
 This commandment the Lawgiver himself denominates 
 the first of all. It is the first in importance. There is no 
 greater commandment than this, Christ himself being judge. 
 In its whole extent it is exceeding broad. It is the fulfilling 
 of the law. It is the spirit of every other commandment — 
 the substance of all the laws of heaven ; so much so, that obe- 
 dience to any of these laws without love, is no obedience. 
 Are we required to live in the fear of God ? What fear but 
 that of love ? Are we required to offer prayers and praises 
 to God ? What prayers and praises but those of love ? Are 
 we required to devote ourselves to the service of God ? What 
 can this devotedness be but that of love ? The command, to 
 love God with all the heart, is a command that covers the 
 whole length and breadth of the divine requirements. 
 
 This command is first in the order of nature as well as in 
 importance. If we look at the statutes of Heaven as con- 
 nected with each other, and arranged according to the partic- 
 ular subject of each, we shall see this at the head as the life- 
 giving root of the whole. Even the command requiring men 
 to acquaint themselves with God, though it may seem to lay 
 the foundation for this, can hardly deserve the precedence ; 
 since God has made himself known to men so clearly, that 
 they are not obliged to find him out by their own searching, 
 ere they can be properly required to exercise love to him. If 
 there is a time when by a natural necessity, without anyjault 
 
312 
 
 SERMON VII. 
 
 of theirs, they are ignorant of the being and perfections of 
 God, there is a time when no command can reach them and 
 bring them under the obligation of subjects to a moral Gov- 
 ernor. But the command to love him comes in force soon 
 as their moral agency and accountability commence. 
 
 It is first in the order of time as well as in the order of na- 
 ture. It is not a dead letter till some other command has 
 been obeyed. It is the opening communication from the 
 throne of the Most High, to the intelligent creatures of Heav- 
 en and earth. What communication could he give or they re- 
 ceive previous to this ? This is and must be virtually the first 
 declaration, made by the sovereign of the universe, to the 
 subjects of his moral government. He can utter no com- 
 mand before uttering this ; they can obey none before this i^ 
 obeyed. 
 
 With these remarks respecting the rank, which this com- 
 mandment holds in the statute book of Heaven, we are pre- 
 pared to consider its nature, and some of the supposed difficul- 
 ties of obeying it. 
 
 L We are to consider the nature of love to God. 
 
 It may be observed in this place as a general truth, that 
 the religious aftections and exercises of the soul differ from 
 those which are natural, only in their moral character; and 
 this difference lies in the difference of their objects. Fear 
 for instance, is not changed into some other emotion by a 
 change of its object. It does not become no fear, by becom- 
 ing the fear of God instead of man. Its character becomes 
 holy by its being felt in view of the perfections and claims of 
 Jehovah; but the emotion felt is still that of fear with all its 
 appropriate sensations in the heart and fruits in the life. 
 Faith is not converted into some other exercise of the soul, 
 by having God for its object instead of man. The thing it- 
 self is not changed, so as to be no longer faith. It is still the 
 same principle with all its appropriate effects. There is no 
 change but in its object, which gives to it a holy character. 
 So is it with love. It is not converted into some other affec- 
 tion fey being exercised towards God. It only becomes holy 
 
SERMON VII. 313 
 
 by having him for its object. It is still the same principle 
 with its appropriate feelings and actions. 
 
 Where then, let me ask, is the difficulty of understanding 
 what is meant by love to God? Is it difficult to understand 
 what is meant by the love of a child to a wise and benevo- 
 lent parent? I am not speaking of the source of this affection 
 in these two cases, but merely of its nature, as it is exercised, 
 and produces certain appropriate effects on the heart and the 
 conduct. 
 
 This leads me to observe, 
 
 I. Love to God is an affection of the heart. The heart is 
 the seat of the affections, the spring of voluntary action, the 
 source of good and evil in moral character. That God is 
 able to make laws for the government of the heart as well as 
 the external conduct, and that he has a right to do it, and that 
 it is desirable that he should do it, cannot be denied. There 
 are men, however, who seem to deny that he has done it. 
 They regard the command in the text, and other like com- 
 mands, as requiring no sensible emotion of the heart, but 
 merely the obedience of a moral agent, choosing to obey be- 
 cause it is fit in the nature of things that he should do it. This 
 is the sentiment of a high-toned philosophy ; but it is far too 
 cold and speculative to suit the nature and circumstances of 
 mankind. It is wholly unsuited to become a general princi- 
 ple of conduct, while the constitution of the human mind con- 
 tinues what it now is. Besides, if such obedience, as that re- 
 ferred to, be all that is meant by love to God, why is it called 
 love ? Why is it ever called any thing but obedience ? — not 
 the obedience of a melting and glowing heart, but that of an 
 unaffected and calculating judgment '? Why are men, on al- 
 most every page of the bible, required to love God, and to 
 love him with all the heart ? Why should this language be so 
 constantly used, if it has none of its appropriate meaning, 
 but entirely another meaning, which might have been ex- 
 pressed by language equally appropriate ? To say that the 
 word love, in all these instances, means no affection of the 
 
 40 
 
314 
 
 SERMON VII. 
 
 heart, is to destroy the humble believer's confidence in the 
 vv^ord of God. 
 
 There are others that attempt to evade the force of the 
 command in the text, by saying that we love God in his crea- 
 tures. Why then is there added to this command, an ex- 
 press one requiring love to our neighbour, if such love is all 
 that is meant in the former command ? If the sentiment of 
 these men be correct, why may it not be so extended, as to 
 make the love of inanimate nature nothing less than love to 
 God in his w^orks. Then will many an infidel and profli- 
 gate, by merely having taste enough to love the beauty of a 
 summer landscape, the grandeur of the ocean, and the glory 
 of the rising and setting sun, deserve to be numbered among 
 the most devoted friends of God. 
 
 Others there are, that consider love to God no more than 
 an intellectual discernment of the perfections of God, and a 
 corresponding approbation of them in the conscience. But 
 may not this be found in the vilest of men, and even in apos- 
 tate spirits, while reason and conscience are permitted to act ? 
 May not the majesty and loveliness of the divine character be 
 perceived and felt, without being an object of complacency ? 
 May not men, who are themselves destitute of moral excel- 
 lence, discern and approve of equity and benevolence in a 
 fellow-man ? Why then may they not discern and approve 
 of the same attributes, as they exist in their infinite perfection 
 in the character of Jehovah ? 
 
 If any who now hear me still doubt whether love to God 
 be an affection of the heart, let them look at the dying saint, 
 who remembers his God and Saviour, after every earthly 
 friend is forgotten. Let them look at the life of apostles and 
 martjrrs, spent under the full influence of a love, bearing all 
 things, believing all things, hoping all things, and enduring all 
 things ; and then say whether that love was not a deep and 
 absorbing affection of the heart. Let them read the glowing 
 language of Paul and David on this subject, and then say 
 whether any language can express strong emotion if this does 
 not ? If in a heart panting after God, and a soul thirsting for 
 
SERMON VII. 315 
 
 God, there be no strong emotion, where can any be found ? 
 I would not be thought to intimate, that this fei'\'ent language 
 must be adopted in its full extent, before a man can rightly 
 think that he has any love to God. But if love be sincere, it 
 will prompt to language possessing a similarity to this, pro- 
 portioned in some degree to the strength of that love. 
 
 2. A knowledge of the true character of God is necessary 
 to the existence of love to him. We may not be able to de- 
 termine how extensive or how clear this knowledge must be. 
 A child may love God, while he knows but little more of God 
 than his existence, his goodness and holiness, and his univer- 
 sal providence, and while his conceptions of these things are 
 very imperfect and indistinct. But it may be affirmed with- 
 out hesitation that some apprehension of the real character 
 of God is necessary to the exercise of that holy love spoken 
 of in the text. How can we love an unknown God ? or what 
 will it avail us, to love an imaginaiy being, whom we may 
 call God, and to whom we may give only such attributes as 
 suit our depraved nature, and leave us at ease in sin ? It is 
 the only living and true God — the God of the bible — that we 
 are required to love. Can we then comply with this require- 
 ment by loving some other being, or some phantom of our 
 own imagination ? Or can we comply with it, without some 
 correct conceptions of the divine character ? To know God 
 is so necessary, in order to love him, that we are sometimes 
 commanded to love him by being commanded to know him. 
 
 3. Complacency in the character of God is an essential 
 thing in the nature of love to him. We may love the good 
 received from him ; we may love our own happiness su- 
 premely ; but we cannot love God himself, without taking de- 
 light in contemplating the perfections of his character. From 
 all his high and holy attributes there must come to us a di- 
 rect power to excite delightful emotions, just as there comes 
 such a power from the beauty and grandeur of some scene 
 of nature, while we gaze upon it with the certain knowledge 
 that all its loveliness would be the same, though we were not 
 enjoying it. God's benevolence must be the object of com- 
 
316 SERMON VII. 
 
 placency on account of its intrinsic worth in the Sovereign of 
 the universe. His hoHness must be regarded vs^ith pleasure, 
 as constituting in himself an infinite distance from all sin, and 
 securing to his kingdom everlasting protection from the evils 
 of its rage uncontrolled. The spirits of heaven, whose hearts 
 are always beating high with love to God, make his holiness 
 the theme of their praises. They cease not to cry one to 
 another, " Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God of hosts." While 
 their own character continues free from every stain, they can- 
 not but view with delight the infinite purity of the divine 
 character. 
 
 4. Love to God includes a benevolent regard to his hap- 
 piness. God has not made his happiness dependent in any 
 degree on the will of his creatures. He has all its resources 
 within himself — resources that are illimitable in greatness and 
 duration. But we are required to feel a benevolent joy at 
 the thought of its full and everlasting tide. It belongs to the 
 nature of benevolence, to delight in seeing happiness existing 
 according to the capacity for enjoying it. How great then 
 must be its delight in view of the happiness of the infinite Je- 
 hovah ! It is benevolent to regard with pleasure the happi- 
 ness, which we have in no way promoted. But we are per- 
 mitted to be instrumental in illustrating that glory, by which 
 God promotes his own happiness. We are required to please 
 God as Enoch did, by exercising faith, and bringing forth its 
 holy fruits. A child gives delight to a parent, by exercising to- 
 ward him the confidence of love, and rendering him the obedi- 
 ence of love. And it is with such conduct in men toward their 
 heavenly Father, that he is well pleased. We are therefore 
 bound to regard the Divine Being with a benevolent love, by 
 delighting in his happiness, and by rendering to him that ser- 
 vice which is pleasing in his sight. 
 
 5. Love to God includes gratitude for personal blessings. 
 To love God for the gifts of his goodness bestowed on us is 
 not inconsistent with loving him for his own inherent excel- 
 lence. The gratitude of a holy being is not selfish. The 
 grateful emotions, filling the breasts of angels, that ever live 
 
SERMON VII. 317 
 
 in the light of God's countenance, and drink continually of 
 the pure river of pleasure flowing from his throne, are not 
 waked into exercise merely by the thought of that bliss, which 
 they as individuals receive from him. Their gratitude is a 
 more expansive and disinterested principle. It exists in per- 
 fect consistency with the highest degree of complacency in 
 all the divine perfections. They love God for the intrinsic 
 excellence of his character ; they love him for that benevo- 
 lence, which leads him to cause all things to w^ork together for 
 the best good of the universe ; and they also love him for the 
 favours conferred on them as parts of the whole. True 
 gratitude to God is no more a sordid and contracted aftection 
 in men than it is in angels. We are so constituted that the 
 inherent glory of the Divine Being may be most clearly seen 
 and deeply felt, when with the eye of faith we behold a stream 
 of blessings flowing from it directly to ourselves, and calling 
 for the love of grateful hearts ; just as we have the most vivid 
 conception of the inherent glory of the sun, when we see 
 and feel a stream of its enlightening and warming rays poured 
 down upon us. 
 
 6. Obedience is an essential thing in love to God. This 
 obedience must indeed be that of the heart. No course of 
 external actions merely, can constitute it. It must also spring 
 from the holy principles and motives of the gospel. Such 
 obedience enters deeply into the very nature of love to God. 
 If such obedience be not found in the life, this love has no 
 place in the soul. It is such obedience that Christ speaks of, 
 when he says, " He that hath my commandments, and keep- 
 eth them, he it is that loveth me." Love to God is not an 
 affection of blind instinct. It is not an involuntary aftection, 
 flowing spontaneously from the constitution of our nature, 
 and from oiir natural relation to our Maker. It is the affec- 
 tion of rational beings — moral agents — accountable subjects 
 of the divine government. It is an established principle — a 
 permanent affection — and not a transient passion. Obedi- 
 ence therefore is the proper way, in which such voluntary 
 love must manifest itself.. The good works of a holy life arc 
 
318 SERMON VII. 
 
 as much the necessary fruits of love as of faith. They are as 
 essential to the very existence of the former grace, as they 
 are to that of the latter. 
 
 Again, — .Love to God implies love to the things that he 
 loves. It implies a complacent regard for the truths of his 
 word, and the ordinances of his house — for the church which 
 he hath purchased with the blood of his Son, and for the glory 
 of his own great name. It also implies a benevolent regard 
 for impenitent and ruined men, and excites to constant efforts 
 for their salvation. Who can sincerely love a God of infinite 
 benevolence — benevolence constraining him to give up to 
 death his only begotten Son for the life of a perishing world 
 — and yet feel no compassion for those who are lying dead in 
 sin at the very gate of life, and lying there under condemna- 
 tion, while pardon and the rewards of heaven are proffered 
 to them by the hand of God. 
 
 Once more. — Love to God must be supreme. If it be 
 less than this, it is not that, which God requires, and has a 
 right to require. His command is, " Thou shalt have no oth- 
 er gods before me ;" and he declares that whoso loveth fa- 
 ther or mother more than him is not worthy of him. That 
 his claim to the first place, in the hearts of his creatures, is 
 reasonable, can not be denied by any, who remember what 
 he is in himself, and what he is to them. While his moral 
 excellence surpasses in an infinite degree the united excel- 
 lence of all other beings, it is of all things the most reasona- 
 ble that we should regard him with supreme complacency. 
 And while he does infinitely more good than all other beings, 
 and bestows on us innumerably more blessings, and offers us 
 infinitely greater, is it not reasonable that our gratitude to him 
 should be supreme ? 
 
 That love to God should be supreme, is as necessary as it 
 is reasonable. He cannot be loved at all, unless he be loved 
 above eveiy other object. He cannot dwell in the human 
 breast, unless he reigns there ; and he cannot reign in the 
 breast, where at the same time an idol is enthroned. Love 
 to God must rise above all other affections, and hold over 
 
SERMON VII. 819 
 
 them all its high and holy dominion. It must diffuse its spir- 
 it through all the moral faculties and propensities of the soul, 
 and extend its power to all the principles and motives of ac- 
 tion, and maintain under all circumstances its rightful ascen- 
 dency over the heart and the hfe. 
 
 We come now to consider, 
 
 II. Some of the difficulties supposed to be in the way of 
 exercising love to God, These difficulties respect not every 
 thing that is called love to God, but that view of this love 
 which has just been given — a view in which it is represented 
 as an affection of the heart, and the predominant one where- 
 ever it exists. These difficulties are sometimes thought to 
 render the existence of such love impossible. That they do 
 not, however, may be made evident by a few moments' ex- 
 amination. 
 
 1. Love to God is not rendered impossible by his being in- 
 visible. What is it that we love in one of the most excellent 
 of our fellow-men ? Is it any thing that we can see with our 
 natural organs of vision ? Or is it the moral loveliness of the 
 soul — ^the character of the unseen spirit ? Can we exercise no 
 love for the great and good men of distant countries and of 
 former generations ? Can we retain no love for our friends, 
 whom we have buried out of our sight ? Does all affection for 
 them cease the moment that they are laid in the grave ? Or 
 while they live are they loved only when they are in our pre- 
 ' sence ? If a fellow-man can be loved while unseen, and while 
 separate from the body, and far away from the earth, why 
 can not the invisible God be loved, when he is ever near us, 
 and we know that he is, and when we behold on every side 
 such manifestations of his power and goodness, as are best 
 suited to awaken frequent thoughts of him ? 
 
 If any thing more be wanting to show that it is possible to 
 love God notwithstanding he is invisible, it may be derived 
 from the testimony of a vast multitude, respecting their own 
 experience, confii'med as it is by a corresponding course of 
 conduct. If the declaration of the tongue, confirmed by the 
 whole tenoui' of the life for half a century, can in any case 
 
320 SERMON VII. 
 
 prove the existence of love to a fellow-man, must it not in ten 
 thousand cases prove the existence of love to God ? Have 
 the men, who walk by faith and not by sight, no principle of 
 strong and undying love, to urge them onward through the 
 midst of labours and dangers and sacrifices ? Do they endure 
 all with patience or with triumph, and live as seeing him who 
 is invisible, and do it from respect to the recompense of re^ 
 ward at his right hand, and yet have they no heart to delight 
 in him ? Do they not, rather, while thus believing in him, 
 though now they see him not, rejoice with joy unspeakable 
 and full of glory ? 
 
 2. Love to God is not rendered impossible by his infinite 
 greatness. There are those who call it irreverent or enthu- 
 siastic, to talk of loving the eternal and incomprehensible Be- 
 ing, who sits on the throne of the universe, dwelling in light 
 which no man can approach unto. They speak of the awe 
 with which the soul should be filled by the majesty of God, 
 and the fear which should be awakened by his justice, and 
 perhaps the confidence that should be produced by his vera- 
 city ; but they say nothing of the love, that should be excited 
 by his goodness. It is true that we sometimes read and some- 
 times hear irreverent language on the subject before us — lan- 
 guage in which the infinite greatness of the Divine Being is 
 forgotten. But this does not render it improper to use the 
 language of the Bible, which is both reverent and fervent. It 
 is the language of children of God drawn near to him by 
 the cords of love, and yet held in deep awe by the holiness 
 of his nature and the majesty of his throne. 
 
 Why is it thought impossible for them to feel such love to 
 God ? If we love moral excellence at all, shall we not love 
 it wherever it is seen ? If we love it as it exists in a small de- 
 gree in a child of God on the earth, and as it exists in a high- 
 er degree in a saint in heaven, may we not and must we not 
 love it as it exists in an infinite degree in God himself ? If it 
 is in our hearts to love holiness and benevolence, we can not 
 but love God. 
 
 If the infinite power and majesty of Jehovah did not exist 
 
SERMON VII. 321 
 
 in connexion with infinite condescension, they might render 
 it difficult if not impossible, for creatures of the dust to exer- 
 cise love toward him. But this difficulty vanishes when we 
 are assured that the great and terrible God is also the Fa- 
 ther of mercies to the children of men — that the High and 
 Lofty One, who inhabits eternity, dwells also with the hum- 
 ble and contrite here upon his footstool. 
 
 3. That God is a moral governor does not render it impos- 
 sible to love him. It has already been observed that true 
 love to God is not a natural affection springing from the phy- 
 sical constitution of a human being, like the natural affection 
 of a child for a parent, but is the voluntary affection of a ra- 
 tional soul and a subject of moral government. This love 
 then may be claimed by laws, enforced by such promises 
 and threatenings, as are necessary to furnish the most power- 
 ful motives to obedience. It is true that love cannot be for- 
 ced into the human heart against its will, by all the majesty 
 of the divine law, and all the terrible array of its penalties. 
 But that will may be changed by the power of motives, 
 which are the only medium of influence in moral govern- 
 ment. Where then is the impossibility of loving God be- 
 cause he commands us to do it, when by pouring out upon us 
 and around us all the riches of his goodness he shows us that 
 we ought to do it, and when he has made us capable of do- 
 ing it, and has set before us his own immeasurable loveliness 
 and our everlasting happiness, to induce us to do it ? Will 
 any who go from our world to the last tribunal without love 
 to God, be acquitted there, or in their own consciences, by 
 pleading that love is the free-will offering of the heart, and 
 that they could not exercise it where it was claimed by the 
 solemn prescriptions and denunciations of law ? 
 
 4. That God is just, as well as merciful, does not render it 
 impossible to love him. Is not that a lovely attribute in a Sove- 
 reign, which secures his government from the evils of incorri- 
 gible disobedience, by inflicting the proper punishment of such 
 disobedience ? Shall not the Judge of all the earth do right ? 
 
 and be loved for doing right ? If he were not immutable in 
 
 41 
 
332 
 
 SERMON VII. 
 
 justice, could we feel that tlie interests of the universe are 
 safe in his hands ? And without this feeling of confidence, 
 could we exercise that of love ? I know it has often been 
 said, and correctly said, that the transgressor cannot be driven 
 to love God, by arraying before him the terrors of a righteous 
 judgment, and a world of burning agony and overwhelming 
 despair. But it is equally true, that he cannot be won to the 
 love of God, by the mere force of arguments of kindness mul- 
 tiplied without number. He cannot be won by an exhibition 
 of all the wonders of infinite mercy. If the Spirit of God do 
 not open his heart to receive the truth in love, he can read un- 
 moved the history of redeeming grace ; he can hear unmoved 
 the words of life and immortality ; he can listen without 
 emotion to the groans and cries of the dying Son of God, and 
 see without emotion the world of glory opened to his view. 
 
 Can you not, my hearers, bear testimony to the truth of 
 tliis representation ? Has not the time been, when all the 
 height and depth, the length and breadth, of God's work of 
 redeeming mercy produced no eftect on your hearts ? — awa- 
 ked not one emotion of gratitude, not one feehng of penitence, 
 not one purpose of obedience, nor even one thought of holy 
 admiration ? And are there not some among you, who to this 
 hour are destitute of the love of God, after all that he has 
 done, from one Sabbath to another, and from year to year, to 
 exhibit before you his boundless love ? Have you lived ten, 
 twenty, or fifty years in God's world of heavenly light and 
 hope, and yet never loved him ? 
 
 In the conclusion of this discourse, let me press home this 
 single inquiry upon your consciences and your hearts. Have 
 you been surrounded by the glory of God in his works, as by 
 the light of the sun, all your days ; and yet have not loved 
 him ? Have you been borne along, in the midst of ten thou- 
 sand dangers, by that right hand of his, which rolls forward 
 the earth, and all the worlds of the firmament in their cours- 
 es ; and yet have not loved him ? Has he nourished and 
 brought you up as children, and felt for you all the pity, and 
 watched over you with all the cai*e, of a tender father, and 
 
SERMON VII. 
 
 323 
 
 encircled you and crowned you with parental blessings ; and 
 yet have you never loved him ? Has he set before you his 
 own Son crucified for your sins, and poured out upon you his 
 Spirit, and multiplied your means of grace, and called upon 
 you by motives of infinite weight, and entreated, and com- 
 manded, and promised like a God ; — and yet have you never 
 loved him ? Has he held open for you the gate of heaven all 
 your days, and pointed you to seats among glorified immor- 
 tals, whose songs are all the songs of love, and whose rap- 
 tures are all the raptures of love ; — and yet have you never 
 loved him ? For what then have you been living ? What ac- 
 count can you give of the past ? What hope can you have for 
 the future ? What, O what are your prospects for eternity ? 
 Is there no terror in the thought of spending the rest of your 
 days without love to God, and at death falling into his hands 
 without it ? Is there no anguish in the thought of standing at 
 his bar without it, and lifting up your voices in weeping and 
 wailing, among those who are to be without it for ages with- 
 out end ? Is there terror — is there anguish in any thought but 
 this ? Listen then, ye prisoners of hope, listen to the voice of 
 infinite mercy — " Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all 
 thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind, and 
 with all thy strength." Listen — obey — and live forever. 
 
SERMON VIII. 
 
 ISAIAH, 50. 10. 
 
 " Who is among you that Tearetli the Lord, that obeyeth the voice of his servant, 
 that walketh in darkness, and hath no light? — let him trust in the name of the 
 Lord, and stay upon his God." 
 
 It is an excellence of the sacred volume, that it contains 
 instructions adapted to every variety of human character and 
 condition, and particularly to all the diversified circumstan- 
 ces in the experience of the child of God. While it address- 
 es to all men a general language suited to all as the depend- 
 ant creatures of Jehovah, and the erring subjects of his gov- 
 ernment, it speaks in a more definite manner to each individu- 
 al, according to his peculiar wants. While it calls upon all 
 to repent, and believe in Christ, and obey his commands, it 
 directs the wise man not to glory in his wisdom, the mighty 
 man not to glory in his might, the rich man not to glory in 
 his riches, the poor to be content, the prosperous to be hum- 
 ble, and the afflicted to trust in God. Thus does the Holy 
 Author of truth give to each one a portion in season, an ap- 
 propriate warning or exhortation. 
 
 The passage just read as the theme of the present discourse, 
 furnishes an example of this adaptation of divine truth to the 
 particular wants of individuals, in the case of a child of God 
 during a season of distressing darkness. In meditating on 
 this passage, three things claim our attention — the character of 
 the man spoken of, his particular situation, and the direction 
 given to him. 
 
 Let us contemplate, 
 
 I, The character of the man here spoken of: — "Who is 
 
SERMON VIII. 326 
 
 among you, thai feareth the Lord, that oheijeth the voice of 
 his servant?" 
 
 There are many, who cannot, with propriety, regard them- 
 selves as addressed in this inquiry, for the plain reason, that 
 the traits of character, here marked out and made prominent, 
 are not to be found in them. They give lamentable proof, 
 that they have not the fear of God before their eyes ; and Hve 
 in open and uniform violation of his laws. Though they are 
 surrounded by his presence, and by countless manifestations 
 of his goodness and glory — though they are powerless in his 
 hand, and naked before his eye, and are passing swiftly 
 through their few days of trial on earth to his righteous judg- 
 ment seat in eternity, they can cast off the fear of him, and 
 tell the world by their conduct that they would not have him 
 to reign over them. To such men the word of God brings 
 from heaven, a message far different from that contained in 
 the encouraging exhortation, with which the text is conclu- 
 ded. The inspired prophet, as he contemplates the multitude 
 around him, overlooks men of this description, and searches 
 for those of the opposite character. He enquires for an indi- 
 vidual. " Who is among you, that feareth the Lord, that 
 obeyeth the voice of his sei-vant ?" 
 
 In the fii-st place, who is the man that fears God ? How is 
 he distinguished from others ? By what particular marks may 
 he be known ? What is the habitual disposition of his heart, 
 and the tenor of his life ? What are the governing principles 
 of his conduct ? I speak not now of the man, who is under the 
 dominion of that fear, which is without love, and without en- 
 joyment. I speak not of the man, who, with a heart su- 
 premely devoted to earthly idols, trembles at that power of a 
 jealous God, which is arrayed against him, and can at any mo- 
 ment tear away from him these objects of trust, or make him 
 at all times miserably sensible of their vanity. I speak not of 
 him, who, in the proud spirit of rebellion, and with a supreme 
 concern for his own personal interests, regards the Almighty 
 as the tyrant of the universe instead of the merciful father ; 
 and quakes with dread at the majesty of his throne, only be- 
 
326 5ERM0N VIII. 
 
 cause he cannot overturn it, and has not the heart to bow m 
 submission before it. Nor do I speak of him, who, with the 
 burden of unrepented and unforgiven sin pressing heavily on 
 his soul, and with " a certain, fearful looking-for of future judg- 
 ment" sending to his heart a thrilling sense of present anguish, 
 is filled with terror at the thought of that righteous Being, in 
 whose hands are the destinies of the life to come. The fear 
 of God that reigns in the breast, resembles that of an af- 
 fectionate and dutiful child towards a wise and benevolent fa- 
 ther. It is indeed more exalted, and has in it far more of the 
 awful in reverence, it being raised and ennobled by the infi- 
 nite superiority of its object ; but still it possesses much of the 
 same gentleness of love, and simplicity of confidence. He 
 that lives under the controlling and directing influence of this 
 fear, is not incapable of approaching the mercy-seat with holy 
 boldness in the name of his divine Mediator, and enjoying in- 
 timate communion with God in the various exercises of heart- 
 felt devotion. His fear does not drive him away from God. 
 It does not render God an object unpleasant to his thoughts. 
 And even when it takes possession of his whole soul, it does 
 not banish the light and peace and joy derived from the di- 
 vine presence. It does not diminish these blessings. Nay — 
 it produces the opposite effect. And why should it not, when 
 it becomes deeper in the good man as he grows better, and is 
 deepest in the most eminent saint ? Why should it not, when 
 in its purity it lives and is active in the breasts of glorified 
 spirits, in the world of perfect light, and peace, and joy, be- 
 fore the throne of God, and is most powerful in the highest 
 and holiest of his angels ? Heaven is filled with the fear of 
 God. Not a single being there is deHvered from it ; not one 
 wishes to be. Bright and burning seraphs veil their faces be- 
 fore their King, in token of the profoundest awe ; and over 
 all the multitude of saints and angels, even in the height of 
 their raptures, amid their songs and shouts, there reigns the 
 solemnity of deep and unmingled reverence. No one casts 
 off the fear of God ; and no one is unhappy under its mighty 
 influence. It prompts none to keep at a distance from God, 
 
SERMON VIII. 327 
 
 or to seek a hiding place from his eye, or to escape from the 
 society and the region, in which its power is so great. If then 
 it exists in the sinless spirits above, in connexion with the 
 highest degree of love to God, and delight in him, why should 
 it not exist in the same connexion in the imperfect children of 
 God on earth ? In the latter, indeed, it is often alloyed by a 
 mixture of that slavish dread " which hath torment ;" but, in 
 itself, it is essentially the same in them, that it is in the for- 
 mer. Though it is here called into exercise by some things 
 that are unknown in heaven, such as temptations to sin, and 
 the circumstances attending this state of trial, still it is the 
 same in its nature as a principle of conduct. It springs from 
 a view of the perfections of God, of his right to reign, and of 
 the excellence of his government — from a supreme regard to 
 his authority, to his glory, and to the best interests of the uni- 
 verse, and leads to sincere obedience, and faithfulness in his 
 service. While delight in God has in it all that is tender and 
 ardent in theyeeZmgof love, the fear of God has in it all that 
 is exalted and steadfast in the principle of love." " The fear 
 of the Lord is to hate evil" — and " By the fear of the Lord 
 men depart from evil." 
 
 The man who is habitually under the influence of this fear, 
 — who, in company and in solitude, in his hours of business 
 and of leisure, always remembers his Maker's claims to his 
 affections and services, and is tremblingly sensible of the 
 greatness of that power, the purity of that holiness, and the 
 strictness of that justice, by which he is to be judged at last, 
 is afraid of transgressing, and thus grieving away the Spirit of 
 mercy, and bringing barrenness and death into his soul. He 
 is on the watch against the approach of temptation ; and he 
 is armed to meet the enemy. He walks humbly before God. 
 He walks cautiously amid the snares of the world. He ven- 
 tures not upon forbidden ground, in the spirit of self-confi- 
 dence, nor seeks for opportunities to show the strength of his 
 virtue. He possesses a tender conscience, always awake, and 
 alive to the honour of God. He has a moral sensibility that 
 shrinks at the sight of evil, and is pained at its approach. He 
 
328 SERMON VIII. 
 
 lives in some measure as seeing him who is invisible. He 
 lives soberly, righteously, and godly. With a heart overflow- 
 ing with holy love and confidence, he goes forward in a con- 
 stant course of watchfulness and active obedience. 
 
 This remark brings us to consider the second grand trait in 
 the character of the man described in the text. " Who is 
 among you, that feareth the Lord, that oheyeth the voice of 
 his servant?" 
 
 If the word servant refer to the prophet, obedience to the 
 commands of God must still be intended in the passage, since 
 the prophet was inspired and commissioned as a messenger 
 from heaven, to declare divine tnath in the name of God. 
 But there is reason to regard Christ as the servant here spo- 
 ken of The fact that Christ had not yet appeared in the 
 flesh, and with his own lips published the requisitions of his 
 gospel, is not an insuperable objection to the opinion that he 
 is the servant spoken of in the text. There are other parts 
 of the Old Testament, in which men are commanded to 
 obey Christ — to love him, and trust in him. In the second 
 psalm, which is often quoted by the evangelists and apostles 
 as written concerning Christ, it is said, "Kiss the Son, lest he 
 be angry, and ye perish from the way, when his wrath is 
 kindled but a little. Blessed are all they that put their trust 
 in him." 
 
 The Son of God made known his truth to patriarchs and 
 prophets by the inspiration of the Holy Ghost, by conversing 
 with them as the Angel of God, and sometimes by speaking 
 of himself in their persons, and declaring his will as if it were 
 their own. To obey this divine Servant of the Lord, is to re- 
 pent of sin, and believe in him as the only Saviour of the 
 soul, and perform all the particular duties involved in these 
 two grand requirements of the gospel. Such obedience the 
 reigning Redeemer has peculiar right to demand, of the lost 
 sinners, for whom he has died. In addition to his high claims 
 upon them as their benevolent Creator and Preserver, he has 
 others of infinite weight, derived from all that he has done as 
 their Deliverer, from the chains of eternal despair. If all the 
 
SERMON Vlll. 320 
 
 righteousness and majesty and holiness of his throne furnish 
 abundant reasons for his claims to their affections and servi- 
 ces, how are these reasons doubled by all the condescension 
 and mercy and dying love of his cross. These reasons com- 
 mend themselves to the conscience of the sinner ; and it is 
 not for want of a just degree of strength, if they do not sub- 
 due the rebellion of his heart. By his very constitution, as 
 a moral and accountable agent he is made capable of render- 
 ing a willing obedience to the requirements of the gospel. All 
 the motives presented in the gospel, are just such, as are 
 best calculated, to win him to obedience. But with all this 
 ability to obey, and all these motives to obedience, he contin- 
 ues to transgress, till he is brought into willing subjection, by 
 the divine Spirit, in the day of his power. He now takes 
 the laws of Christ to be the rules of his conduct. From day 
 to day he does this thing and that, because Christ commands 
 him to do it. He no longer governs his life by the maxims 
 and principles of an ungodly world, but by those which will 
 bear the scrutiny of the Searcher of hearts and the test of 
 the final judgment. It is his high aim, to act always with 
 suprenle reference to the authority of the King of Righteous- 
 ness, and bring every thought and feeling and imagination in- 
 to sweet subjection to the Prince of Peace. He endeavours 
 to live in such a manner, as to have always a conscience void 
 of offence toward God and toward men. The common rel- 
 ative duties of social Hfe, he performs with as strict a regard 
 to the divine commands, as he does those that are more sa- 
 cred to special occasions, and have the Divine Being more 
 directly for their object. And in every thing that he does, 
 he feels his accountability to the great Lawgiver and Judge 
 of the universe and his obligation to glorify him. 
 
 Having now before us a brief and general description of 
 the man, who fears God and obeys the Gospel of his Son, we 
 are prepared to contemplate, 
 
 n. His particular situation, as spoken of in the text — " that 
 
 of one walking in darkness and having no light." 
 
 Though the darkness here mentioned, may be considered 
 
 42 
 
SERMON Vlll. 
 
 SO general, as to include any severe calamity or affliction 
 which the righteous have to endure, yet in the language of the 
 text, as a vs^hole, there is sufficient peculiarity, to justify its 
 being applied, with special force, to that state of mind, in 
 which the light of God's countenance is hidden, and the sen- 
 sible manifestation of his presence and favour is withdrawn. 
 To this particular application the present discourse is design- 
 ed to have a prominent reference. 
 
 When a child of God falls into open and gross sin, and 
 then lives in neglect of the duties of the closet and the ordi- 
 nances of the sanctuary, or observes them without the spirit of 
 devotion and without any relish for them, we are not surpris- 
 ed to see him walking in spiritual darkness, without the light 
 of the divine presence, and without the smile of a reconciled 
 Father. This is what we expect to see in such circumstan- 
 ces. This is what we wish to see, as the effect of such griev- 
 ous backsliding. We think it much more in his favour, to 
 behold him cast down in spirit, and enveloped in darkness, 
 during his departure from God, than to behold him cheerful 
 and confident. But the case, here introduced, is not the one 
 contemplated in the text ; for to a man so deeply fallen, the 
 proper direction, instead of being the encouraging one, ' Let 
 him trust in the name of the Lord and stay himself upon his 
 God,' is rather the alarming one. Let him repent, and weep 
 in bitterness of soul, and break off his sins by righteousness, 
 and return unto the Lord, that iniquity be not his ruin. The 
 man spoken of in the text, is represented as ii^ a state of dis- 
 tressing darkness, at the time that his habitual course of con- 
 duct, notwithstanding many imperfections, is such as to show, 
 thai he is living in the fear of God, and in obedience to his 
 requirements. This is not a case introduced by the sacred 
 prophet as a mere supposition. It is one that often exists in 
 real life ; as the private history of good men, in every age of 
 the church, clearly shows. It is found in some part of al- 
 most every example of such history. Many of the most em- 
 inent saints have for a season felt themselves forsaken of God, 
 and left to mourn the loss of spiritual light nnrl enjoyment. 
 
SERMON VIII, 331 
 
 David often laments, in strains of the deepest and tenderest 
 sorrow, the hidings of God's countenance, and the departure 
 of his Spirit ; and Job, at a particular period of his life, when 
 overwhelmed with outward calamities, mourns over his de- 
 sertion by God, as an additional stroke, too heavy to be borne. 
 He cries out in the bitterness of his grief, " Oh that I knew 
 where I might find him ! that I might come even to his seat ! 
 Behold, I go forward, but he is not there ; and backward, 
 but I cannot perceive him ; on the left hand, where he doth 
 work, but I cannot behold him : he hideth himself on the 
 right hand, that I cannot see him." Many remarkable in- 
 stances, of similar desertion, might be adduced from the lives 
 of devoted Christians — such as Baxter, Cowper, Scott, Brain- 
 erd, and Bellamy. Instances of a less striking character are 
 frequently occurring, within the reach of common obsei-va- 
 tion, and within the limits of each particular church. Per- 
 haps, indeed, there are but few Christians, who have been 
 such for any considerable number of years, without suffering 
 some distressing interruption in their enjoyment of God's gra- 
 cious presence, and walking for a time in cheerless darkness. 
 Happy beyond the common lot is the child of God, whose 
 sky is never clouded, and whose path is always enlightened 
 by the Sun of Righteousness. 
 
 Respecting the nature of that spiritual darkness, through 
 seasons of which so many of the heirs of heaven are called to 
 pass in their pilgrimage below, it may be sufficient to remark, 
 that it consists essentially in the loss of that happiness, which 
 springs from the hope of God's present and everlasting fa- 
 vour, and in a deep enduring sense of that loss. In this res- 
 pect, it is the same m all instances ; while, in other respects, 
 it varies, in some degree, according to the various causes pro- 
 ducing it, and the various circumstances with which it is at- 
 tended. Some of these causes and circumstances are, the 
 kind of education, mode of life, constitutional temperament, 
 overwhelming affliction, error in doctrine, strong temptation, 
 the malice of Satan, and the sovereign will of God for the 
 trial of faith. This variety of causes and circumstances re- 
 
332 SERMON VIII. 
 
 quires a corresponding variety of particular directions ; but 
 does not destroy the propriety, nor lessen the importance, of 
 others that are general. Such there are in the sacred volume ; — 
 those that are adapted to every humble and obedient child of 
 God, who, from any cause, and under any circumstances, is 
 Avalking in spiritual darkness. 
 
 This brings us to contemplate, 
 
 III. The direction given to him in the text, — " Let him 
 trust in the name of the Lord, and stay upon his God." 
 
 While the thoughtless men of the world, and even its so- 
 ber moralists, direct the desponding Christian, to seek relief 
 in the noise and hurry of business with its multitude of cares, 
 or amid the exhilarating sights and sounds of pleasure, and 
 while the philosopher directs him to his own resources in the 
 pride of his fallen nature, the inspired prophet gives him the 
 far different direction now before us. While one voice in- 
 vites him this way, and another that, into promised regions of 
 light and joy, and a third bids him stand still and suffer with 
 a stoical apathy, a voice from heaven calls upon him, to look 
 up with holy confidence to the throne of the Most High. 
 Whatever may be the occasion of his sad despondency, let 
 him listen to this voice of love divine, and he cannot fail of 
 finding relief, in the return of his hopes and joys. " Let him 
 trust in the name of the Lord." Let him confide entirely in 
 the power, and Avisdom, and goodness, of his Father in heav- 
 en. Let him believe with all his heart when he cannot see, 
 and love when he cannot rejoice, and serve when he cannot 
 hope. Let him give up himself, and all his interests, into the 
 hands of the great and glorious Jehovah, without a doubt res- 
 pecting the rectitude of his government, or a murmur against 
 the chastisement of his providence, or a fear for the consum- 
 mation of all things in the highest good of the universe. Let 
 him not faint, and sink in despair : — " let him stay himself 
 upon his God." Let him lean for support on the arm of the 
 Almighty ; and cast his whole burden upon it ; and pour out 
 his sorrows before the eye of infinite mercy ; and look, and 
 watch, with anxious longing, for the smile of everlasting 
 
SERMON VIII. 
 
 333 
 
 love. Let him not yield for a moment to the suggestion, 
 that Gk)d has forgotten to be gracious — that he in anger 
 has shut up his tender mercy, and vv^ill be favourable no 
 more. 
 
 Let him trust in that mercy which is free as the light, rich 
 as heaven, and lasting as eternity. While he feels the loss of 
 spiritual comfort, and mourns over it, he surely has no reason 
 to think himself given up to a reprobate mind, and to the hor- 
 rors of unpardonable guilt. Why should he regard his crimes 
 as too great to be forgiven, when he knows that the blood of 
 Christ cleanseth from all sin, and that there are already, 
 among the ransomed and glorified immortals of heaven, some 
 that were once transgressors as vile as himself? Let him 
 trust in God in the faithful use of the means of grace. Let 
 him not neglect the bible, as a sealed book ; nor open it only 
 to find bitter things against himself Let him not close his 
 eyes against every ray of light, and turn a deaf ear to every 
 word of consolation. Let him not envelope himself in a 
 thicker cloud, and increase his distance from the Sun of 
 Righteousness, by shutting himself away from the privileges 
 of Christian intercourse and public worship. Let him not re- 
 fuse to come to the consecrated table of the Lord, from the 
 fear of a fatal unworthiness. In his attendance to the means 
 of grace, and the duties of religion, let him be governed by 
 principle instead of feeling. Let him not cease to pray, 
 when he feels no delight in prayer. On the contrary, let him 
 pray with more fervency and perseverance, till his heart 
 grows warm, and his importunity prevails. The devotions 
 of the closet, and the services and ordinances of the sanctu- 
 ary, he is not at liberty to neglect, because he has lost for a 
 while the sensible manifestation of the divine blessing. His 
 course is marked out for him by the hand of God ; and, in 
 that must he walk without fainting or wandering. No dark- 
 ness that he may find, no coldness that he may feel, no want 
 of enjoyment that he may experience, can justify him in de 
 parting from it. 
 
334 SERMON VIII. 
 
 Finally, — Let him trust in God in a course of active be- 
 nevolence. Committing himself entirely, with his own pe- 
 culiar wants and sorrows, into the hands of his merciful Fa- 
 ther, and leaving all there in the forgetfulness of implicit con- 
 fidence, let him expend his thoughts, and feelings, and time, 
 and talents, in supplying the wants and relieving the sorrows 
 of others. Let him diligently employ the passing hours in do- 
 ing good, and forget the past. Let him press forward in pur- 
 suit of hope, instead of looking back for this heavenly com- 
 panion, or idly waiting for her return. She forsook him 
 while he slept, or wandered, or fainted. If he would find 
 her again, let him not run back, and search the ground that 
 he has gone over, but press forward, and double his speed, to 
 regain lost time ; and soon the glimmering of her distant lamp 
 shall greet his longing eye and cheer his benighted soul. Her 
 perfect light shall ere long shine around him, if he stray not, 
 nor slumber, nor grow weary again. Or rather, if he would 
 regain lost hope, let him not make her the direct object of 
 pursuit, but pray and act, and she will come unsought ; the 
 timid angel will then quickly return ; for prayer and action 
 are the wings of hope. 
 
 Let him thus go forward in the path of duty ; and, after 
 the trial of his faith, he shall come forth as gold seven times 
 purified. This remark is warranted by christian experience. 
 An eminent minister of Christ, was once, for a considerable 
 season, in such deep spiritual darkness, as to give up all hope 
 of the forgiving mercy of God and the happiness of an eter- 
 nity in his presence. This was after he had been for some 
 years a faithful and successful preacher of the gospel, and had 
 given to all around him the best evidence of his being in real- 
 ity a follower of Christ. He came however to the conclusion 
 that he was a self-deceiver, and should finally be a cast-away. 
 His inquiry now was, What shall I do the rest of my days on 
 earth ? In what manner shall I spend them ? Shall I now 
 give myself up to the pursuit of earthly vanities, and abandon 
 the service of God ? Shall I no longer make any attempt to 
 
SERMON VIII. 335 
 
 glorify him ? What other object can I propose to myself worth 
 living for ? Will it not be at least as well for me in the end, 
 to continue steadfast through life in his service, as to desert 
 it for the service of Satan ? My resolution then is formed — 
 I will preach the gospel faithfully till death, and leave the 
 eternal interests of my soul in the hands of God, and then if 
 I go down to hell, I shall have the satisfaction of looking up- 
 ward and seeing others going to heaven, who were directed 
 thither by my hand. In consequence of his acting in accor- 
 dance with this resolution, his darkness soon vanished, and 
 light divine broke in upon his soul. But if in the case of any 
 desponding saint this happy result be long delayed, let him 
 not cease to trust in the wisdom, rectitude, and infinite bene- 
 volence of God, Let him trust and trust till death. Let his 
 constant language be, " Though he slay me, yet will I trust 
 in him" — though he strip me of every earthly good, and then 
 hide his face from me, yet " why art thou cast down, O my 
 soul ? why art thou disquieted in me ? Hope thou in God, 
 for I shall yet praise him for the help of his countenance." — 
 Let him take to his heart the consolation of the full assurance, 
 that whatever may become of him, there will always be a 
 God — there will always be a God of goodness and glory, on 
 the throne of the universe ; and he will always have an innu- 
 merable company of holy and happy beings, to live in 
 his presence, enjoy his smiles, perform his commands, 
 and sing his praises. I would not, for the world, lift my fin- 
 ger against the government of such a God; — no, I would not, 
 though it were to raise me to the rank of an archangel. Let 
 God reign ; let his will be done ; let his name be glorified ; 
 and it is enough. 
 
 If such be the language and spirit of the Christian in the 
 time of darkness, he will soon be brought into a region of 
 light — he will have light through his pilgrimage below, and 
 light at the end, in the dark valley of the shadow of death ; 
 or if not, let him trust in God entirely, and trust on through 
 every trial till death, without wavering and without abandon- 
 
336 
 
 SERMON VIII. 
 
 ing the service of God, and when this transient night of dark- 
 ness is past, and the morning of eternity has come, and pour- 
 ed full day on all the works and ways of the Most High, 
 he will be satisfied, and more than satisfied, as he awakes 
 in a world of perfect light — in the general assembly of the 
 sons of light — and in the unveiled presence of the God of 
 light. 
 
SERMON IX. 
 
 rviATTHEW, xi. 28. 
 
 " Come unto me, nil 3'e that labour, and are heavy laden ; and I will give you 
 rest." 
 
 These memorable words of Christ were addressed to the 
 great multitude, in distinction from the twelve apostles, and 
 from the scribes and Pharisees. Taken in connexion with 
 the context and other passages, they bring to view the easy 
 requirements of the gospel, and exhibit them in strong con- 
 trast with the burdensome rites of Judaism as it then existed. 
 The service enjoined by the scribes and Pharisees, is here 
 represented as a miserable bondage, w hile that of Christ is a 
 happy freedom ; and the text is an affectionate and earnest 
 invitation, to leave their service for his, on account of this dif- 
 ference. " Go not after them," says the compassionate Re- 
 deemer according to the full import of this invitation, " Go not 
 after them, for they bind heavy burdens, and grievous to be 
 borne, and lay them on men's shoulders ; but they themselves 
 will not move them with one of their fingers" — " but come 
 unto me all ye that labour, and are heavy laden ; and I will 
 give you rest ; take m\j yoke upon you, and learn of me ; for 
 I am meek and lowly in heart : and ye shall find rest unto 
 your souls : for my yoke is easy and my burden is lights 
 
 Such is the particular course of reasoning, in which the 
 text occurs as it was originally spoken. But this reasoning, 
 instead of limiting the invitation of the text to that class of 
 persons to which it was first given, clearly implies its exten- 
 sion to all others in circumstances sufficiently similar to ren- 
 der it applicable. Though it vs^as given with primarj^ refer- 
 
 43 
 
338 
 
 SERMON IX. 
 
 ence to those, that were burdened by the ceremonial observ- 
 ances, imposed with intolerable severity by the hypocritical 
 scribes and Pharisees, yet the nature of it, viewed in connex- 
 ion with the character and divine mission of its Author, leaves 
 no room to doubt, that it may be extended as far as any oc- 
 casion for it is to be found among the children of men. But 
 where shall we look, to find no occasion for it ? Where shall 
 we look for the persons, to whom it cannot with propriety be 
 addressed 1 If there be any, who have no burden of grief or 
 of guilt to be removed, no wounds of the heart to be healed, 
 no tumult of contending passions to be hushed to peace, no 
 tears to be wiped away, no sins to be forgiven, and no soul 
 to be saved, they have no need to listen to this invitation. 
 They can lose nothing by turning a deaf ear to it. They can 
 gain nothing by accepting it. Indeed they cannot accept it. 
 If there be any in this house, who have no need of divine 
 light, to guide them through this wilderness, and through the 
 dark valley at the end ; and no need of divine strength, to 
 sustain them under the weight of earthly trials, to deliver them 
 from spiritual foes, and give them the victory in the hour of 
 death ; and no need of divine grace, to procure their justifica- 
 tion at the judgment of the great day, and introduce them into 
 the abodes of endless rest, I may venture to say of such, that 
 the invitation before us is no message from God to them. 
 The Saviour is not now speaking to them. Indeed they have 
 no Saviour. They have no interest in the redemption of the 
 Son of God ; — no place in his heart of infinite mercy. He 
 thought not of them, when he came down from heaven. He 
 felt not for tiiem, when he agonized in Gethscmane. He 
 shed not one drop of blood for them, when he hung on Cal- 
 vary. And when he rose from the dead, and ascended on 
 high, he opened no bright pathway, for them to follow him, 
 from the tomb to the skies. But beings so free from the bur- 
 den of sin, with its present and future miseries, as to need no 
 relief from the divine Redeemer, are not to be found in this 
 assembly, nor in any other that can be gathered on the face 
 of the earth. The invitation of the text mav therefore be 
 
SERMON IX. 339 
 
 given to all the members of the human family; during the 
 whole of their mortal life ; and it is at this time given to all 
 that hear it. On whatever shore the herald of the cross may 
 land, to whatever tribe he may go between the rising and set- 
 ting sun, he may proclaim it on every side in the name of Je- 
 sus ; and it will ere long be proclaimed in every valley and 
 on every mountain of our world, as it is this day proclaimed 
 wherever the gospel is preached. The Son of God will soon 
 lift up a standard for the nations, and call them to himself 
 from the ends of the earth ; as he now stands with open 
 arms, saying in accents of melting benevolence, to those with- 
 in the sound of his voice, " Come unto me, all ye that la- 
 bour, and are heavy laden ; and I will give you rest." 
 
 In further discoursing upon these words, it is my design, 
 to explain the import of the invitation, and the nature of the 
 promise, which they contain. 
 
 I. I am to explain the import of the invitation, to come to 
 Christ. 
 
 This may be done indirectly, by showing in a direct man- 
 ner what it is to comply with it. And though by viewing 
 the subject in this attitude, our attention may seem to be turn- 
 ed from Christ as speaking, and fixed on ourselves as hearing, 
 yet the subject may be so viewed with the most immediate 
 interest, since compliance with what we hear is our greatest 
 duty and privilege. 
 
 What then is it to come to Christ ? To answer this ques- 
 tion, is to answer the most important one, that can be asked 
 in our world. It is to tell how depraved and ruined men 
 may obtain deliverance from the bonds of iniquity, and the 
 chains of everlasting despair. It is to tell them by what 
 means they may find that joy of reconciliation to God, which 
 nothing in hfe or death can destroy ; and which will be con- 
 summated in a happiness, great as the soul can contain, and 
 eternity can yield. It is to tell them, what it is to enter the 
 path, and the only path, that leads away from earth and hell 
 to the world of glory. 
 
340 SERMON IX. 
 
 The expression " to come to Christ," hke its equivalent 
 " to follow Christ," in its original and literal use denoted the 
 external act of forsaking home and secular employment, and 
 attending his person in his ministrations of mercy from one 
 village to another. At the commencement of his public life 
 as a preacher, he required this service of a chosen few, that 
 by his constant instructions, he might fit them to go forth as 
 his apostles. But this external act was not even then all that 
 was meant by coming to him. It was only the visible part 
 by which the whole was signified. It implied all that has 
 ever since been necessary to make men his sincere disciples. 
 Whenever it existed alone, it was the shadow instead of the 
 substance. Though Christ declai-ed, "He that cometh to me 
 I will in no wise cast out," the scribes and Pharisees, and ma- 
 ny others, who frequently resorted to him, and accompanied 
 him, from unhallowed motives, were cast out as hypocrites. 
 The phrase " coming to Christ" soon lost a part of its literal 
 meaning, being used to express the act of waiting on his 
 ministry as opportunity occurred, and believing in him as the 
 ^lessiah, Avithout attending his person, as he went about do- 
 inw good, through the cities and villages of Israel. After his 
 ascension it Ixcame wholly figurative, being used to express 
 only the act of becoming a sincere convert to his religion. It 
 is hardly necessary to add, that this has since been, and is 
 now, and ever will be, the whole of its meaning. 
 
 But it is necessary to explain more particularly what is im- 
 plied in becoming a true convert to Christianity, or in coming 
 to Christ in this sense of the term. 
 
 In coming to Christ it is implied, 
 
 1. That we are sensible of our natural distance from him. 
 
 No time can now be spent in proving, that by nature we 
 are in a state of distance from him — in a state of spiritual 
 darkness and death, under the dominion of other lords, giving 
 our supreme attention to other objects, and loving them with 
 our whole heart, — putting our trust in other refuges, looking 
 to other sources of happiness, and devoting ourselves to the 
 service of other masters. The proof of this fact exists on 
 
SERMON IX. 
 
 34i 
 
 every page of the bible, and in the testimony of every con- 
 science. Of tliis fact we can have no sincere doubt. But 
 it is necessary tliat we do more than beheve it, as we do 
 many other facts in the natural and moral world, with which 
 we have little or no concern as probationers for eternity. 
 We cannot be safe in a state of insensibility respecting it. 
 We cannot safely shut our eyes against it, and turn them to 
 some more flattering sight, nor fix them upon it with an idle 
 curiosity, or with the blank gaze with which we fix them on 
 vacancy. We must look upon it with the trembling con- 
 cern, with which we should look on a wound that may never 
 be healed, or on the darkness of a night that may never end, 
 or on the horrors of a dungeon that may never be opened. 
 If it be an undeniable truth, that while unregenerate we are 
 far off from Christ, it is a truth that we must not merely be- 
 lieve ; we must understand its real meaning, and feel its full 
 power. We must be deeply sensible that we are not true dis- 
 ciples of Christ, and heirs with him to an incorruptible inher- 
 itance, merely because we behold the light and breathe the air 
 of a Christian land, and live in the uninterrupted enjoyment 
 of the various means of grace, — nor merely because we profess 
 to be such, and perform some of the outward duties required 
 of such, — nor merely because Christ has died for us, and ren- 
 dered it possible for a righteous God to save us. The strong 
 conviction must be fastened on our minds, that we are natu- 
 rally destitute of the pure and the benevolent spirit of Chris- 
 tianity, and averse to many of its himibling doctrines and pre- 
 cepts, and uninterested in its exceedingly great and precious 
 promises. The glorious views of God which the gospel 
 gives, the holy aftections which it enkindles, and the sublime 
 hopes which it inspires, are not possessed and cherished by 
 us, while we are in the state of unregenerated nature. It is 
 therefore of vital importance, that all our sensibilities should 
 be awake to the solemn truth, that we may be excited to in- 
 quire what we shall do. We shall never begin the work of 
 coming to Christ, till we are trembhngly sensible of our nat- 
 ural distance from him. See our distance we nmst, and feel 
 
342 SERMON IX. 
 
 the guilt and danger of it, or we shall never take the first step 
 in the way to Christ. 
 
 In coming to Christ it is implied, 
 
 2. That we are sensible of our absolute need of him. 
 
 This is the second step to be taken. It is sufficiently dis- 
 tinct from the first, to claim our particular attention. The 
 first may be taken ; and the second may follow, or may not. 
 Infidels, and scoffers, and many others, may be convinced of 
 their distance from Christ, and glory in it, or think lightly of 
 it. They may not feel the need of coming to him. They 
 may be fully persuaded that they are not the real followers 
 of Christ, and yet be not deeply convinced of the absolute 
 necessity of becoming such. They may sometimes discover 
 so much of their guilt and danger, as to acknowledge the ex- 
 pediency of doing it, and still feel not the w^eight of obligations 
 and the impulse of motives, springing from the fact that 
 Christianity is not merely a thing of convenience, favourable 
 to human virtue and happiness, and more so than any other 
 religion, but an exclusive system for the recovery of fallen 
 men, and their deliverance from destruction. If the religion 
 of Christ be of divine origin, it is the only one that is so ; for 
 such it claims to be ; and, coming from the God of truth, it 
 cannot claim to be what it is not. It is a rehgion, not merely 
 convenient for men in time, but necessary for them in eter- 
 nity. If the name of Christ deserve any regard, it must be 
 regarded as the only one under heaven, by which we can be 
 saved. If we come to Christ at all, we must come to him as 
 the only Saviour of lost men. If we come to him for any 
 thing, we must come for eternal life. We must feel, that, 
 while away from him, we are perishing in spiritual darkness 
 and bondage, and that none but he can bring us to the light 
 and freedom of immortality. Sensible of our natural blind- 
 ness and enmity to the revealed system of truth, respecting 
 the dispensation of God towards our world, we must be equal- 
 ly sensible of our need of divine teaching. To sit at the feet 
 of Jesus, and learn of him, is a duty, that we cannot refuse to 
 perform, without remaining in fatal ignorance. To look to 
 
SERMON IX. 
 
 343 
 
 him for the mild graces and exalted hopes of his religion, to 
 make our way through life a way of pleasantness and peace, 
 and to sustain us in the last sinking hour, is a privilege that 
 cannot be neglected, without losing infinite good. The abso- 
 lute necessity of his atoning blood, to provide for the regene- 
 ration of our natures, the pardon of our sins, and the rescue 
 of our souls from merited perdition, must be deeply and per- 
 manently felt. The fullest conviction of this truth, must lie 
 at the foundation of all our views, respecting our state and 
 prospects, as subjects of the divine government. If we over- 
 look this truth for a moment, the light shed on the ways of 
 God to men becomes darkness. If we attempt to reason on 
 our relations to the divine Being, without bringing this truth 
 into the account, we can only reason ourselves into despair. 
 
 That the Son of God, in all the offices which he sustains in 
 the work of redemption, is just such a mediator as the various 
 necessities of men require, must not merely be adopted as an 
 article of our creed. There must be a deep sense of its prac- 
 tical bearing on us as individuals, or we shall never receive 
 him as our prophet to pour divine light on our minds, and our 
 priest to offer sacrifice and intercession for us, and our king 
 to estabhsh within our hearts and over our lives a reign of 
 righteousness and peace. Who will come to Christ, till he 
 feels himself in the utmost need of such a Saviour, as Christ 
 is revealed to be ? Who will come to Christ for salvation, till 
 he is convinced that he is otherwise a ruined immortal ? Who 
 will grasp at the proffered hand of Christ, and cry, " Lord, save 
 me," till he feels himself ready to perish 1 If there remain in 
 our breasts a secret hope, that all will be well with us at last> 
 though Ave never fly to Christ, that hope, however faint it may 
 be, will be enough to keep us from him forever. Away, then, 
 with every such hope ! Perish we must without a personal in- 
 terest in the salvation of Christ. If the ills of a few fleeting 
 days on earth can be borne, can we be delivered from the woes 
 of an undone eternity ? What shall we do without an Almighty 
 Redeemer, when our spirits are separated from our bodies 
 })y a power over which we have no control, are cast into the 
 
344 
 
 SERMON IX. 
 
 hands of our righteous Judge, and are borne into that unseen 
 world, in which we can have no agency in determining, where 
 shall be the place of our abode, and what shall be our em- 
 ployment ? Shall we not stand in the utmost need of Christ 
 to take our spirits to heaven at death, to raise our bodies in 
 glory on the morning of eternity, to appear as our Advocate 
 at the last tribunal, and finally to present us spotless and 
 blameless before the throne of his Father, and cause us to 
 shine forth as the sun in his everlasting kingdom ? If so ab- 
 solute will be our need of Christ hereafter, can we now be 
 insensible to it, and not be in imminent danger of losing all 
 the happiness of an indissoluble union to him, and bringing 
 upon ourselves all the misery of eternal banishment from him ? 
 
 In coming to Christ it is implied, 
 
 3. That we mourn over our natural distance from him. 
 
 We shall come to the Redeemer without any errand, un- 
 less we feel that we have sins to be forgiven, and washed 
 away ; and we shall come equally in vain, if we indulge a 
 disposition to retain, extenuate, or cover them, instead of free- 
 ly confessing them, and lamenting them bitterly, and entirely 
 forsaking them. But all our sins are included in the fact of 
 our distance from Christ. We are just as far from perfect 
 holiness as we are from him. To mourn over the want of 
 holiness, is to mourn over the want of nearness to him. It is 
 to mourn over our natural hatred of the light of his glorious 
 gospel, and disobedience to its requirements, and destitution 
 of his own moral likeness. " Blessed are they that mourn, for 
 they shall be comforted." We shall never come to Christ in 
 sincerity, unless our spirits are subdued with grief in view of 
 our wandering from him. Would the return of the prodigal 
 son have been any thing but hypocrisy or selfishness, unless 
 his soul had been filled with penitential sorrow, for his wick- 
 ed departure from his father '^ What have we to do at the 
 foot of the cross, or before the mercy-seat, but to prostrate 
 ourselves in the dust, and bring down all our lofty imagina- 
 tions, and pour out the sorrows of a broken heart 1 How can 
 we become the followers of the meek and lowly Redeemer, 
 
SERMON IX. 345 
 
 without being humbled and melted in penitence, that we have 
 not always been such ? How can we become his friends, 
 without sincere and lasting contrition for having been his en- 
 emies ? How can we fix on him a look of delight or hope, 
 with eyes that never shed one tear of heart-felt grief for our 
 countless offences against him ? 
 
 In coming to Christ it is implied, 
 
 4. That we put our whole trust in him. 
 
 We must have a full and active belief in the truth of his 
 declarations, respecting things that have been, and things that 
 shall be, which are now beyond the reach of our senses. We 
 must have entire confidence in the suflSciency of that sacri- 
 fice which he has once offered, and that intercession which he 
 makes continually, for the pardon of transgressors. And we 
 must have the same confidence in the power of the Spirit, 
 sent down by him, to give light to the blind, and life to the 
 dead. The firm persuasion, that no one who comes to him 
 shall be cast out, must have an abiding place in our minds. 
 Doubt of his ability and willingness to save to the uttermost 
 must be banished. We must also depend entirely on him for 
 all that is necessary, to secure our personal interest in the 
 blessings of his full and free salvation. What will it profit 
 us, to receive him as a Saviour but in part, by seeking for on- 
 ly a part of the blessings of his salvation, or by depending on 
 him in seeking them all, no farther than to make up some de- 
 ficiency in our own exertions. What will it avail us to look 
 to him for deliverance from the woes of the bottomless pit 
 when we die, unless we look to him for deliverance from the 
 bonds of iniquity while we live ? Of what avail can it be, to 
 trust in him, to take us to heaven hereafter, unless we trust in 
 him to fit us for heaven now ? Or what good can result from 
 attempting, independently of him, to work out a righteous- 
 ness upon natural principles, in order to recommend us to his 
 favour, and dispose him to complete what we have begun ? 
 Can we enter the path of life, and walk onward a while, be- 
 fore we submit to his guidance ? Can we rise half way to 
 
 heaven ; and then cast ourselves into his hands, to be borne 
 
 44 
 
346 
 
 SERMON IX. 
 
 through the other half ? No, brethren ; our trust in the Son 
 of God must be entire, or it is vain. He will be all in all to 
 us, or nothing. The attention of the redeemed on high, must 
 never be divided, between the glory due to him, and that 
 due to themselves. Their song must be one forever. Our 
 present trust in the Redeemer must therefore be single and 
 entire. We are not at liberty even to ask, or to cherish an 
 inclination to ask, whether there may not be some ground of 
 hope, besides that of simple reliance on Jesus of Nazareth. 
 
 In coming to Christ it is implied, 
 
 5. That we give him our whole heart. 
 
 This is what he claims of us ; and this claim, high as it is, 
 cannot be proved unreasonable, while we retain the faculties 
 of moral agents, and he continues unchangeable in the per- 
 fections of his character, and the principles of his govern- 
 ment. He has revealed himself as a Being worthy of all that 
 devotedness of heart which he claims. Obligations and mo- 
 tives of infinite weight press upon us, to call forth all that 
 love of gratitude, and all that love of moral delight, which he 
 requires. He does not require that we love no other being 
 at all. But he requires that our direct love to him be su- 
 preme , and that our love to other beings be in direct love to 
 him, by being exercised in conformity to his will, and with an 
 ultimate regard to his glory, and this is loving him with all the 
 heart. Less than this he cannot require, and be just to him- 
 self, and to the universe for which he acts. Less than this as 
 a living principle we cannot possess, and yet be his follow- 
 ers. He must be to us the chief among ten thousands, and 
 the one altogether lovely. A sweet sense of delight in him 
 must pervade our souls. We must take delight in contem- 
 plating the perfections of his character and the wonders of his 
 redemption, — in holding communion with him, and imitating 
 his example of purity and benevolence. We must delight in 
 his truth, in his worship, in the various institutions of his re- ' 
 ligion, in his people, in the spread of his gospel, and the in- 
 crease of his kingdom and visible glory. Thus will it be 
 manifested that our hearts are fixed on him, and our lives hid 
 
SERMON IX. 
 
 347 
 
 with him in God, and our souls united to him so firmly, that 
 we shall grow into his likeness, and appear with him in glory 
 at his final coming. What shall break the cords of love that 
 have once bound us to Christ ? Nothing here, or hereafter. 
 
 In coming to Christ it is implied, 
 
 6. That we devote our all to his service. 
 
 We are his property by creation ; and all our temporal 
 blessings are the gifts of his goodness. But we are his by a 
 higher claim, founded on the work of redemption. If we 
 would enjoy the eternal blessings of his redemption, we must 
 acknowledge this claim, by making a voluntary consecration 
 of ourselves and our possessions to his reasonable service. 
 We must acknowledge that we are not our own, but are 
 bought by the Son of God with the price of his heart's blood, 
 and are therefore under infinite obligation to present to him 
 our body and spirit as a living sacrifice, and devote to him 
 our time, and talents, and substance. To do this, it is not 
 necessary, that every moment of life, and every faculty of 
 body and mind, and every article of property, should be em- 
 ployed in doing direct acts of service to him in his church ; 
 but it is necessary, that all should be used in that obedience 
 to his various commands, by which he is glorified. Christ is 
 served when he is obeyed. If all that we do, be done in 
 conformity to his will, it is enough. It must be remembered, 
 however, that it is a part of his will, that we should make 
 constant sacrifices and exertions, for the direct purpose of 
 building up his kingdom in the world. Be his followers then 
 we cannot, without a heart to do this. The fruits of repent- 
 ance, and faith, and love, must appear in the various good 
 works of devotion and benevolence, or we are far from him, 
 and are going farther continually, and thus diminishing the 
 probability that we shall ever come to him, and prepare to 
 spend our eternity in his presence. 
 
 What I have to say, respecting the import of the invitation 
 in the text, is now finished. 
 
 II. I am to explain the nature of the rest that is here prom- 
 ised. 
 
348 SERMON IX. 
 
 Only a few prominent things in this rest can now be brought 
 into view. It begins with dehverance from the burden of 
 guilt at the foot of the cross, when the heart is first melted 
 into penitence, and the tumult of doubts and fears is hushed 
 into the calm of faith, and the gentle reign of love is set up 
 in the breast, and the peace of reconcihation to God is shed 
 abroad in the soul. At the foot of the cross, the Christian 
 enters the way of humble and holy obedience to the gospel 
 and runs on and is not weary, and walks on and is not faint, 
 carrying with him a peace of mind, which the world could 
 not give when he dwelt in it, and cannot now take away 
 while he is passing through it. And he finishes his course with 
 the composure of perfect resignation, or in high triumph amid 
 visions of glory. 
 
 In this life the follower of Christ enjoys many foretastes of 
 the rest of heaven. His mind is settled down into a state of 
 entire confidence in the perfections and ways of the Most 
 High, in the wisdom and goodness of his universal providence, 
 and in his power and will to devise and execute apian of gov- 
 ernment, that shall result in the greatest possible good. He 
 finds rest in communion with God, in the exercise of holy and 
 benevolent aflections, in freedom from the tormenting tyran- 
 ny of evil passions, from the stings of an accusing conscience, 
 and from the prevailing fear of death and hell. It is true that 
 he has labours to perform, and trials to endure, and conflicts 
 to fight ; but none of these so move him, as to destroy the 
 deep-felt peace derived from the gracious presence of his God 
 and Saviour, and the hope of a blessed immortality in his 
 kingdom. 
 
 In the pilgrimage of life, Christ is to his followers like the 
 shadow of a great rock in a weary land. In him they find a 
 source of happiness that will not change with every change 
 of external circumstances — one that will not fail in every try- 
 ing hour — one that they can carry with them into the hut of 
 poverty. 
 
 What on earth can conijiare with the peace of the Chris- 
 tian, when with the world receding from his view and heaven 
 
SERMON IX, 
 
 340 
 
 opening before him, he breathes out his spirit in aspirations of 
 confiding love into the arms of his almighty Redeemer, and 
 in the full uninterrupted light of his countenance. Like the 
 peace of all nature after a storm, — when the winds are hush- 
 ed, and the woods and waves are still, and the clouds are gone, 
 and the sun shines down from a serene sky upon a serene 
 world, — such is the rest of the Christian after this tumultuous 
 life is over. When a shipwrecked mariner is rescued from 
 a watery grave by some kind friend, how sweet is the rest 
 that he enjoys as he leans on his deUverer, and looks from the 
 shore over the wide waste of waters, and feels firm ground 
 under him, while he hears the billows roar, and sees them 
 dash at his feet in vain, — such is the rest that the believer 
 enjoys as he leans on his almighty Saviour, and from the 
 verge of eternity looks back over this tempestuous world. 
 But the chief rest of the Christian is in the midst of the para- 
 dise that is above. There it is consummated — perfect in na- 
 ture, everlasting in duration. 
 
 The rest of heaven is not like that which we take in sleep. 
 It is not a calm of the soul, in which it ceases to reason and 
 feel and act. It is not a contemplative repose of mind from 
 which nothing ever awakens. The ransomed hosts in glory 
 do not dream away the ages of eternity. The faculties of the 
 understanding will doubtless be in constant and vigorous ex- 
 ercise. The mind will make uninterrupted advances in 
 knowledge. The affections of the heart will be in lively ex- 
 ercise. Love supreme to God, and disinterested love to 
 saints and angels, will beam in every breast. The tongue 
 will find employment in recounting the histories of redeem- 
 ing mercy, in conversuig on the perfections, the works, and 
 ways of the Most High, and in singing the song of Moses 
 and the I^amb. Perhaps the hands may have their offices of 
 love to perform. Perhaps the wings may bear the happy 
 spirit on errands of benevolence to other worlds. The rest 
 of heaven then will not be a state of cessation from the active 
 service of God. But it will be a state of peaceful freedom 
 from sin — from the disturbing and tormenting power of evil 
 
350 SERMON IX. 
 
 passions. No unholy emotion will ever rise, to stain the 
 heart, and break the tranquilhty of the breast. No vain thought 
 will ever pass through the mind. No idle word will ever es- 
 cape from the tongue. 
 
 The rest of heaven will be a state of quiet deliverance from 
 the tortures of an accusing conscience. 
 
 It will be a rest from the assaults of spiritual enemies — a 
 rest from temptations, — from those of an evil heart, those of 
 an evil world, those of wicked men, and those of the great ad- 
 versary of the soul. All these will be far away; and the lib- 
 erated spirit will dwell in peace and safety before the throne 
 of its almighty Deliverer. 
 
 It will be a rest from the wearisome toil of earth, appoint- 
 ed as a part of the original curse for man's apostacy from 
 God. 
 
 It will be a rest from the conflict of faith with the things 
 that are seen and temporal. Her conflict is over, and her 
 victory complete ; — her trials are at an end. 
 
 It will be a rest from all that " fear which hath torment"-the 
 dread of forfeiting the favour of God, and bringing destruction 
 upon the soul. The redeemed in heaven will be confirmed 
 in a state of holiness that shall not end. And of this they will 
 be assured by God himself; so that they will not be left to one 
 moment's trembling lest at some period of their existence, in 
 some unguarded hour, they should indulge a feeling of enmi- 
 ty to the divine character, or utter a word of rebellious dis- 
 content, and hurl themselves down, as did the fallen angels, 
 from the abodes of glory to the bottomless pit. 
 
 It will be a state of rest from all the doubt and anxiety 
 arising from the mysterious dispensations of the divine gov- 
 ernment. Clouds and darkness will never more surround 
 the throne of the Most High. Those clouds are scattered 
 forever ; and that throne rises to view in the fulness of its 
 glory. The light of e.ternity will pour full day on all his works 
 and ways. 
 
 And, finally, the rest of heaven will be a state of perfect 
 freedom from sorrow and every cause of sorrow. In that 
 
SERMON IX. 
 
 351 
 
 blessed world the Lamb of God shall lead his followers to 
 living fountains of waters ; and God himself with his own 
 right hand shall wipe away all tears from their eyes. " There 
 the wicked shall cease from troubling, and the weary shall 
 be at rest. O that I had wings like a dove ; then would I fly 
 away, and be at rest." 
 
 In the conclusion of this discourse, permit me to remind 
 you of the tender love and endearing mercy of the Son of 
 God, in giving to sinners like us, such an invitation as that 
 of the text. He condescends to reason and plead with us in 
 the character of a friend. The High and Lofty One, who 
 telleth the number of stars, and calleth them all by their 
 names, entreats the broken in heart to suffer him to heal 
 them, and bind up all their wounds. O if this were not so 
 common a sentiment, it would be one of overwhelming in- 
 terest. It is true that in other parts of his Oracles the Di- 
 vine Being puts on the authority of a lawgiver and the ma- 
 jesty of a moral governor, and commands our obedience as 
 his right. But here he puts on all the tenderness of a father, 
 and beseeches us to accept of eternal life at his hand. He 
 would win us by entreaties. He would save himself from the 
 necessity of executing upon us the penalty of his violated 
 law. He would lead us into the path of life by the hand of 
 love. He would take us to heaven in the arms of everlasting 
 mercy. 
 
 The invitation in the text is not a solitary one from the lips 
 
 of the Redeemer. In the prophecy of Isaiah he cries " Ho, 
 
 every one that thirsteth, come ye to the waters, and he that 
 hath no money ; come ye, buy, and eat ; yea, come, buy 
 
 wine and milk without money andwithout price." Again 
 
 he cries, " Look unto me, and be ye saved, all the ends of 
 
 the earth." And again he calls in the words of the text, 
 
 " Come unto me, all ye that labor, and are heavy laden ; 
 
 and I will give you rest." And, finally in the last chapter 
 
 of his gospel, after having opened to our eyes the holy 
 
 and the glorious city above, with its gates of pearl and streets 
 
352 
 
 SERMON IX. 
 
 of gold, and all its bright and blessed inhabitants, — and after 
 showing us the pure river of water of life, clear as crystal, 
 proceeding out of the throne of God and the Lamb, he cries, 
 standing as it were under the open heavens, he cries aloud, 
 " I Jesus have sent mine angel to testify unto you these things 
 m the churches. I am the root and the offspring of David, 
 and the bright and morning star. And the Spirit and the 
 bride say, Come. And let him that heareth say. Come. And let 
 him that is athirst come. And whosoever will, let him take the 
 water of life freely." And with this call of mercy his gospel 
 is closed. This is the last sound from his lips — the same that 
 is left ringing in our ears, as the heavens receive him and 
 close behind him. But from the throne of intercession he 
 sends down the same merciful call by the Holy Spirit and it 
 is continually echoed in our ears. " Blessed is the people 
 that know the joyful sound ; they shall walk, O Lord, in the 
 light of thy countenance." 
 
SERMON X. 
 
 II. CORINTHIANS, v. 8. 
 
 " We are confident, I say, and willing rather to be absent from the body, and to 
 be present with the Lord." 
 
 We know not that death reigns over any other race of in- 
 telligent beings, but that to which we belong. It has not been 
 revealed to us, whether there be any other planet, in which 
 creatures like ourselves come into existence in successive 
 generations, and, after living a few days or years, undergo a 
 separation of body and spirit, in which the former is left to 
 moulder into dust, and the latter is borne away to a distant 
 world in a state of conscious life. But certain it is, that if 
 such a revelation were made to us, it would awaken in our 
 minds a train of solemn and sublime thoughts, if it did not ex- 
 cite deep and lasting emotions in our hearts. Why then do 
 we think and feel so little respecting that great and eventful 
 revolution of being, which is constantly carried on through- 
 out the earth, and before our eyes, while we ourselves are 
 hastening towards it, and may at any moment be called to 
 pass through it ? What is this mighty change in the mode and 
 the circumstances of our existence ? What is it for men to 
 die ? And what will come to them after death ? What shall 
 I be, when my pulse beats no more, and my last breath is 
 drawn ? Whither will my spirit fly, when it leaves this mor- 
 tal frame, and bids farewell to these sublunary scenes ? On 
 what faces shall I open my eyes, when I have closed them 
 on those of the friends that may stand around my death bed ? 
 Has the world to which I shall go any connexion with this ? 
 
 Is it a world of retribution ? Is that retribution for eternity ? 
 
 45 
 
354 
 
 SERMON X. 
 
 Will it make any difference in a man's eternal condition, 
 whether he dies an infidel or a christian, a profligate or a 
 saint, a proud transgressoror a humble penitent ? If it were 
 only probable that there is a moral state of the soul, in which 
 it is more desirable to leave the world than in another, it 
 could not be unimportant to know what that state is. If it 
 were certain that there is a character, which will secure to 
 men in eternity a greater degree of happiness than any other, 
 it must be the part of wisdom to possess that character. If 
 then it be made sure by the God of truth, that there is in re- 
 ahty but one character, with which it is safe to die — but one 
 character which will lead to a state of perfect felicity, while 
 every other leads to a state of hopeless misery, it must be the 
 very madness of folly, to suffer hfe to pass away, without any 
 efforts to obtain that character. Now it is abundantly evi- 
 dent, that the character, formed under the influence of the 
 high and holy principles of Christianity, is the only one that 
 will fit us for a glorious immortality. It becomes therefore of 
 the utmost importance, to ascertain what are, and what are 
 not, decisive proofs of the existence of such a character. We 
 can have no difficulty in ascertaining some things that are, 
 and many things that are not ; unless indeed we deny the 
 need of any preparation for death, and believe that all men 
 will be treated alike hereafter, whatever difference there may 
 be in their present character. But there are other things, of 
 which it may not always be so clear, whether they are or are 
 not evidences of that moral state of the soul, required by the 
 gospel as a preparation for its departure from the body. 
 Some things are evidences of such a state, or are not, accord- 
 ing to the different circumstances, with which they are con- 
 nected. Thus in the text before us, the willingness to die, 
 expressed by the apostle, furnishes unquestionable proof of 
 his preparation for death, when it is taken in connexion with 
 his desire to be with Christ ; but when it exists in cases, where 
 there is no similar desire, it can furnish no such proof. And 
 yet there is perhaps no one thing more commonly spoken of 
 as a proof of preparation for death, than mere willingness to 
 
SERMON X. 
 
 355 
 
 die, without any reference to the motive exciting it, and the 
 spirit accompanying it. When we hear it asked respecting 
 the d}ing man " Does he appear prepared for his departure V 
 how often do we hear it answered, " O yes, he appears per- 
 fectly willing to go." No reason is given for this wiUingness. 
 A dreadful blank of uncertainty is left to be filled up at the 
 last day. The holy apostle would not have stopt here. He 
 would have inquired why the man was willing to die, before 
 he judged him prepared for death. Is the expiring mortal 
 " willing to be absent from the body, that he may be present 
 with the Lord" — " that he may see him as he is" — " that he 
 behold his glory ?" Is he filled with a holy desire to go into 
 the unveiled presence of the God of infinite hoUness ? Does 
 he long to mingle in the society of saints and angels, and en- 
 gage in their divine employments, before the throne of God 
 and the Lamb ? Or has he no such desire ? Is such a pros- 
 pect far from his thoughts ? Or does he think of it with indif- 
 ference or disgust ? Who then will say that he has any moral 
 fitness for heaven ? And without such fitness, is he not un- 
 prepared for death ? 
 
 With these remarks in view, I proceed to announce the fol- 
 lowing general sentiment for our serious consideration. 
 
 Mere willingness to die is no evidence of preparation for 
 death. 
 
 To establish the truth of this sentiment, is the principal ob- 
 ject of the present discourse. To accomplish this object, it 
 will only be necessary to show, that willingness to die may 
 spring from various other causes, besides that expressed in 
 the text, and those which evince the same holiness of heart. 
 
 The principal ground of the opinion, that mere wiUingness 
 to die affords evidence of preparation for death, is probably 
 to be sought in the habit of viewing the act of dissolution, as 
 too full of terrors to nature, to be approached without a re- 
 luctance too great to be overcome by any natural or any in- 
 cidental causes. That there is some such cause for this wil- 
 hngness, in a multitude of cases, must appear manifest to the 
 faithful inquirer after truth. 
 
356 
 
 SERMON X, 
 
 1. Willingness to die may spring from the influence of dis- 
 ease. Men are so much affected by present sensations, that 
 even a small degree of pain, continued for a long time, will 
 often make them willing to undergo almost any change, to be 
 delivered from it. How willing then may they be to risk a 
 leap into an untried eternity, in order to escape from the rage 
 of a fever that is burning in the veins and drinking up the spir- 
 its, or from the power of any other acute disease, that is send- 
 ing its darts of agony through the frame, and torturing it like 
 a "strong man armed" crushing an infant victim in his iron 
 grasp. The violence of pain, that is present, and is felt in 
 eveiy nerve, may make the sufferer unmindful of misery, that 
 is yet untried, and is in a distant world. The intenseness of 
 this present and this deep felt anguish, may concentrate all 
 his thoughts upon the passing moment, and shut out of sight a 
 coming eternity. And what wonder, if in such a state, he be 
 willing to die ; when all that he thinks of, is deliverance from 
 the intolerable pain, that he is now enduring ? 
 
 At other times there may be in disease such a stupifying 
 power, that the mind is almost inactive, the conscience is 
 asleep, the affections are chilled, the heart-strings cease to vi- 
 brate at the touch, and both hopes and fears are laid to rest. 
 In this listless condition the poor mortal is willing to die, be- 
 cause he knows but little of his present state or of his future 
 prospects, and cares nothing for either. He is willing to die, 
 because he has not thought and feeling enough in exercise, to 
 form the wish to live. 
 
 There are still other cases, in which there is neither in- 
 tense pain nor deep lethargy, but a weak and disordered 
 state of the mental faculties, in which things no longer appear 
 in their true light and proper connexion, but truth and error, 
 religious feeling and natural, appear in one confused and 
 ever changing view. Visions of light and of darkness, of joy 
 and of terror, pass to and fro before the eye of a bewildered 
 fancy. The whole mind is occupied with* the shadows of 
 things rather than the realities. In such a state of the soul, 
 there may be no difficulty in being resigned to death. The 
 
SERMON X. 357 
 
 man has no distinct conception of what it is to die. Perhaps 
 he dreams of lying down in the grave in sweet repose, or of 
 flying away into a land of everlasting sunshine and flowers 
 and songs. Life and death, body and spirit, time and eter- 
 nity, are all viewed through a deceitful mist. Or if the im- 
 pressions of a correct education on these subjects be so deep, 
 as to preserve him from wandering over them at random, and 
 enable him to converse upon them with some propriety of 
 thought and feeling, yet if he is restored to health, how often 
 is all this religion forgotten or remembered only as " a dream 
 when one awaketh." How many upon a sick bed have 
 talked, in elevated strains, of the high things of God and hea- 
 ven, and expressed an entire willingness to leave the world, 
 and yet after an unexpected recovery, have been able to re- 
 collect nothing respecting any such conversation, or any 
 thoughts and feelings corresponding to it, and have been 
 much surprised at the account of it given them by others. 
 No trace of its effect remains in their hearts or their conduct. 
 All is gone ; and they continue to be just what they were be- 
 fore their sickness. 
 
 2. Willingness to die may spring from philosophical pride. 
 
 There are not wanting men, who can approach the final 
 hour, with a hardihood of nerves braced to meet the shock, 
 and with a firmness of soul gathered from the arguments of 
 unsanctified reason. Why should they not be resigned to 
 death, when it is the universal lot of man, when they always 
 expected to encounter it in their turn, and when perhaps they 
 have lived to the common age of man, or at least longer than 
 one half of the human family ? With these and similar argu- 
 ments of a worldly philosophy, they fortify what is weak in 
 their souls, and calm what is troubled into a kind of submis-. 
 sion to their fate. They wish to appear above the weakness 
 of repining at what cannot be avoided. They would not be 
 thought so irrational, as to make a fretful or sullen resistance 
 against the king of terrors. Such resistance can be of no 
 avail — can do them no good. It will only expose them to 
 pity, when they would rather attract admiration. Resist 
 
358 
 
 SERMON X. 
 
 they may for a while ; but they must yield at last. Why 
 then should they not do it quietly and nobly ? Thus reasoned 
 some of the ancient philosophers, till they could meet death 
 without a sigh, or with the proud welcome of one who w^ould 
 play the hero. And what numbers at the present day are 
 enabled by similar reasoning, to obtain something of the same 
 courage or calmness in the dying hour. 
 
 3. Wilhngness to die may spring from the melancholy of 
 worldly disappointment. When plans for earthly happiness 
 have all failed one after another by the death of friends, the 
 loss of property, and other like calamities, men are sometimes 
 driven to such a state of desperation, as to rush into the arms 
 of death, and with their own hands direct his shaft to the seat 
 of life. But not to dwell on these instances of self-destruc- 
 tion, it is enough that there are others, in which the spirits are 
 so crushed by a weight of troubles, that notliing earthly can 
 raise them ; and, while the refuge to be found in God is-for- 
 gotten, an imaginary one is looked for in the dark and silent 
 grave. The grave is regarded only as the termination of a 
 long series of misfortunes. It is a bed of rest, a home of 
 peace, a safe asylum, which no oppressor's arm, nor any 
 change of fortune, can destroy or disturb. Perhaps a senti- 
 mental misanthropy and sickness of the world spread their 
 blighting influence over the soul. The earth appears a wil- 
 derness of blasted prospects — a land where' there is no friend- 
 ship, and no virtue, and no enjoyment. There seems no more 
 good to hope for from remaining here. Perhaps an indefin- 
 ite idea of some kind of happiness, somewhere beyond the 
 tomb, has an influence in reconciling the soul to its depar- 
 ture, but at all events that departure will be a release from 
 this dungeon of a world. 
 
 4. Willingness to die may spring from the unwarranted 
 consolation of friends. When one who has lived all his days, 
 in acknowledged impenitence, is brought to the borders of 
 the eternal world, the christian friends, who may stand around 
 him, often have a conflict in their feelings, between sympathy 
 in his distress, and compassion for his soul. Thus they are 
 
SERMON X. 
 
 359 
 
 tempted to be unfaithful in christian duty. And too fre- 
 quently natural affection prevails over spiritual benevolence 
 to such a degree, that they speak only " smooth things" to 
 the dying sinner. Perhaps they venture to say to him with 
 a faltering voice, " Can you not give us some hope ? Are you 
 not willing to die ?" The poor sufferer, affected at the sight 
 of their tears, faintly replies, " O yes !" He sees that this 
 answer comforts them ; and he too is comforted. He sees 
 that Christians are beginning to hope for his safety ; and with 
 that he is ready to think himself out of danger. What won- 
 der if he be now willing to die ? And yet if the repentance 
 and faith required in the gospel be the only preparation for 
 death, the man has not given the least evidence of being pre- 
 pared for it. He has shown no sorrow for sin, nor any trust 
 in the Saviour. Not a word has been said about repenting 
 and believing. From all that appears there is clearly no 
 proof, that he has any desire to be delivered from the bon- 
 dage of iniquity, and brought into the holy liberty of the king- 
 dom of heaven. 
 
 5. Willingness to die may spring from spiritual stupidity. 
 The opinion that impenitent men are awakened on a death- 
 bed to a sense of their real condition, if they are not brought 
 to repentance, is probably more general, than the fact will be 
 found to be from extensive observation. It may be true that 
 most of them manifest some degree of alarm ; yet in what a 
 multitude of cases this alarm is evidently that of a sufferer in- 
 stead of a sinner, and arises from the dread of punishment 
 rather than the hatred of iniquity. Who can have any doubt 
 of this, when hardly an instance can be found, in which the 
 terrors of a sick bed have issued in a piety, which has not 
 vanished with the return of health ? Does it not then follow 
 that they, who are thus terrified at the approach of death, 
 may still be stupid as to every thing truly spiritual ? They 
 show no conviction of the guilt of sin — no sense of their crim- 
 inality in the sight of God. They are not awakened, to see 
 and feel their condition, as transgressors of God's law, and as 
 ruined immortals without his mercy through the blood of 
 
360 
 
 SERMON X. 
 
 atonement. And when their natural fears are overcome, a» 
 they often are in various ways, they may be so insensible to 
 spiritual things, as to feel no unwillingness to die. But there 
 are others among the impenitent, in whom the near view of 
 death produces no alarm whatever. Not only is the con- 
 science too deeply stupified or seared, to be affected by a 
 sense of sin, but through its influence, and that of a hardened 
 heart, the soul is too much asleep to be sensible of its danger. 
 Here is no wakefulness of any kind. The eyes and ears are 
 closed ; and in this universal sleep the things of religion are 
 most of all forgotten. The light of heaven is not seen ; the 
 calls and warnings of the gospel are not heard. Truth finds 
 no entrance into the understanding ; touches not the con- 
 science ; and makes no impression on the heart. In such a 
 state of the soul there may be no reluctance to die. If men 
 pass through life in stupidity, why may it not be expected, 
 that God will leave them to close it in stupidity ? I know it 
 has often been said, that " men may live fools, but fools they 
 cannot die." And yet this is by no means so near a general 
 truth, as the sentiment, that " men die as they live." Ask 
 those whose profession leads them, to make frequent visits to 
 death beds ; and they will tell you so. Ask the aged, who 
 have seen two or three generations pass away ; and they will 
 tell you so. If men are willing to live in stupidity, it is pro- 
 bable, that in the same stupidity they will be willing to die. 
 
 6. Willingness to die may spring from religious error. If 
 a man believes that no preparation for death is necessary, or 
 regards that as a preparation which is none in reality, or 
 thinks himself possessed of the true preparation when he is 
 not, he has embraced a delusion, which may give him a false 
 peace in the dying hour. 
 
 The first class of men, here mentioned, believe that no 
 preparation for death is necessary. This they believe, be- 
 cause they look upon Christianity as a fable, and eternal life 
 as a dream, or because they regard the end of this earthly 
 course as the beginning of everlasting happiness to all men. 
 It surely cannot be strange, if the settled belief in the doc- 
 
SERMON X. 361 
 
 trine, that God will hereafter make no distinction in the des- 
 tiny of men, according to their present difference of character, 
 should reconcile the soul to its departure from such a world 
 as this. Why should the act of expiring be terrible to one, 
 who regards it as opening the door of heaven, to the believer 
 and the infidel, the holy and the unholy, thus rendering his 
 own salvation sure, whatever may be his moral state ? It is 
 true that men, who have spent years of health and pleasure 
 in the belief of this opinion, are sometimes driven by the 
 king of terrors, to renounce it in anguish of despair. But 
 this is by no means uniformly the fact. And why should we 
 expect it to be ? Why should it be thought strange, that men 
 who are given up to strong delusion, in the midst of their 
 days, should also be given up at their end? Upon what prin- 
 ciple can it be expected, that the sentiments which have been 
 long cherished, and openly avowed, and contended for with 
 the enlisted power of the passions and prejudices, should be 
 at once renounced in dismay, at an hour when the motives to 
 hold them fast are considered to be more and greater than 
 ever ? When the dying man thinks that his sentiments are 
 now brought to the test, and sees his opponents watching the 
 trial, and hears his abettors bidding him be of good cheer, and 
 be true to their common cause, it must be a mighty influ- 
 ence from above, that in the face of all these obstacles can 
 make him willing to desert this cause, and desert the friends 
 of it, and in the presence of its enemies pour contempt upon 
 all his past reasonings in defence of it. No, no, — he will not 
 do it. Pride and honour forbid ; and come what may, he 
 will not do it. The power of God can indeed produce such 
 a change, however great the difficulties to be overcome ; but 
 how seldom is his power put forth for this purpose ; and how 
 little ought we to expect it to be. 
 
 The second class of men, mentioned under this head, re-. 
 gard that as a preparation for death, which is none in reality. 
 Some of these look upon a life of mere negative virtue, as se- 
 curing them from punishment hereafter; and they are not 
 afraid to die, because they have never injured any one — have 
 
 46 
 
362 SERMON X. 
 
 done no harm in the world. Others consider a Hfe of active 
 morahty, as entithng them to happiness beyond the grave ; 
 and they can close their days in quiet, by making their appeal 
 to a Judge who will not wrong them. " God is just" say they ; 
 and this is thought to be enough for them. There are some 
 that regard their attendance on the means of grace, or their 
 outward observance of the institutions of Christianity — their 
 baptism, or their church-membership, as securing for them a 
 seat in heaven ; and why should they tremble at the thought 
 of going to occupy it ? Others there are, that esteem it a suf- 
 ficient preparation for death, to have a speculative belief in 
 the truth of the Christian religion ; and there are others still, 
 that depend for salvation on the mere fact, that Christ has 
 died for sinners. Why should it be matter of surprise, that 
 such men should leave the world without terror, or even with 
 joy ? It may justly excite astonishment, that they, or any of 
 those now enumerated, can, with the bible in their hands, re- 
 ceive what they do, as the ground of their acceptance with 
 God ; but when they have once done this, and brought them- 
 selves to believe that their names are in the book of life, it is 
 surely no surprising thing, that they can hear the summons of 
 the last messenger without dismay. 
 
 The third class of men spoken of under the present head, 
 consider themselves as possessing the true preparation for 
 death, when they do not. They have neither denied nor mis 
 taken the terms of salvation. Their error lies in the belief 
 that they have complied with them, when the sad reality is, 
 that they have not. They acknowledge the necessity of re- 
 pentance and faith ; but they think that they have renounced 
 their sins, and put their trust in Christ, when they have done 
 it only in appearance, and not in heart. They are deceived 
 respecting the state of their affections, and the character of 
 their motives, in the sight of God. On this deception they 
 have built a false hope of heaven. It is a hope which must 
 fail them in the day when it is fully tried ; but that day may 
 not come in this world. Though their house is built on the 
 sand, the storm that is to sweep it away may not come at 
 
SERMON X. 363 
 
 death. It may then be a refuge, in which they can hush 
 their fears to sleep, and dehght themselves with dreams of 
 safety and everlasting rest. 
 
 As respects the three classes of men, that have now been 
 enumerated, it seems abundantly evident, that they may be 
 made willing to die, by the influence of erroneous views of 
 the subject of religion, or of their own religious character. 
 It cannot be important to add any more to the particular il- 
 lustrations under this head of the discourse. Nor can it be 
 necessary to multiply any farther the reasons why men are 
 willing to die. It must be plain that there are many, be- 
 sides the one recorded in the text — many besides those which 
 proceed from holiness of heart. No doubt then can remain 
 respecting the truth of the sentiment, that mere willingness 
 to die is no evidence of preparation for death. This is the 
 sentiment which was proposed for proof; and if it has been 
 shown to be an undeniable truth, it is one that suggests seve- 
 ral reflections of solemn and practical moment. 
 
 1. Great caution is necessary in speaking of the evidences 
 of preparation for death. If through the influence of sympa- 
 thy for the bereaved, or from any other cause, we allow our- 
 selves to speak of any thing as an evidence of such prepara- 
 tion, when the gospel decides that it is not, we may do much 
 towards deceiving our fellow men to their ruin ; and we our- 
 selves by this practice may at length be deceived in like man- 
 ner. It is a practice which sets up a wrong standard, for 
 men to judge themselves by ; and removes the right one out 
 of sight. It puts darkness for light, and light for darkness. 
 It tends to make men live at ease in sin, with the expectation 
 that charity will find something in the circumstances of their 
 death, on which to build a hope of their happiness. It makes 
 them forget the necessity of repentance and faith, by show- 
 ing them how easily the want of these m the dying hour can 
 be overlooked. When the opinion is circulated, that this 
 man and that have made a happy exchange of worlds, merely 
 because they were willing to die, or on any other unscriptu- 
 ral ground, many are more ready to receive wrong impres- 
 
364 
 
 SERMON X. 
 
 sions, tlian they are to receive right ones from the reading 
 and the preaching of the gospel. It may be asked, if we can 
 have the cruelty to tell the mourning, that their departed 
 friend gave little or no evidence of l>eing prepared to leave 
 the M'orld. No — we cannot. And it can hardly ever be our 
 duty to do it. But, on the contrary, it cannot be our duty to 
 tell the mourning, that their departed friend gave evidence 
 of being fitted for heaven, when he did not. It is far better 
 to be silent, on this subject, in their presence, than to speak 
 only to deceive them. We had better say nothing, than to 
 say that which will not bear the test of God's word. We 
 cannot be too careful on all occasions, to produce or to deep- 
 en the impression, that men give evidence of preparation for 
 death, just so far as they give evidence of having renounced 
 their sins, and put their trust in Christ, and no further. Show 
 me proof of a man's penitence and faith ; and the gos- 
 pel bids me hope for him, and comfort his friends with this 
 hope. But tell me merely of a man's willingness to die ; and 
 the gospel bids me say nothing, till I have inquired for the 
 reason of this willingness. If it be that given in the text, or 
 one like it in hohness, there is scriptural ground for strong 
 hope and rich consolation. 
 
 2. The true preparation for death is a moral one. If the 
 view which we have now taken of the subject before us be 
 correct, we can turn to no part of it without making this re- 
 jflection. It is a truth that appears at every step in the pre- 
 ceeding course of reasoning. It is the all-pervading spirit of 
 the whole. To prepare for death is the work of the heart. 
 It is not a mere exercise of the understanding receiving this 
 or that system of religion as true, or interpreting parts of the 
 Bible in this or that manner. It is not a mere set of opinions 
 of any kind, either right or wrong. Nor does it consist in a 
 mere outward performance of some of the duties of Chris- 
 tianity. It is not a round of lifeless ceremonies. It is a deep 
 thing of the soul ; and takes strong hold of the seat of life. 
 It has much to do with the afiections and motives ; and ex- 
 erts a governing influence over all the sjjringsof moral action. 
 
SERMON X. 365 
 
 It consists in that holiness of heart and life, which is the fruit 
 of repentance and faith. Without this iioHness no man shall 
 see the Lord, and be present with him, when he has closed 
 his eyes on all sublunary things, and is absent from the body. 
 It is a clear and a deep-felt sense of this truth, that sometimes 
 makes such men as Baxter and Edwards and Scott and 
 Dwight, after a long life of eminent piety, approach the eter- 
 nal world with more or less of the trembling of doubt and 
 fear. They see a holy God on the throne, and around him a 
 world of holy beings — a world shining with the glories of ho- 
 liness, and resounding with its everlasting songs. All this 
 they see with the full gaze of faith, while they know and feel 
 their own deep vileness. But when such men tremble on 
 their death-bed, O it is pitiable to see those, who have spent 
 all their days in forgetfulness of God and eternity, willing to 
 die. 
 
 3. The true preparation for death is one that is to be made 
 in life. Preparation for any event is something to be done 
 previous to the event itself. It is absurd to talk of a man's 
 preparing for death when he is actually dying. There is 
 not the least proof from the bible, or in the nature of things, 
 that the event, which dissolves the union between the soul 
 and the body, produces a radical change in the moral charac- 
 ter. What is there, what can there be, in the passage through 
 the dark valley, to take the aifections at once from objects, on 
 which they have been fixed for years, and fix them on objects 
 as difierent from these, as heaven is from earth ? Can it be 
 believed that the man, whose last accents in this world are, 
 " Gold, thou art my portion," will be prepared to say the mo- 
 ment after, as he awakes in eternity, " Whom have I in hea- 
 ven, O God, but thee ?" Will the man whose supreme object 
 in life has been, to lay up treasures on the earth, find himself, 
 the moment after death, in full possession of that inheritance 
 which is incorruptible and undefiled, and which fadeth not 
 away ? Will the man, who has drunk, all his days, and drunk 
 deep, at the polluted stream of this world's pleasure, be pre- 
 pared as soon as he dies, to drink of that pure river of bliss, 
 
366 SERMON X. 
 
 flowing from the throne of God and the Lamb ? Will the man 
 who, during all his mortal life, has loved the praise of men 
 more than the praise of God, find himself the moment after 
 death standing and bowing with the adoring hosts of heaven, 
 and ready to cast down his crown with theirs, and take up 
 their song of " Blessing and honour and glory and power unto 
 Him that sitteth on the throne and to the Lamb that was 
 slain ?" In short, my hearers, will they that are unjust through 
 life and in death, be righteous afterwards ? Or will they be 
 unjust still ? Will the filthy here be holy hereafter ? Or will 
 they be filthy still ? Let the word of God decide. 
 
 Will it be said that though the moral character be not 
 changed by the event of dying, it may be changed just before 
 the event ? Through the power of divine grace there is a pos- 
 sibility that it may. But judging from the conduct of men 
 who recover from alarming sickness, and from other argu- 
 ments, there is most fearful reason to think that it is seldom 
 the fact. On the contrary it may doubtless be received as a 
 general truth, that men die as they live. We are now, then, 
 my dear hearers, from one year to another, and every day and 
 hour, forming our characters for eternity. It becomes there- 
 fore a question of immense interest whether we are preparing 
 to be present with the Lord when we shall be absent from the 
 body. Have we felt sincere and lasting sorrow for our sins 
 and forsaken them with all the heart ? Have we come to Christ 
 and cast our souls on his mercy through the blood of atone- 
 ment ? If we have, and continue to the end of our days, to 
 manifest the reality of our penitence and faith, by the graces 
 and virtues of a holy life, we shall not be deceived in the dy- 
 ing hour by a false and fatal peace. Nor shall we have to 
 mourn in the bitterness of despair, and say " My days are 
 passed," and heaven is lost forever. 
 
SERMON XI. 
 
 JOB, xiv. 19. 
 " Thou destroyest the hope of man." 
 
 In this world of intermingled good and evil, mankind live 
 upon hope. Were thei'e nothing here but good, hope would 
 probably be lost in enjoyment ; and were there nothing but 
 evil, it would probably be lost in despair. The diversified 
 and fluctuating state of earthly things is just that, in which 
 this principle of action might be expected to become univer- 
 sal and predominant. Accordingly, we find, that men en- 
 dure the present, rather than enjoy it, or enjoy it chiefly in 
 their anticipation of the future. Where is the man, that is 
 not looking forward to better days ? and is not now living for 
 the happiness, which they promise ? Who is there, that says 
 in his heart, " SuflScient for the day is the good thereof V* 
 Who that hopes for no more, than he receives, as he passes 
 along from one year to another ? Who would not feel his pre- 
 sent happiness destroyed at once, were he to be fully convin- 
 ced by the assurance of God, that no greater is in store for 
 him ? 
 
 In making these remarks on the influence of hope, I have 
 not intended to intimate, that it is a principle of action unwor- 
 thy of a rational being, or unjustifiable in a subject of the di- 
 vine government. On the contrary, its influence is so im- 
 portant, in the present state of things, that it is impossible to 
 conceive, how the common business of life, or the more sa- 
 cred duties of religion, could be performed, without the mo- 
 tives, which it affords. Reason would soon be dethroned, 
 and the soul subjected to the dominion of animal appetite, 
 
SERMON XI. 
 
 and the life of depraved man would be changed into that of 
 a beast, were he to be deprived of the privilege of looking for 
 good to come, and limited in his views and desires to the ob- 
 jects of the passing moment. The principle of hope is in it- 
 self as exalted, as the exercise of it is delightful. It is to be 
 condemned only when it is fixed on forbidden objects, or on 
 lawful objects in a forbidden degree. When it is fixed on 
 God, — on the prosperity of his kingdom, and the glory of his 
 name, — on the participation of his holiness, and the enjoy- 
 ment of his everlasting favour, — it is in obedience to the di- 
 vine commands, and is in no danger of becoming too great in 
 its power over the heart and the conduct. When it is fixed 
 on the gratification of the senses, — or the acquisition of wealth, 
 rank, and power, for the purposes of self-aggrandizement and 
 self-indulgence, — it is in violation of the divine commands, 
 and is deceiving the soul to its eternal ruin. When it is fix- 
 ed on such earthly objects, as are needful for our comfort and 
 usefulness, and agreeable to the will of Heaven, it is sinful 
 and destructive only by becoming supreme, or possessing an 
 undue power over our affections and actions. This latter 
 manner of abusing the principle of hope is not less general 
 than the former. Indeed, the man is not to be found, howev- 
 er great may be his attainments in piety, who is never, in 
 any degree, guilty of his placing hopes too much on those 
 earthly things, that are in themselves blessings, but are thus 
 rendered hurtful to the graces and enjoyments of the most 
 exalted piety ; while, in such as have no piety at all, they 
 unite with the unlawful objects of hope, in leading the soul 
 onward, through multiplied disappointments, to the woes of 
 an undone eternity. All men, of every age and condition, of 
 every variety of character in the two great classes of the 
 righteous and the wicked, are more or less guilty, of hoping 
 for happiness in ways and from objects, that are in their na- 
 ture sinful, or of hoping for it with a sinful degree of strength, 
 in ways and from objects, that are in their nature lawful. 
 These are the earthly hopes of men. They are those, which 
 God destroys. However bright and promising they may be 
 
SERMON XI. 369 
 
 for a while, the time comes when he blasts them with a breath 
 of his anger, or by a chastising stroke of his mercy, — and 
 they are gone. 
 
 Thou, most righteous and merciful God, destroyest the 
 earthly hopes of men. 
 
 This, my hearers, is the plain and affecting sentiment of 
 the text. It was uttered by Job, in an address to the Divine 
 Being, in view of that rapid succession of judgments, by which 
 this greatest of all the men of the East was deprived of his 
 ten children, stripped of his immense possessions, afflicted 
 with a painful disease, and thus left to mourn over the de- 
 struction of his own earthly hopes, and those of every mem- 
 ber of his numerous family. In his lips, therefore, the lan- 
 guage of the text must have been full of meaning. 
 
 In making it the theme of the present discourse, it is my 
 purpose, to call your attention, to the fact that is stated, — to 
 the cause of it, — to some of the designs of God in it, — and fi- 
 nally to several practical inferences. Let us then contemplate, 
 
 I. The fact that God destroys the earthly hopes of men. 
 
 That mankind are disappointed, in their expectations of 
 happiness from the world, is a truth made evident by the his- 
 tory of all past ages, and the experience of every individual, — 
 by daily observation, and the confession of every tongue. 
 From the annals of every generation, since the fall, there 
 might be collected a sad record of blasted hopes, and thwart- 
 ed plans, for individual and national happiness. In such a 
 record, some men would be seen fighting to obtain crowns, 
 that eluded their grasp, or were worn but for a day, or proved 
 the means of exposure to miseries and dangers from the dead- 
 ly ambition of rivals and traitors. Some would be seen em- 
 ploying the treasures of a kingdom, and the labours of half 
 its subjects, for many years, in building monuments, to gratify 
 a pride that soon ended in their own destruction by the re- 
 action of an oppressed people, and to perpetuate names, that 
 were soon forgotten, or doomed to infamy. With such ex- 
 amples of disappointed hopes, among the great ones of the 
 
 earth, would be seen similar instances without number, 
 
 47 
 
370 
 
 SERMON XI. 
 
 among the vast multitude, in their pursuit of humbler vanities. 
 But why need we search the annals of past generations, and 
 trace the progress of the high and the low through their mo- 
 mentary life, to find ai'guments in proof of the sentiment in 
 question ? It is enough that they are gone — the men and their 
 vanities together. It is enough, that the millions of every 
 generation have been carried away as with a flood, and with 
 them all their hopes and plans for earthly enjoyment. Death 
 has cut short their expectations from the world, and comple- 
 ted the train of their disappointments ; has awaked them from 
 their dreams of power, turned their bright visions of pleasure 
 into darkness, crumbled their monuments of fame into dust, 
 and scattered their treasures to the winds, and brought down 
 their pomp and glory to the level of worms and ashes. Over 
 them, and their blasted prospects, the king of terrors shakes 
 his iron sceptre in triumph ; while he points the multitudes of 
 the living to this scene of destruction, and calls upon them as 
 they walk thoughtlessly over it, to prepare to lie down in its 
 gloom and corruption. Let us then turn to the living, for in- 
 struction on the subject before us. And let us confine our 
 attention to those within the reach of our acquaintance or ob- 
 servation, — to the poor and the wealthy, the humble and the 
 eminent, — to the young, that are just coming forward into the 
 active scenes of life, — the middle-aged, that are buried in its 
 cares, or driven to and fro by its tumults, — and the aged, that 
 are bowing beneath its load of infirmities, and tottering along 
 its last stages, on the brink of the invisible world. From this 
 near view of mankind, in all their varieties of character and 
 condition, what a multitude of facts crowd together before 
 our eyes, and rush upon our memories, to give us a heart-felt 
 sense of the vanity of those hopes, that terminate on the shad- 
 ows of time. We see the poor disappointed in their plans 
 for acquiring wealth, and the ambitious in theirs for obtaining 
 the bubbles of rank and fame. We see the young disap- 
 pointed in their anticipations of pleasure, the middle-aged in 
 theirs of grandeur, and the aged in theirs of dignified retire- 
 ment. Or if these various objects appear, now and then, to 
 
SERMON XI. 371 
 
 be gained, the enjoyment derived from them falls far below 
 the calculations of hope. We see parents looking to the 
 world, for more good, to be the portion of their children, than 
 the world with all its fair promises can give. We see chil- 
 dren cut down in their bloom, like the flowers, that flourish 
 in the morning, and wither at night. Many who are flattered 
 into high expectations of long life, by the animal vigour and 
 buoyant spirits of youth, we behold continually dropping into 
 the grave, and leaving behind them no memorial of their ex- 
 istence. The few, that have reached the age of threescore 
 years and ten, we behold not without the expectation of living 
 another year because they have lived through the last, and 
 yet another for the same reason, and because others have liv- 
 ed still longer ; so that even they are surprised by death, and 
 torn from a world to which they fondly cling. Thus are the 
 earthly hopes of men destroyed, one after another ; and the 
 ruins of all are at last swept into the grave together, and for- 
 gotten. Men pass through hfe, in pursuit of phantoms, that 
 keep ever before them, eluding their grasp, but tempting their 
 sight, till they vanish at that stroke, which blots from their 
 view at once this whole world of vanities. Many a time, at 
 longer or shorter intervals, they come to the period set for 
 the fulfilment of their hopes ; and, being disappointed, they 
 remove it further forward ; and, coming to it again, they re- 
 move it further still, for the same reason; and thus they go 
 on, till, having reached the end of their course, they cast 
 back, over its train of thwarted plans, and blasted prospects, 
 a look of longing and despairing, and then close their eyes in 
 the sleep of death. The cords that bind men to life are like 
 the threads of the spider, broken by a touch, or a breath ; and 
 those that bind them to any earthly portion can be no strong- 
 er. Their firmest fabrics of sublunary happiness are built 
 upon the sand. This sentiment is not the mere declaration 
 of melancholy, or poetic enthusiasm. It is contained, — all of 
 it, — in the plain language of the text, strengthened as it is by 
 an accumulation of striking allusions, introduced to prepare the 
 mind to feel its whole force. " Surely the mountain" — the 
 mountain, " falling, cometh to nought, and the rock is removed 
 
sn 
 
 SERMON XI. 
 
 out of his place ; the waters wear the stones ; thou washest 
 away the things that grow out of the dust of the earth ; — and 
 thou destroyest the hope of man." Plans for terrestrial en- 
 joyment are like buildings erected along the margin of a rapid 
 stream, that gradually undermines them, or, swollen to a tor- 
 rent by a sudden storm, overthrows them in a moment, and 
 buries their scattered ruins in depths unknown, or sweeps 
 them away to distances, from which they can be gathered no 
 more. Thus are the earthly hopes of men destroyed. The 
 fact of their destruction no one with his eyes open can doubt. 
 That they are destroyed by God, must be equally evident to 
 every believer in divine revelation. Thou, Lord of heaven 
 and earth, destroyest the hope of man. 
 
 To you, brethren, it is clear as the language of eternal truth 
 can make it, that this destruction is not effected, either by a 
 fortuitous combination of circumstances, or by an inherent 
 necessity in the constitution of things, or by any independent 
 power of Satan over mankind, or of mankind themselves over 
 each other. You see in the work the agency of Jehovah's all- 
 ruling hand. You know that there is not, in the universe, 
 any agency in operation, that is not entirely under his con- 
 trol ; and this knowledge is the ground of all your confidence 
 and delight in him. This ground of confidence and delight 
 will not fail, even in the day when he destroys your own 
 earthly hopes. If you have the temper of Job, it surely will 
 not. Soon as the tidings, of his loss of all things, reach this 
 man of God, he exclaims, " The Lord gave, and the Lord hath 
 taken away ; blessed be the name of the Lord." This- he 
 says, when the work of destruction, over which he mourns, is 
 particularly ascribed, in every part of its progress, to the 
 prince of fallen spirits, as the subordinate agent. The holy 
 patriarch entirely overlooks Satan, and his emissaries, the 
 Sabeans and Chaldeans, as well as the fire of heaven, and 
 the wind of the wilderness ; and, regarding them all as in- 
 struments, the former voluntary, and the latter involuntary 
 instruments, in the hands of the Divine Being, fixes the eye of 
 feith on him alone, as the righteous Author of his afflictions. 
 
SERMON XI. 373 
 
 He looks up to a benevolent Sovereign on the throne, and 
 praises him, while surrounded with clouds and darkness ; and 
 thus obtains support, and even peace, in the midst of an over- 
 whelming flood of calamities. It is the living God, who takes 
 away the earthly props, on which mortals lean. He gives 
 wings to their riches ; dries up their streams of pleasure ; and 
 stains the pride of all their glory. He sends the cup of afflic- 
 tion round from one family to another ; and requires all to 
 drink of it in their turn. He makes human life like a vapour, 
 that appears for a little time, and then vanishes away. He 
 makes the beauty of man fade as that of a leaf ; and causes 
 him to say, with his expiring breath ; in the language of Job 
 in the context, " My days are past, my purposes are broken 
 off, even the thoughts of my heart ; — and where is now my 
 hope ? as for my hope, who shall see it ?" 
 
 But, not to dwell any longer on the fact, that God destroys 
 the earthly hopes of men, let us proceed to consider, 
 
 n. The cause of his doing it. 
 
 You cannot expect me to prove in a formal manner what 
 this cause is ; or to waste time in searching for it in one di- 
 rection and another, as if it were hard to be discovered, in- 
 stead of being the most prominent thing in our world. Your 
 thoughts are turned at once to sin, as the cause of all the evil, 
 with which God afflicts the human family. You probably 
 see no room for the least doubt, or difference of opinion, on 
 this subject, among believers in divine revelation. You see 
 not why all must not find the same doctrine on every page of 
 the sacred volume. And all would find it, were there not 
 some, whose systems of philosophy require them to be wise, 
 above that which is written, if not in opposition to it. These 
 men venture to advance the opinion, that had our first pa- 
 rents remained holy, and all their posterity been hke them, 
 they might still have suffered as sensitive beings, though not 
 as moral agents. This they feel obliged to say, in order to 
 account for the suflferings of infants, since the doctrine of nat- 
 ural depravity, is no part of their philosophical system. In 
 support of this opinion they bring, not only their own con- 
 
374 SERMON XI. 
 
 jectures respecting what would be necessary or probable in 
 the human constitution without sin, but also the actual suf- 
 ferings of the brute creation. These sufferings, however, 
 cannot with propriety be brought for this purpose, till it be 
 shown, that mankind, in regard to the animal part of their 
 constitution, sustain a relation to their Maker like that of 
 brutes, and are no more accountable for the manner of using 
 their animal powers and appetites. But to show this, is what 
 was never attempted, except by those atheistical philoso- 
 phers, who include it in their doctrine of man's entire free- 
 dom from accountability to a Higher Power. There is 
 therefore no proof, that mankind, if they had never fallen, 
 would have endured pain as sensitive beings. God was cer- 
 tainly able to form bodies, that he could preserve forever free 
 from distress and decay. That such were the bodies of our 
 first parents, when they were made, is evident from the fact, 
 that the death of their bodies is a part of the penalty of that 
 law, under which they were placed for trial, and also from 
 the fact, that toil and pain of body are included in the curse, 
 pronounced on them after their apostacy. It may then be 
 asserted without hesitation, that all the miseries, which man- 
 kind endure, are the effects of sin. " By one man sin en- 
 tered into the world, and death by sin ; and so death passed 
 upon all men, for that all have sinned." Sin entered, and 
 the long train of earthly calamities ending in death quickly 
 followed. Sm opened the door into our world, as a traitor 
 opens the gate of a besieged city, and in rushed a host of ene- 
 mies, to plunder, and enslave, and destroy. Why is there no 
 misery in heaven ? Why do angels never mourn over blighted 
 hopes ? Why does God never hide from them the light of his 
 countenance ? No one can be at a loss for the proper answer 
 to these questions. Perfect holiness reigns in heaven, — ^in 
 the breast of every angel. And were the original holiness of 
 mankind to take immediate possession of every soul now on 
 the earth, how would all the happiness of paradise return as 
 in a moment. The voice of sorrow would be heard no lon- 
 ger. All tears would be wiped away. Every heart would 
 
SERMON XI. 375 
 
 beat continually with joyful emotions. Every bosom would 
 be the abode of peace that nothing could disturb. In all this 
 world of immortals, there would be no sense of any present 
 evil, and no dread of any to come. The curse would be re- 
 moved from the face of nature. Instead of the thorn would 
 come up the fir tree ; and instead of the brier would come 
 up the myrtle tree. The mountains M^ould break forth into 
 singing ; and the heavens and the earth would rejoice to- 
 gether. This scene of universal joy would be no longer ima- 
 ginarj', were it not for the pestilence of sin. A righteous God 
 keeps it from becoming real, only because the subjects of his 
 moral government here below, have all rebelled against him. 
 It is wholly in consequence of their rebellion, that he stretches 
 forth his hand to afflict them, — to plant thorns and briers in 
 their path, and give to the winds their hopes of terrestrial 
 happiness. 
 
 But let us pass to consider, 
 
 III. Some of his designs in doing it. 
 
 The Governor of the universe does not act in this thing 
 without any design, nor without one that is perfectly benevo- 
 lent. He does not inflict suffering on men, as they often do 
 on each other, from the impulse of anger, or for the gratifica- 
 tion of cherished revenge. He has an object beyond the suf- 
 fering itself; and that object is a good one. If this could not 
 be answered, the suffering would not be inflicted. In destroy- 
 ing the earthly hopes of men, the Divine Being has designs, 
 consistent with all his perfections. 
 
 Among these, one is, to exhibit his own holiness. That this is 
 an object of infinite importance to the universe, must be ac- 
 knowledged by all, who believe in the moral government of 
 God. If the character'of God be not clearly revealed, his crea- 
 tures must be ignorant of the nature and extent of their obliga- 
 tons to him. But how can he fully exhibit his character, except 
 in what he does ? Is it enough for him to say, that he is pos- 
 sessed of every excellence ? — to send heralds to proclaim it 
 through the universe ? — or give to eveiy race of intelligent 
 beings a book filled with declarations that such is his charac- 
 
376 SERMON XI. 
 
 ter, and with laws requiring them to possess the same char- 
 acter ? What would be the effect on them, if he should assert 
 his own perfect holiness, and yet manifest the same tokens of 
 his favour to the holy and to the unholy, and make them 
 equally happy? The influence of motives would be destroyed, 
 and the moral government of God at an end. It may be ob- 
 jected, that Christ commanded his disciples, to love their ene- 
 mies and not their friends only, that they might be the chil- 
 dren of their heavenly Father ; and adds, " For he maketh 
 his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain 
 on the just and the unjust." To this it may be answered, that 
 the atonement of Christ, by which the law of God is magni- 
 fied and made honourable, renders it consistent with perfect 
 holiness, to suspend the punishment of transgressors, and 
 place them in a state of trial, in which by repentance and 
 faith and their proper fruits they may be fitted for final resto- 
 ration to Heaven's holy family. Without being the friend of 
 sin, therefore, God may bestow on the human race, while in 
 this state of trial, all the blessings necessary to their existence, 
 and a multitude more, to show them his abundant mercy, as 
 long as there remains an opportunity for that mercy, to have 
 any influence in melting their hearts in penitence or inspiring 
 them with gratitude. But should he visit them with no judg- 
 ments during their probation, they would lose sight of his holi- 
 ness. His judgments are calculated to keep it ever in view 
 in living characters, and to keep a strong sense of it always 
 alive in the mind. So jealous is he of the honour of his name, 
 and so careful not to deceive men in regard to his true char- 
 acter, that even under the present reign of mercy, he sur- 
 rounds them with striking tokens of his justice, at every step 
 from the cradle to the grave. It may be asked, how God 
 can exhibit his holiness, in afflicting his children with many 
 of the same temporal evils, with which he afflicts his enemies. 
 The answer is to be found in the remaining sins of his chil- 
 dren ; in chastising them for which, he makes a clearer display 
 of his holiness, the greater his love is to them. Thus fully 
 and constantly does God manifest his perfect holiness, in de- 
 
SERMON XI. 3"?7 
 
 stroying the sublunary hopes of mortals. He manifests it to 
 mortals themselves, and to the higher orders of intelligences^ 
 the principalities and powers, that from other worlds watch 
 with intense interest, his dealings toward our fallen race. 
 
 Another design that God has, in destroying the earthly 
 hopes of men, is to convince them of sin. The display of his 
 holiness in this destruction has a tendency to produce this ef- 
 fect, by bringing him into distinct view, and his character into 
 a near comparison with their own. The same effect is the 
 proper result of the destruction itself. And though it may 
 not be actually produced by this cause alone, yet the natural 
 fitness of the cause to produce it cannot be denied. Nor can 
 it be denied, that a state of mind is often in reality occasion- 
 ed, which is favourable to the reception of divine truth, ap- 
 plied by the convincing Spirit. This fitness and this fact lead 
 us to the design of God. He afflicts men, to excite them to 
 inquire why he does it, then to conduct them to a second in- 
 quiry respecting his character, and thence to the conclusion 
 that they are transgressors in his sight. He sends judgments 
 upon them, to humble them under a deep conviction of their 
 guilt. He multiplies their sorrows, to lead them to see and 
 lament the multitude of their offences. From the clouds of 
 adversity that often come over them, from the bed of sick- 
 ness, the house of mourning, and the opening grave, he mer- 
 cifully calls on them to wake from the slumbers of unbelief 
 and worldliness. In wonderful mercy he wrings the human 
 heart, to produce the pangs of conscious guilt, that sin may 
 be hated and the soul saved. He disappoints our expectations 
 from the world, that we may see and renounce our idolatrous 
 attachment to it. 
 
 Another design of God, in destroying the earthly hopes of 
 men, is to make them sensible of their dependence. He 
 takes away their various props, to let them fall into his hands. 
 In the day of their prosperity, while enjoying a fulness of tem- 
 poral good, they are inclined to forget the Author of their 
 blessings, if not to boast that their own hands have procured 
 
 them, and indulge the exultation of pride in the midst of their 
 
 48 
 
378 SERMON XI. 
 
 abundance. God deprives them of these blessings, to teach 
 them humility, the hardest lesson for mortals to learn. It 
 might be urged upon us continually by commands and exhor- 
 tations, and yet we should go through life ignorant of it, were 
 we not taught it by afflictions. Even the best of men go 
 astray before they are afflicted ; but afterward they walk 
 humbly with God. The trouble to which we are born, spring- 
 ing not from the ground, but from the will of our benevolent 
 Maker, is calculated to convmce us of our helplessness, and 
 lead us to put our whole trust in him. When we feel the ir- 
 resistible workings of disease, — when we feel it coming upon 
 us we know not from what secondary cause, and operating 
 we know not in what manner, to send its thrilling pangs 
 through our frame, and shake us over the grave, we must have 
 an atheistical hardihood of soul, not to be sensible of our en- 
 tire dependence on the Almighty Arbiter of life and death. 
 When we stand by the dying bed of a dear friend, and see the 
 work of the king of terrors going on, notwithstanding all our 
 kind offices, and tears, and prayers, it is then if ever, that we 
 feel powerless in the hands of the Most High, and prostrate 
 ourselves in the dust before his throne. 
 
 A further design of God, in destroying the earthly hopes of 
 men, is to lead them to make him their portion. He takes 
 away our idols, to assert his right to our supreme affections. 
 He breaks asunder the nearest ties, to remind us, that whoso 
 loveth father or mother, wife or child, more than him, is not 
 worthy of him. He wounds our hearts, to bring us to him 
 for the balm of mercy to heal them, and for the cords of love 
 to bind them up. He causes us to pass through the deep wa- 
 ters of affliction, to constrain us to call aloud for his support- 
 ing hand. Afflictions are his swift messengers, sent after us 
 in our various wanderings, to bring us back to him. He makes 
 our streams of earthly happiness fail, to lead us up to the eter- 
 nal fountain. He brings a cloud over us, to constrain us to 
 look to him for light. He frowns upon us, to convince us of 
 the value of his smile, and induce us to seek it as the sunshine 
 of the soul. Let those, therefore, who are walking in the 
 
SERMON XI. 
 
 379 
 
 darkness of affliction, and mourning over the ruin of earthly 
 hopes, give all diligence to secure the blessings of this benev- 
 olent design of God. Let them draw near to his throne of 
 grace, and pour out their sorrows before his pitying eye, and 
 seek a refuge under the shadow of his wings. Let them cast 
 their souls into his hands, and yield their hearts to the full in- 
 fluence of his purifying and comforting Spirit. Let them take 
 him for their portion, his word for their rule of life, his service 
 for their employment, and his favour for their everlasting re- 
 ward. Then shall light divine rise on their darkness ; and 
 though weeping may endure for a night, joy, pure and exalted 
 joy, shall come in the morning. 
 
 A still further design of God, in destroying the earthly 
 hopes of men, is to lead them to make heaven their home. 
 Were our path through life always over firm and smooth 
 ground, covered with flowers, we should dance along in the 
 giddiness of present pleasure, and lose sight of the eternity 
 at the end. We should forget that we are pilgrims and 
 strangers, having here no continuing city, but passing quickly 
 through this wilderness to another country. Were there no 
 thorns on our pillow, we should sleep life away, without any 
 labour for the rest beyond the grave. God disturbs ourpeace 
 here, to draw our thoughts and desires to eternal peace here- 
 after. He breaks our plans for earthly happiness, to fit us 
 for the perfect happiness of heaven. He follows us with dis- 
 appointment after disappointment, from one year to another, 
 to wean our affections from things below, and fix them on 
 things above. While in this sublunary vale we build and re- 
 build upon the sand, he throws down again and again, to lift 
 our thoughts to the skies, there to build on everlasting 
 rock. Often does he make the earth appear to us like a de- 
 sert, that our eyes may be raised with delight to the glories 
 of heaven, as on the barren plains and mountains of Arabia 
 the wayworn pilgrim looks above the desolate earth, and ga- 
 zes with solemn silent rapture on the lights of the firmament. 
 
 From the view which has now been taken of this subject, 
 we are brought to the following inferences. 
 
380 SERMON XI, 
 
 1. We see the folly of not profiting by the experience of 
 past generations. 
 
 If we would receive instruction from the experience of the 
 millions of our race, that have sought a satisfying portion in 
 the world — have hoped for it, and planned, and laboured, 
 and after all died without obtaining it, how deep would be 
 our conviction of the vanity of the world, and how full would 
 be our belief in the happiness of having a treasure in the 
 skies. If we would learn all that can be learnt on this sub- 
 ject, from the history of those of whom we have read, and of 
 those with whom we have been acquainted, what a fund of 
 knowledge should we possess, for the regulation of our con- 
 duct. Are not the lessons of almost six thousand years 
 enough, to teach us the tnith respecting the road to happi- 
 ness ? Are they not enough, to show us what it is not, and 
 what it is ? Must they then be lost to us ? Must they be bu- 
 ried with the generations that have gone down to the grave ? 
 With ajl the instruction before us, which has been accumula- 
 ting ever since the fall, shall we be content to be no wiser 
 than the men of former ages ? How sad the thought, that ev- 
 ery generation as it passes away, should carry with it the 
 benefit of its own experience in the pursuit of earthly pleas- 
 ures, and leave the next generation to find out their vanity by 
 the same fatal experience. Why have we not wisdom enough, 
 to take the results to which men have always been brought 
 in this pursuit in all past ages, and regarding them as estab- 
 Ushed truths, adopt them at once as principles of moral ac- 
 tion ? Why must we try the world ourselves, in order ' to 
 prove its vanity ? We never think of making a similar trial, to 
 learn whether fire will burn or water will drown. But the 
 vanity of earthly hopes is a fact as well settled as the power 
 of these two elements. Why then do we not act as reasona- 
 bly in one case as the other 1 Is it not the extreme of folly 
 in us, to regard our situation as so peculiar, that we in some 
 unaccountable manner shall succeed, where all others have 
 failed '! Where all that have lived before us have found barren- 
 ness and thorns, we fondly expect to find notiiing but fruit and 
 
SERMON XI. 381 
 
 flowers. We blame them for trusting so much to the world 
 for happiness, and perhaps mourn over their disappointment ; 
 but, while doing this, we imitate their conduct, and expect to 
 escape their misery. What reasons then have we to give for 
 regarding ourselves as exceptions in this case ? We have 
 none ; and is it not the very madness of folly, to act without 
 being able to give reasons for our conduct ? 
 
 2. We see the folly of not forsaking sin. 
 
 Jn looking at the progress of sin from the fall of Adam, we 
 behold Death on his pale horse and hell following in its train 
 over the world. Or to look back further than the origin of 
 the human family, we behold sin rolling its desolating tide over 
 a part of heaven, and sweeping a multitude of angels from 
 their thrones down to the bottomless pit. The first sensa- 
 tion of pain in the universe was the effect of the first act of 
 transgression ; and the continued sensations of pain are the 
 effects of continued acts of transgression. To see our earth- 
 ly hopes destroyed is to see the ravages of sin. Where then 
 is our wisdom, in hoping to reach a state of permanent felici- 
 ty, while walking in the path, that has led none to any other 
 end but that of despair ? Why should we build and rebuild, 
 and yet cherish an enemy to throw down without mercy the 
 works of our hands ? Why should we look for a life of peace 
 and safety, while we nurse a scorpion to sting and to poison 
 unto death ? Why should we put far away the thought of 
 destruction, and yet open our door to let in the pestilence ? 
 
 3. We see the folly of not embracing the religion of Christ. 
 In this religion there is a remedy, and the only remedy, for 
 
 every kind and degree of evil. To reject it, is to shut our 
 eyes against the light, shining from heaven, to guide us through 
 the darkness of this world. It is to shut our ears against 
 the voice from heaven, calling us from the paths of the de- 
 stroyer into the way of life. It is to put from us the hand, 
 that offers to us the balm of mercy, and the cords of love, to 
 heal our broken hearts, and bind up all their wounds. It is to 
 spurn from us the hand, that is stretched forth, to blot out our 
 iniquities, and wipe away our tears, and sustain us under the 
 
382 SERMON XI. 
 
 weight of earthly trials, and raise us above the ruin of earthly 
 hopes, and take us up to the dwelling-place of all pure and 
 happy spirits, there to set crowns of glory on our heads, and 
 and give us to drink of the river of immortality. In the midst 
 of our earthly disappointments the gospel comes to us, and 
 reveals to the eye of faith the things of a better world, to ex- 
 cite within us higher hopes than those that are fixed on the 
 vanities of earth. The gospel assures the believer that 
 " these light afflictions which are but for a moment, work for 
 us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory." Thus 
 does it bring from eternity a light to scatter the gloom of 
 time. It makes us happy here, with the hope of immeasura- 
 ble and unending happiness hereafter. O then reject not the 
 gospel, if you would not wrong your own souls in this life, 
 and ruin them in the life to come. Reject not the religion of 
 Christ, if you would not spend eternity in lamenting your fol- 
 ly. Embrace this religion, and though weeping may endure 
 for a night, the dark night of time, joy will come in the morn- 
 ing, the bright morning of eternity. Embrace it and build 
 your hopes upon it ; and you shall not have to mourn at 
 death and say " my days are past, my purposes are broken 
 off, even the thoughts of my heart." — Where is your hope 7 
 You will know where it is. Instead of being torn from it, 
 and from a world where it was built on the sand, you will 
 be carried to it, and to the world where it was built on the 
 Rock of Ages. Who shall see your hope ? The general as- 
 sembly and church of the first born shall see it ; the innum- 
 erable company of angels shall see it ; the admiring universe 
 shall see it ; and the blessed vision of it shall burst upon your 
 own eyes, and fill your souls with all the fulness of God for- 
 ever. Amen. 
 
SERMON XII. 
 
 HEBREWS, xi. 1. 
 " Faith is the substance of things hoped for, and the evidence of things not seen." 
 
 The word " faith" is used by the sacred writers with some 
 variety of signification. 
 
 When Christ said to his disciples, If ye have faith as a 
 grain of mustard seed, ye shall say to this mountain, Remove 
 hence to yonder place, and it shall remove, — he did not 
 mean to imply that they had not the smallest degree of the 
 faith which is necessary to salvation, for they were really in 
 a state of salvation ; but he meant that they had none of that 
 miraculous faith, w^hich was a gift peculiar to the age. When 
 St. James says that faith without works is dead — that the dev- 
 ils believe and tremble, he must refer to an historical or spec- 
 ulative faith, which is the bare assent of the understanding to 
 the existence of truth ; — for the belief of the heart is unto 
 righteousness, and is known by its fruits. When, therefore, 
 it is said, Believe and thou shalt be saved, a kind of faith dif- 
 ferent from either of these must be intended. The difference 
 between the faith of the intellect and that of the affections is 
 often apparently marked in the sacred volume by a slight 
 difference of language. When the former is spoken of, the 
 word believe almost always immediately precedes the word 
 expressing the object of belief. — " If ye believe not his writ- 
 ings how shall ye believe my words ?" — that is, regard them 
 as true. On the contrary when the latter is spoken of, the 
 particle or or in generally occurs between the word believe 
 and the object of faith. — " How can they believe in him of 
 whom they have not heard ?" " Believe on the Lord Jesus 
 
384 SERMON XII. 
 
 Christ, and thou shalt be saved" — that is, trust in him, rely 
 on him. The faith that justifies and saves is a cordial and 
 entire rehance, upon the atonement and righteousness of 
 Christ — a receiving of Christ into the soul, in all his offices as 
 revealed in the scriptures. 
 
 Saving faith appears in various exercises, according to the 
 various objects in view of which it is exercised. That faith 
 which is the substance of things hoped for and the evidence 
 of things not seen, is a particular exercise of saving faith ; — is 
 included in it as a part in the whole. — There is, indeed, an 
 exercise of speculative faith corresponding to this exercise of 
 saving faith. A man may have a kind of belief in things 
 hoped for and things not seen, without being governed by 
 them, as easily as he can have a kind of belief in Christ with- 
 out embracing him as the only Saviour, and obeying him as 
 the Supreme Lawgiver. 
 
 But the faith intended in the text is genuine ; for it is that 
 without which, as it is said in the context, it is impossible to 
 please God, — and to illustrate which by its effects, a long 
 catalogue of eminent saints is introduced. 
 
 The object of the present discourse is to consider the na- 
 ture, the reasonableness and the effects of faith in the invisible 
 things of religion. 
 
 I. The nature of this faith. 
 
 Faith is the substance, [or subsistence,] of things hoped for 
 and the evidence, [or, according to the strong meaning of the 
 original word, the demonstration,] of things not seen. 
 
 That is, faith in its full exercise regards the future, and un- 
 seen things of revelation as though they were really present 
 and visible ; and allows them the same influence upon the 
 temper and conduct. 
 
 The first part of the passage respects future good only ; for 
 nothing else can be the object of hope. 
 
 The latter part is more general. " Things unseen" include 
 all the objects of revelation, that lie beyond the reach of our 
 senses. They embrace those examples in the catalogue sub 
 joined to the text, which have no concern with " things hoped 
 
SERMON XII. 
 
 385 
 
 for" — such as the creation of the world, and its destruction 
 by a flood. Noah, being warned of God, of things not seen 
 as yet, was moved with/e«r to prepare an ark. 
 
 The meaning of the text, then, taken as a whole, may be 
 thus expressed — Faith is a full assurance of the reality of all 
 the invisible objects pertaining to religion, so clear and firm as 
 to produce the same effect, as if they were before the eyes 
 in a visible, substantial form. A man needs only to glance at 
 the lives of that family of the faithful arranged under the text, 
 to be convinced that the idea of effect enters into the very na- 
 ture of this faith. It does not deserve the name of faith with- 
 out it. It is a living principle, that reigns in the heart, flows 
 out in the life and overcomes the world. 
 
 It is no shadow — no dream of a bewildered imagination ; 
 but a sober, thorough conviction of the judgment, the con- 
 science, and the heart, — founded upon infallible evidence and 
 wrought in the soul by the Spirit of God. 
 
 No such monuments, as these erected to the honor of faith 
 in the achievements of her worthies, could be built upon a 
 visionary foundation. But to be more particular. 
 
 We are the creatures of sense — surrounded by sensible ob- 
 jects. We acquire oar ideas of these objects, either directly 
 or indirectly, through the medium of our external senses ; and 
 we are inclined to believe in their existence, upon the evi- 
 dence of our senses, rather than any other. Though there 
 may be other evidence as conclusive in the amount, yet noth- 
 ing seems to satisfy us like this — we have seen with our own 
 eyes — we have heard with our own ears. Thus when we 
 are called upon to believe in the existence of an invisible ob- 
 ject, we are inclined to turn instinctively to the same source 
 for evidence, — as is often the case in children with respect to 
 the existence of God ; and when reason forbids us to expect 
 such evidence, we are inclined to supply its place as nearly as 
 possible by imaginary forms. 
 
 This inclination is kept alive, by the constant use which we 
 are obliged to make of the same language in speaking of in- 
 visible objects, as in speaking of those that are visible. 
 
 49 
 
386 SERMON XII. 
 
 Thus in speaking of God, whom no mortal eye hath seen, 
 or can see and live, we use language borrowed from the form 
 and properties of man, which inclines us to figure to ourselves 
 an imaginary being similar to man. 
 
 When we speak of Heaven as the dwelling-place of the 
 Most High — of his being seated there upon a throne, we may 
 imagine that in some region of ineffable brightness and beau- 
 ty, above these visible skies — somewhere amid suns and sys- 
 tems, one like the sovereigns of earth sits upon a similar throne, 
 surrounded with similar ensigns of power and royalty — not 
 considering that God is a Spirit, whom the heaven of heavens 
 cannot contain. And it may be supposed by some, that it is 
 thus we are to set the Lord always before our eyes — and live 
 as seeing him who is invisible. 
 
 We may imagine a beautiful person with open arms and a 
 benign countenance, beckoning and beseeching us by the 
 sight of his bleeding hands and side, to come and embrace 
 him — and this may be called a glimpse of the love of Christ 
 by an eye of faith — believing on him whom we have not 
 seen. 
 
 We may imagine a city with foundations of precious stones, 
 and streets of gold, and gates of pearl — filled with an innu- 
 merable company of happy spirits arrayed in white, with 
 palms, and harps, and crowns — and then call this an exercise 
 of that faith which gives substance to things hoped for. 
 
 To let our fancy wander through an ideal paradise, filled 
 with every thing that can regale the senses, may be thought 
 the same thing as to have our conversation in Heaven. 
 
 We may imagine a bottomless pit, filled with all the horrid 
 images of that prison of despair — and call this that faith 
 which keeps eternal things in view. 
 
 I do not mean that this vivid conception of invisible objects 
 is never found where there is true faith. It frequently ac- 
 companies it, and when not employed upon God himself, 
 may sometimes strengthen it, if the foundation of the faith 
 itself be something more solid. That it should is agreeable 
 
SERMON XII. 387 
 
 to our nature, and to Divine wisdom, as appears from the lan- 
 guage and whole tenor of the Bible. 
 
 But what I mean is — that the liveliest conception of things 
 unseen is not faith itself — is no part of it--no exercise of it. 
 It may exist where there is no spiritual discernment — no 
 heart-felt conviction — not a spark of that faith, which is the 
 substance of things hoped for, and the evidence of things not 
 seen. 
 
 The imagination may be awake, or it may be asleep, while 
 the child of God is in the exercise of a genuine and lively faith 
 in invisible things. 
 
 It may be awake. This is often the fact for some time 
 after old things have passed away, and all things have be- 
 come new to the regenerated soul. 
 
 It may be asleep. This is often the fact in the established 
 saint — one whose contemplations on invisible eternal things 
 have long been so familiar, as to have acquired a consistency 
 of meaning without being embodied into imaginary represen- 
 tations on which to fix. 
 
 He can now exercise faith in Christ, and come to him in the 
 spiritual sense of scripture, without any thing like an image 
 before the mind ; and though now he see him not, yet be- 
 lieving in liim, he can rejoice with joy unspeakable and full of 
 glory. 
 
 He has been so long accustomed, upon the testimony of 
 him who cannot lie, to regard the state and the abode of the 
 righteous after death as unspeakably happy and glorious, that 
 the bare mention of Heaven without any allusion to sensible 
 objects, may awaken the strongest desires, and rouse to the 
 most vigorous action. His faith has become emphatically 
 spiritual, and yet so consistent and steadfast that he rests his 
 all upon it, and is at peace. 
 
 Though his imagination may no more attempt to conceive 
 the things that are prepared for him in Heaven, — still know- 
 ing whom he has believed, he is as fully satisfied, as confident 
 of their reality, as if they were in actual sight, and actual pos- 
 session. 
 
388 SERMON XII. 
 
 Blessed indeed is the man with such a prospect of Hea- 
 ven — for flesh and blood have not revealed it unto him, but 
 the Father who is in Heaven. 
 
 This is solid, spiritual, eftectual faith — that faith which is 
 the subsistence of things hoped for, and the demonstration of 
 things not seen. It is a serious, thorough conviction of the 
 judgment, which the conscience approves, and the heart em- 
 braces ; .and is wrought in the soul by the Spirit of God. 
 
 We are to consider, 
 
 II. The reasonableness of this faith. It is reasonable, 
 
 1. Because it is founded upon evidence. 
 
 Skeptics have treated the idea of such a faith with con- 
 tempt ; and ridiculed its possessors as pitiable visionaries, 
 who trust in a phantom. They believe, they know not what, 
 but their belief makes it true — say they with an air of tri- 
 umph. We know what we believe is our reply ; and our be- 
 lief is reasonable, for it is founded upon evidence. They 
 pronounce it impossible for a man in the exercise of a sound 
 understanding, to believe in the existence of God while invis- 
 ible, as really and fully as if he were visible. But if the ex- 
 istence of God while invisible be as certain as if he were vis- 
 ible, it is not only possible, but reasonable that our belief 
 should be as certain. 
 
 The evidence in support of the Divine existence amounts 
 to absolute demonstration. If God were visible it could 
 amount to no more. The invisible things of God are clearly 
 seen, being understood by the things that are made — for 
 things that are made must have a maker. 
 
 A visible appearance of the Godhead, therefore, could not 
 make his existence moi'e evident than it now is. As much 
 as this is rendered probable by the effect of those few occur- 
 rences in nature, which seem to approach the nearest to such 
 a visible appearance. The thunder and earthquake seem to 
 speak a present God in plainer language, than many other 
 events, which are really exhibitions of equal power, because 
 their recurrence is less frequent, and their instrumental cause 
 less obvious. 
 
SERMON XII. 389 
 
 But, though they strike the senses more strongly at first, 
 they do not render the Divine existence more necessary and 
 evident, than the growing harvest and the flowing stream. 
 
 If we had seen the sun rise this morning for the first time, 
 it would have struck instantaneous conviction of the exist- 
 ence of an unseen Almighty hand, while we were trembling 
 with the expectation of seeing it followed as a forerunner, by 
 some yet more visible display of the Godhead breaking forth 
 from the hiding-place of his glory : but the rising of the sun 
 this morning was really the same thing as its first rising ; and 
 consequently the evidence of the Divine existence is the same 
 that it was on the first morning of time. 
 
 It is reasonable then, that our belief should be as firm as it 
 would have been, had we been present with rejoicing angels 
 at the creation of the heavens and the earth, and had heard 
 the Almighty command " Let there be light." And I repeat 
 it, if we had seen God himself with our bodily eyes, such a 
 sight, though it might overwhelm our senses, could not make 
 his existence more evident than it now is, in the view of so- 
 ber, candid reason — could add nothing to the evidence upon 
 which a reasonable faith is founded. Moses had no more ev- 
 idence of the Divine existence, after having been upon Mount 
 Sinai, and conversed with God forty days by an audible voice, 
 than he had before — and his faith was the same as before, and 
 the fruits of his faith in his life were essentially the same. 
 
 It is then possible and reasonable to believe in an invisible 
 God, whose existence cannot be otherwise than certain, as 
 really and firmly as if he were visible. 
 
 And it is further possible and reasonable, in virtue of this 
 belief, to exercise love towards him, as readily as if he were 
 visible. 
 
 What is it that we love in our friend ? Is it any thing which 
 we see in form or feature ? or is it the secret soul within ? 
 We may indeed behold expressions of his lovely qualities in 
 his countenance, but these attract us only as they indicate 
 the character of the soul which we love. 
 
 And so the child of God beholds expressions of intelligence 
 
390 
 
 SERMON XII. 
 
 and benevolence in the face of the earth and heavens ; but 
 they only lead him to love that Eternal Spirit, v^^ho operates 
 unseen and animates the whole. 
 
 That faith which is the subsistence of things hoped for, and 
 the demonsti-ation of things not seen, so far as it relates to 
 those invisible objects which God has revealed, is also possi- 
 ble and reasonable, for it is founded upon the evidence of in- 
 fallible testimony — even the sure word of him who cannot 
 lie. Is it not possible and reasonable for an American, who 
 never crossed the ocean, to believe in the existence of such 
 a country as England or India, as really and firmly as if he 
 had seen it? And is it not possible and reasonable for a 
 man who has never crossed the Jordan of death to believe in 
 the existence of a heavenly Canaan, as really and firmly as if 
 he had seen it ? 
 
 The merchant does not maintain a commerce for fifty 
 years with a country whose existence is a mere matter of 
 opinion with him, and not of absolute belief. No — he be- 
 lieves its existence as positively and firmly as he could if he 
 had seen it a thousand times ; and he would never think of 
 saying upon the first sight of it — Now I am satisfied of its ex- 
 istence. His beUef is founded upon the testimony of his fel- 
 low-men. The Christian's belief in the existence of a hea- 
 venly country, is founded upon the testimony of God. 
 
 The merchant's belief is beyond all dispute, and has never 
 been disturbed for a moment by the least shadow of a doubt. 
 And it is perfectly reasonable ; for it is founded upon testi- 
 mony which is morally certain ; — which however, if we were 
 disposed to meet the skeptic in his own way, we might at- 
 tempt to weaken, by calling it the testimony of creatures who 
 are all liable to mistake and full of deception — while the tes- 
 timony of Christ, who came from Heaven — proved that he 
 did, by the nature of his errand, by his miracles, his own 
 character, and the character of his gospel, is the testimony of 
 one who spake as never man spake — one who was infallible 
 in knowledge, and who was truth itself. And must one who 
 believes in the existence of a country wliich he never saw, so 
 
SERMON XII. 39i 
 
 confidently as to govern all his plans, and risk all his worldly 
 interests in virtue of such a belief, as promptly as if it were 
 founded upon actual sight, be pronounced perfectly reasona- 
 ble — while another who believes in the existence of an invis- 
 ible Heaven, so confidently as to govern all his plans, and risk 
 his eternal interests in virtue of such a belief, as promptly as 
 if it were founded upon actual sight, is pronounced unreason- 
 able ? 
 
 Has the child of God, then, no reason to give for his faith, 
 as well as his hope ? Is he who walks by faith and not by 
 sight a visionary ? Is he not rather the only man who grasps 
 at real substance 1 And is not his faith the only belief that 
 deserves to be called reasonable ? 
 
 If we will not believe in the invisible realities of eternity 
 upon infallible testimony — if we will not believe Moses and 
 the Prophets, the Apostles and the Son of God himself, nei- 
 ther should we be persuaded, though one arose from the dead, 
 and appeared to our mortal eyes — Though liazarus should 
 come down from his celestial seat, clad in the habiliments of 
 light — or the rich man rise from his place of torment with 
 the dark appalling countenance of a fiend — though all heaven 
 were opened to our view, and we lived and acted all the 
 while beneath a transparent sky through which all the glories 
 of the upper world, from the throne in the centre to its ut- 
 most boundaries were distinctly visible, and the eyes of every 
 being there were seen fixed upon us, and followed us in all 
 our movements — though hell itself were naked before us, and 
 destruction were stript of her covering. 
 
 Faith in things future and unseen, which are objects of 
 promise or threatening, is reasonable, 
 
 2. Because it is founded upon the immutable perfections 
 of God. 
 
 This idea has been partially anticipated, or rather implied ; 
 in as much as it is the ground of that infallibility of testimony, 
 upon which rests the truth of all the invisible objects of reve- 
 lation except the Divine existence itself ; — but its importance 
 demands a distinct consideration. 
 
392 SERMON XII. 
 
 All the attributes of God are engaged to perform his word 
 — whether it be a promise or a threatening — whether it be to 
 save, or to destroy — to plant and build, or pluck up and pull 
 down. But his power and veracity are conspicuous, and 
 therefore claim more particular attention. 
 
 If God is both able and faithful to perform his word, the 
 foundation of the believer's faith standeth sure — and the in- 
 ference follows that it is reasonable. 
 
 In proof of the power and faithfulness of God, in perform- 
 ing his word, we are compassed about with a great cloud of 
 witnesses. The apostle begins with the creation, proceeds 
 onward through a long line of patriarchs and prophets, and 
 rising with the inspiration of his theme, is borne along from 
 example to example, until time fails and he is obliged to fill 
 up at once the chasm from David to his own day, with a flood 
 of wonders that were wrought, and sufferings that were en- 
 dured. In all these examples the effects of faith are not 
 more manifest, than are the power and faithfulness of a cov- 
 enant-keeping God. 
 
 I shall notice two or three examples, in which the most 
 imphcit confidence in the word of God was not in the least 
 degree disappointed. 
 
 The faith of Noah was exercised in view of promises and 
 threatenings — promises to himself and family, and threatenings 
 to an ungodly world. By faith, Noali, being warned of God, 
 of things not seen as yet, moved with fear, prepared an ark to 
 the saving of his house. 
 
 When God saw that the wickedness of man was great in 
 the earth, and that every imagination of the thoughts of his 
 heart was only evil continually, he said to Noah, who alone 
 had found grace in his eyes — The end of all flesh is come ; 
 behold I, even I, do bring a flood of waters upon the earth, 
 to destroy all flesh, wherein is the breath of life, from under 
 heaven ; and every living thing that is in the earth shall die ; • 
 but with thee will I establish my covenant. He commanded 
 him to build an ark for the saving of himself and his house- 
 
SERMON XII. 393 
 
 hold. And thus did Noah, according to all that God com- 
 manded him, so did he. 
 
 Had his faith been less than implicit, and less than the de- 
 monstration of things not seen, he might have raised a thou- 
 sand scruples respecting the certainty of such an event as God 
 had predicted, and the practicability of such an undertaking 
 as God had commanded. Who hath seen such a thing ? 
 Who hath heard such a thing ? How shall the beasts of the 
 field be assembled from their dispersion, two by two into the 
 ark, and the fowls of the air collected from the four winds ? 
 Will not the flood leave us still a refuge in the highest moun- 
 tains ? 
 
 But no — thus did Noah ; according to all that the Lord 
 commanded, so did he — without saying a word. The Lord 
 hath spoken, was enough for him. He seems not to have 
 thought of looking beyond this for evidence — or of starting 
 any objection to it from the region of improbabilities and im- 
 possibilities ; believing with his whole heart that all things 
 are possible with God, and though earth and heaven also pass 
 away, his word should not pass away. 
 
 He showed by his conduct, that his faith was as full and 
 firm, as if he already saw the heavens opening, and the tor- 
 rents descending — the fountains of the great deep breaking 
 up, and the waters rushing in upon every side. The event 
 proved that his faith was reasonable — but what became of an 
 unbelieving world ? 
 
 The history of Abraham's faith is still more remarkable. 
 The Lord said unto Abraham — Up, get thee out of thy coun- 
 try, and from thy kindred, and from thy father's house, unto a 
 land that I will show thee : and I will make thy name great — 
 will make of thee a great nation, and will bless thee. 
 
 Once satisfied that this was the voice of God, he arose, and 
 without questioning the reasonableness of obeying such a 
 command, or trusting such a promise, went immediately out, 
 not knowing whither he went. And was he following a 
 phantom, in thus submitting to be guided by an unseen hand ? 
 
 50 
 
394 
 
 SERMON XII. 
 
 Was it unreasonable to be thus led by the Spirit of God ? 
 Let the sequel answer this question. 
 
 But the severest trial of his faith was yet to come. The 
 tender father is commanded to take his son, his only son 
 Isaac, whom he loved, the very child given according to the 
 promise of Heaven, and in whose single person the existence 
 of the great nation of descendants promised to him, and I 
 may add, the veracity of his God, were at stake, in the sight 
 of an unbelieving world — the child of all his hopes and pray- 
 ers — the child of his fond old age — he is commanded to take 
 this object of interest so exclusive — to tear him away from ties 
 so endearing and prospects so bright, — and under the collected 
 weight of all these circumstances lead him off alone to a dis- 
 tant mountain, and there, on the altar of blood and burning 
 sacrifice, with his own hands — take the life which in any oth- 
 er situation he should have preserved at the risk of his own. 
 How many objections might a weak faith have raised against 
 obeying such a command. Its nature, and object — could it 
 come from the eternal Father of mercies ? How long might 
 a weak faith have found some pretence for waiting to be sat- 
 isfied again and again, that such was in reality the command 
 of Him whose goodness is infinite and everlasting. 
 
 But no such weakness of faith appeared in the father of 
 the faithful. Without a doubt or a murmur he bowed his 
 head in silence at the well known voice of the Lord, and 
 then departed with that lamb by his side whose unsuspecting 
 dutifulness must have stung him to the heart, while they went 
 both of them together, with the wood, the fire and the knife, 
 all that mournful way to the place appointed for the unexam- 
 pled sacrifice. 
 
 " By faith Abraham, when he was tried, offered up Isaac ; 
 and he that had received the promises oflfered up his only be- 
 gotten son, of whom it was said, That in Isaac shall thy seed 
 be called ; accounting that God was able to raise him up even 
 from the dead." 
 
 Faithful is he that hath promised, was all in all to the holy 
 patriarch, *'He staggered not at the promise through unbe- 
 
SERMON XII. 
 
 395 
 
 lief, but was strong in faith, giving glory to God, being fully 
 persuaded that what he had promised, he was able also to 
 perform." And he did perform it. He did give his seed the 
 land of Canaan for an inheritance — he did multiply them as 
 the stars of the sky, and as the sands by the sea-shore innum- 
 erable. 
 
 God has ever showed himself to be a faithful God, who 
 keepeth covenant and mercy to a thousand generations. The 
 bow in the cloud is a witness for him. Seed-time and har- 
 vest, summer and winter, day and night, are perpetual witness- 
 es. As God is the same, yesterday, to-day, and forever, — his 
 power and veracity are as much engaged for the perform- 
 ance of all his promises and threatenings, as they were for 
 the performance of those which we have contemplated. 
 Their performance then is as certain, and consequently our 
 faith in view of them should be as firm and effectual. God 
 hath appointed a day of judgment. And the language of un- 
 belief is — " where is the promise of his coming ?" for since 
 the fathers fell asleep all things continue as they were from 
 the creation — The sun rises and sets ; — the moon and stars 
 withdraw not their shining — the seasons hold on their course 
 uninterrupted. The heavens are calm over our heads, and 
 the earth is steadfast under our feet : — We see nothing of 
 danger, we hear nothing. But God destroyed the world by a 
 flood according to his threatening ; and he will as surely de- 
 stroy it by fire according to his threatening. — He saved Noah 
 and his family, according to his promise, — and he will save all 
 that flee into the Christian's ark of mercy according to his 
 promise. He gave the land of Canaan to the seed of Abra- 
 ham, according to his promise — and he will give to his Son 
 the heathen for an inheritance, and the uttermost parts of the 
 earth for a possession — and he will give to all his children an 
 inheritance incorruptible, undefiled, that fadeth not away. 
 
 If then that faith which is the subsistence of things hoped 
 for, and the demonstration of things not seen, was reasona- 
 ble in Noah and Abraham, as the event abundantly proves, 
 the same in Christians now with respect to things still future 
 
396 
 
 SERMON XII. 
 
 and unseen, is also reasonable, — for it is founded upon the 
 same immutable perfections of God. 
 
 We come now to consider, 
 
 III. The effects of this faith. 
 
 These effects are numerous and great ; but they are all ex- 
 pressed in one sentence from St. John — " This is the victory 
 that overcometh the world, even our faith." 
 
 Faith overcomes the world. 
 
 The world is seen : — Heaven is hoped for. Sense governs 
 those whose hearts are in the world ; — and faith those whose 
 hearts are in Heaven. Both cannot reign together. One 
 therefore must overcome the other. In them who are born 
 of God, this victory is given to faith. 
 
 It overcomes all that is in the world, the lust of the flesh, 
 the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life. It treads the 
 world beneath its feet, triumphs over it, rises above it, and 
 stretches forward into futurity. 
 
 It looks upon this life as a dream, an empty show, for it 
 has an eye upon the end, and upon that eternal life beyond. 
 It turns from the trifles of time, to grasp the realities of eter- 
 nity — weans the affections from things below, and sets them 
 on things above. 
 
 It renders afflictions light and momentary, by contempla- 
 ting that far more exceeding, and eternal weight of glory, 
 which they shall work out. In bringing distant and invisible 
 scenes into present view, it gives them all the influence of re- 
 alities, over the temper and conduct. 
 
 Such was the power of faith in those whom the apostle has 
 enumerated. By faith Noah overcame the world, as well as 
 condemned it. While all around him were eating and drink- 
 ing as if the earth were to abide forever ; — he stood alone 
 on the high and holy ground of implicit confidence in God, 
 he stood alone a preacher of righteousness, warning them of 
 the fatal day ; and, though made a gazing-stock, went on un- 
 moved, with the work of preparation. 
 
 " By faith Abraham sojourned even in the land of promise, 
 as in a strange countiy, dwelling in tabernacles with Isaac 
 
SERMON XII. 397 
 
 and Jacob, the heirs with him of the same promise : — for he 
 looked for a city which hath foundations, whose builder and 
 maker is God." 
 
 " These all died in faith, not having received the promises, 
 but having seen them afar off, and were persuaded of them, 
 and embraced them, and confessed that they were strangers 
 and pilgrims in the earth. For they that say such things de- 
 clare plainly, that they seek another and a better country, 
 even an heavenly." 
 
 " By faith Moses, when he was come to years, refused to 
 be called the son of Pharaoh's daughter ; choosing rather to 
 sutler affliction with the people of God, than to enjoy the 
 pleasures of sin for a season ; esteeming the reproach of 
 Christ greater riches than the treasures of Egypt : for he 
 had respect unto the recompense of reward. By faith he for- 
 sook Egypt, not fearing the wrath of the king ; for he endur- 
 ed as seeing him who is invisible." 
 
 And what shall I say more ? for the time would fail me to 
 tell of — prophets, and apostles, and martyrs, who believed all 
 things, and under the mighty influence of this faith performed 
 all things, hoped all things, and endured all things, — of proph- 
 ets who stopped the mouths of lions in their den, and quench- 
 ed the violence of the fiery furnace ; — of apostles and mar- 
 tyrs, who wandered about destitute, afflicted, tormented — of 
 whom the world was not worthy — who were stoned and 
 sawn asunder, — but who in the tortures of martyrdom ac- 
 cepted not deliverance, that they might obtain a better re- 
 surrection — even to eternal life. 
 
 This is indeed overcoming the world, and all that is there- 
 in, — and triumphing over the grave, by the power of faith. 
 
 " Wherefore seeing we are compassed about with so great 
 a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight, and the 
 sin which doth so easily beset u.s, and let us run with patience 
 the race set before us, looking unto Jesus the author tmd fin- 
 isher of our faith ; who for the joy set before him, endured 
 the cross, despising the shame, and is set down at the right 
 hand of the throne of God." 
 
398 SERMON XII. 
 
 Faith overcomes the world, by keeping eternal things in 
 view. 
 
 A spiritual discernment of invisible eternal realities, which 
 is the conviction of the judgment, conscience, and heart — 
 which is founded upon the immutable perfections of God, 
 and is wrought in the soul by his Spirit,— is a light, that shows 
 all beneath the sun to be vanity. 
 
 While we look steadfastly at the things which are unseen 
 and eternal, — the things which are seen and temporal appear 
 in their true character, and lose their power. 
 
 If at any time the world appear so inviting, as to cause a 
 sigh at the thought of leaving it, faith despoils it of every 
 charm, by seating us upon the ruins of the last conflagration. 
 
 When the world presents her intoxicating cup — faith dash- 
 es it to the ground untasted, while she points to a holy God, 
 and a judgment to come. 
 
 When the world would overcome us by her frowns or flat- 
 teries, faith steps in, and gains the victory, by giving us a 
 glimpse of our resting-place. 
 
 Faith takes us away from earth and time, and carries us 
 forward ten thousand ages into eternity ; — bids us turn, and 
 from that point look back upon this world — then O how she 
 triumphs over it ! 
 
 Faith overcomes the world by surrounding us with the 
 presence of the invisible God. 
 
 To set the Lord always before us — to live as seeing him 
 who is invisible — must turn away the eyes from beholding 
 vanity, and keep the heart from minding earthly things. 
 While we feel that we cannot flee the notice of his eye, that 
 we are beset behind and before, and that his unseen hand is up- 
 on us, what power can the world have to lead us astray ? 
 
 Faith overcomes the world by revealing a refuge in the in- 
 visible God. 
 
 In this warfare with the world we all need an Almighty 
 arm to protect us and bear us up, lest we fall and be over- 
 come ourselves. The contest is not yet decided — the final 
 victory is not yet ours. We are weak — our enemies are ma- 
 
SEKMON XII. 399 
 
 ny and powerful. We are in the enemies country, beset 
 with dangers, and kept in constant alarm by foes without and 
 fears within. We want then a tower, a strong-hold, into 
 which we may run and be safe. 
 
 Amidst all the trials and vicissitudes of life, we want an 
 object of trust beyond the reach of change, on which we may 
 rest forever without wavering — that our confidence may be- 
 come a habit so inwrought with our very existence, that when 
 we cease to trust, we may cease to be. 
 
 Faith discovers such a refuge — such an object of trust, — in 
 the invisible God. 
 
 With a faithful God for his portion, the believer wants 
 nothing here. He lets the world pass. With the eternal God 
 for his refuge, he has nothing to fear. His victory is certain. 
 He will not fear what flesh can do unto him. Though an 
 host encamp against him, he will not be afraid. The Lord 
 is at his right hand, and he cannot be moved. 
 
 He can look into the grave without fear, while he knows — 
 knows in whom he has believed, and is persuaded that he is 
 able to keep that which he commits into his hands, and faith- 
 ful to remember it at the rising of the just. 
 
 He can even look upon the end of all things without tremb- 
 ling ;. for while the heavens are passing away, and the earth 
 and the works that are therein are burning up, he shall hear 
 the Almighty Judge from his throne in that great and terri- 
 ble day, saying to him in accents of infinite mercy — with all 
 the condescending tenderness of a reigning Redeemer — " It 
 is I, be not afraid." From his ark of safety he shall see the 
 flood of Divine wrath coming upon the world, and while the 
 unbelieving and ungodly are fleeing to the mountains, quaking 
 with fear and wailing because the day is come, " he will not 
 fear though the earth be removed, and though the mountains 
 be carried into the midst of the sea — though the waves there- 
 of roar and be troubled — though the mountains shake with 
 the swelling thereof" 
 
 " The Lord of hosts is with him — the God of Jacob is his 
 refuge." 
 
400 
 
 SERMON XII. 
 
 This is the final triumph of faith. The warfare is over, 
 and the victory complete. Her trials are at an end : — her 
 reward is come — the reward of her patience, her prayers and 
 her tears. She opens her eyes upon the sight of all that she 
 believed, and loses herself in the enjoyment of all that she 
 hoped for. The believer has now done forever with behold- 
 ing through a glass darkly : henceforth he sees face to face ; 
 henceforth he sees as he is seen, and knows as he is known, 
 and loves as he is loved. 
 
SERMON XIII. 
 
 JEREMIAH, ii 32. 
 
 " Can a maid forget her ornaments, or a bride her attire ? Yet my people have 
 forgotten me days without number." 
 
 In looking over the face of society, among many features 
 characteristic of human nature, forgetfulness of God strikes 
 the eye of contemplative piety as not the least prominent. 
 To hsten to the conversation of the vast multitude, to watch 
 them in their innumerable pursuits of business and pleasure, 
 and to follov^^ them into the retirement of the family, is to find 
 melancholy proof of their incHnation to forget the great and 
 good Being that made them. Nor will any candid man find, 
 in the retirement of his breast, less convincing proof of this 
 strong and universal inchnation. Were there nothing to bring 
 the eternal God to mind, but the natural disposition of men, 
 he would not be in all their thoughts. Left to themselves, 
 when would they begin to inquire after the Author of their 
 being and their blessings, in order to render him the tribute 
 of gratitude and obedience? Never ! — Neither in the boasted 
 innocence of childhood, nor in the loveliness of youth, nor yet 
 in the wisdom of manhood, nor even in the sobriety of age. 
 The millions of one generation after another would live 
 through every period of their mortal course, without any de- 
 vout recognition of their Creator ; and death would find them 
 all, in every important respect, without God in the world — 
 without any love to his infinite excellence, any hope in his 
 mercy, any fear of his justice, or any knowledge of his per- 
 fections. 
 
 51 
 
40» 
 
 SERMON XIII. 
 
 And now that he has revealed himself in so many ways, in 
 manifestations so clear, coming in from every quarter, to 
 bring him to view, the conduct and condition of multitudes, 
 even in christian lands, is hardly less lamentable. These 
 find themselves in possession of an intelligent existence, des- 
 tined to be prolonged for ages without end ; and yet this gift 
 of an existence so exalted, is enjoyed, as if it were no gift of 
 divine benevolence, but a blessing of their own procuring, or 
 conferred on them in the revolutions of chance, and therefore 
 bringing with it no governing weight of obligations to a high- 
 er power. They find themselves upheld, and borne along 
 from one year to another, in the midst of all the instruments 
 of death in operation around them, and yet they seem to care 
 not by what almighty hand. They find their path scattered 
 with a rich variety of mercies, but the hand that scatters them 
 is unseen and forgotten. Thousands pass through life, not 
 only without any spiritual knowledge of their Maker, but even 
 without any serious thoughts about him. When they look up- 
 ward to the glories of the firmament, they see not the glory 
 of God. When they look around on the loveliness and mu- 
 nificence of earth, they see not the loveliness and munificence 
 of God. They look upon the universe as an empty edifice, 
 and not as the abode of the omnipresent Maker of all things. 
 Were the sun as near the earth as the moon is, it would cover 
 the whole visible heavens, and all above and around us would 
 be nothing but one blazing firmament. This image affords 
 but a faint illustration of the glory of the all-surrounding Di- 
 vinity ; and yet these men see him not. In him they live, and 
 move, and have their being ; and yet they feel him not. He 
 speaks to them in the soft accents of mercy, and in the thun- 
 ders of omnipotent justice ; and yet they hear him not. He 
 is about their path by day, and their bed by night ; he is ever 
 behmd them and before, on the right hand and on the left ; 
 and yet they live all this while unconcious of his presence. 
 They live at ease without even inquiring whether he have any 
 claims upon them or not, and whether he will be their friend 
 or their enemy, and will make them happy or miserable be- 
 
SERMON XIII. -103 
 
 yond the grave. They Hve as if there were no God of holi- 
 ness on the throne, whose eye is ever fixed upon them, and to 
 whose righteous tribunal they are hastening with the speed 
 of winds. They overlook the infinite Jehovah ; they think 
 not of him. They can think of any being but him — any being 
 but that God, whom all the hosts of heaven contemplate with 
 unceasing adoration, and whom they would remember, though 
 every other object in the universe were forgotten. They 
 can employ their thoughts with intense interest on the veriest 
 trifles of the world ; but they cannot thus employ them on 
 the great and glorious Jehovah. A maid cannot forget her 
 ornaments, nor a bride her attire ; but the offspring of the in- 
 finite God can forget him days without number. Yes — they 
 can do it days without number. Life is not too long to be 
 all spent in forgetfulness of God. 
 
 In the observations that have now been made, we have be- 
 fore us a fact, that ought to be as alarming to us, as it must be 
 astonishing to angels. It cannot be denied to be a fact of 
 deep and fearful interest to us, as helpless creatures in the 
 hands of this forgotten God, and bound by every possible ob- 
 ligation to remember him without ceasing, and with all the 
 love of a humble and holy heart. 
 
 With this fact in view permit me to call your serious atten- 
 tion to the following remarks respecting it. 
 
 I. Forgetfulness of God is consistent with enmity towards 
 him. 
 
 It is evident that the forgetfulness spoken of in the text is 
 of the most literal kind — that in which God is not in all the 
 thoughts. This is the forgetfulness, which has now been pre- 
 sented to your view, as a fact of dreadful moment. Men are 
 said to forget God, when they refuse to acknowledge their 
 obligations to him, and to fulfil these obligations. This they 
 can do, and still think of him. My present object, however, 
 is to show that this kind of forgetfulness is included in that 
 under consideration. It may be asked, if it be possible to 
 feel enmity towards any being, without thinkmg of him. In 
 answer to this question, it may safely be asserted, that men 
 
404 SERMON XIII. 
 
 can be enemies to a fellow man, without being always con- 
 scious of the existence of active enmity towards him. They 
 can be such at the time, that there is in reality no direct en- 
 mity in exercise towards him, and even while he is not pres- 
 ent to their thoughts. Subjects of an earthly monarch are 
 surely his enemies, when they take the ground of rebellion, 
 so that every act of theirs becomes in effect an act of hostility 
 to his throne ; and yet the idea of him may not be always 
 before them. Subjects of the divine government hate the 
 king of heaven, when they are at war with him. They are 
 at war with him when they live in wilful and habitual viola- 
 tion of his laws ; and this they can do while he himself is far 
 from their thoughts. What command of his can they not 
 break, and still not think of him ? Can they not profane his 
 Sabbath, his house, and even his name, and yet not think of 
 him? Can they not neglect his word, his worship in the family, 
 and in the closet, and all their duties to him and his creatures, 
 and still not think of him? And have they then no enmity 
 towards him? Can the righteous monarch of the universe re- 
 gard them as friends, or as no enemies, though they leave 
 their obligations to him thus unfulfilled, and live in open re- 
 bellion against him ? Has he so little respect for the laws 
 which he has given tous, that the uninterrupted violation'of them 
 is considered by him as evincing no hostility to himself? May 
 the statutes promulgated to our world with such overwhelm- 
 ing majesty, and enforced by sanctions of such eternal weight, 
 be treated as idle words, and yet the Governor of the world 
 be regarded with love, or without hatred ? So far is forgetful- 
 nessof God from being inconsistent with aversion towards him, 
 that it marks that aversion as great, and stamps upon it the 
 character of no ordinary guilt. When men, for instance, 
 have become so accustomed to profane the name of God, as 
 to do it without any thought of him, they surely are no more 
 the friends of God, than they were when the commission of 
 this crime brought him to mind at once, and filled them with 
 trembling. 
 
SERMON XIII. 405 
 
 If men are justly required to obey God, then are they fur- 
 nished with the means of obtaining a knowledge of his require- 
 ments, and with a natural power to obey them. To refuse 
 to obey must therefore be an act of hostility to God; and 
 this act may be committed while God himself is far from the 
 mind. 
 
 It is certain that God cannot be loved, while days and 
 months and years are suffered to pass without any serious 
 thoughts about him, for an object of love is an object of fre- 
 quent meditation. But in moral and accountable creatures, 
 not to love God is to hate him. There is no ground that 
 men can occupy, between the dominion of allegiance and 
 that of rebellion — no ground where they can cast off their ob- 
 ligations, and live as they list, without being either the friends 
 or the enemies of God. 
 
 Men may be said to be in heart opposed to God while they 
 are not thinking of him, if this opposition is brought into ac- 
 tion whenever the true character of God is clearly presented 
 to the mind. 
 
 In these several ways may men be regarded as at enmity 
 with God, while they are living in forgetfulness of him. 
 While he is far from their thoughts, they may break his laws, 
 when they cannot do it without hostility to himself ; they may 
 neglect to love him, when they cannot do it without hating 
 him ; and they may possess a spirit, ready to be waked into 
 feelings of direct enmity towards him, whenever he is brought 
 distinctly to view. Thus may men live day after day at en- 
 mity with the High and Holy One, while not an action is 
 performed, nor a word is uttered, nor an idea is conceived, 
 in which his existence is voluntarily and immediately re- 
 cognised. 
 
 II. Forgetfulness of God is occasioned by enmity towards 
 him. 
 
 It may be thought, that when men live in forgetfulness of 
 God, it is because he is not an object of sense, while they 
 themselves are, and are placed in the midst of other sensible 
 objects, and acquire their ideas of them, either directly or in- 
 
406 
 
 SERMON XIII. 
 
 directly, through the medium of their senses. God they see 
 not — they hear not. No image of his personal glory is al- 
 ways before them ; no blaze of it bursts at times on their 
 view. No voice from his throne in the skies reaches their 
 ears ; and from the invisible air around them they never 
 catch the soft accents of his love. But may not an earthly 
 friend, while unseen and unheard, be an object of constant re- 
 membrance, especially if we have before us the written ex- 
 pressions of his friendship, and are surrounded by tokens of it 
 in the works and gifts of his hand. The cause of this con- 
 stant remembrance of such a friend is to be found in the 
 state of our hearts towards him. And if God thus reigned in 
 our affections, or if the state of our moral feelings were such 
 as to render it natural for us so to love him, he would be as 
 constantly remembered, encompassed as we are by the won- 
 ders of his power, and loaded as we are with the blessings of 
 his providence and his grace, and having before us the writ- 
 ten declarations of his love to us. From what then can ha- 
 bitual forgetfulness of God proceed, in such circumstances, 
 but from aversion towards him ? Could men move about in 
 a world, where every object bears the bright impress of a di- 
 vine hand, and yet live in such forgetfulness of God, if they 
 did not dislike to retain him in their knowledge ? 
 
 Some may think that God is thus forgotten because he is 
 infinitely above mankind in the scale of existence. It may be 
 urged that the difficulty of fixing our thoughts on an infinite 
 Being, the impossibility of comprehending him, and the wea- 
 riness of the labouring mind in making the attempt, uniteto 
 prevent his being a subject of frequent contemplation. It 
 may be said that the human mind must of necessity find more 
 pleasure in contemplating subjects more on a level with its 
 capacities — subjects in which investigation is attended with 
 greater success, and what is sought after is more within the 
 reach. It may be thought that the intellectual powers of an 
 angel are necessary, to render the infinite God a pleasant and 
 therefore a frequent subject of meditation. It must be ac- 
 knowledged that there would be some force in these consid- 
 
SERMON XIII. 
 
 407 
 
 erations, if in order to think of God in a devout and profitable 
 manner, it were necessary to regard the mysteries of his ex- 
 istence as an eternal and omnipresent Spirit, rather than the 
 moral perfections of his character as the Lawgiver and Judge 
 of the world. A child can easily think of God as a holy and 
 a merciful being; and the wisest man on earth can go but little 
 further, without meeting difficulties that he cannot remove, 
 or wandering in the midst of useless speculations, or losing 
 himself in clouds and darkness. Or at least it is the peculiar 
 province of piety, to contemplate God as such a being, and 
 leave it to philosophy to indulge in conjectures respecting the 
 mode of his existence. The humblest intellect may under- 
 stand enough of God, as the benevolent Father and righteous 
 Governor of the universe, to furnish inexhaustible themes of 
 contemplation. Why then need any live in forgetfulness of 
 him ? Why do any live thus? Why is there one to be found, 
 who rises in the morning, and goes through the business of 
 the day, and lies down at night, and does all this as an habitu- 
 al thing, without any thought of God ? Why are there so ma- 
 ny thousands that live thus ? Must not this dreadful uniform- 
 ity of conduct in such multitudes spring from the same source? 
 And can any thing but hatred to the divine character be the 
 source of such conduct ? Would men, once possessed of the 
 knowledge of God, ever cease to remember him, if he were 
 the object of their supreme delight ? Would God ever be shut 
 out of the mind, if he were not first shut out of the heart? 
 Would he have been forgotten as he has been in our world, 
 if the first parents of our race had retained their original love 
 to him, and all their descendants had felt towards him no oth- 
 er emotion ? Have not the great multitude of every genera- 
 tion spent their days in forgetfulness of God, because they 
 have first said to him from the heart, " Depart from us, for we 
 desire not the knowledge of thy ways ?" 
 
 Want of time or means, for obtaining and preserving the 
 knowledge of God, cannot be the cause of this forgetfulness, 
 any more than the spirituality of God, or his infinite great- 
 nes?. For what is time given, but to be spent in obtaining 
 
408 SERMON XIII. 
 
 the knowledge of God, and in performing his will? And why 
 are the volume of nature, and that of inspiration, with all their 
 divine wonders, spread before our eyes so constantly, if it be 
 not that they may be as constantly read, for the purpose of 
 becoming acquainted with the perfections and the require- 
 ments of God ? What have we to do on God's earth, if not to 
 ascertain our relation to God, and so to live in view of it, as to 
 prepare for another and a better world beyond the grave ? 
 And can we so neglect this great work of life, as to forget 
 God, and still plead in our excuse the want of time or means 
 to do otherwise ? We may make such a plea with our lips ; 
 but we never can feel it to be sufficient, to satisfy God or our 
 own consciences. I ask then again, what but enmity to God 
 can be the cause of this forgetfulness ? 
 
 Can it be that the consequences of living in such forgetful- 
 ness, and the consequences of pursuing the opposite course 
 of conduct, are so unimportant in themselves, or so little dif- 
 ferent from each other, as to afford no preponderating weight 
 of motives, in favour of avoiding the former course of life, and 
 choosing the latter ? Do any live in forgetfulness of God, 
 because no evil is to be feared from it ? or because they 
 believe that there is none ? And, with the bible in their 
 hands, are they excusable for such a belief ? Does not even 
 this spring from hatred to the character of a holy God ? Can 
 the consciences of men be so perverted or seared, that they 
 can live in forgetfulness of God all their days, and still expect, 
 and feel that they have reason to expect, nothing but good 
 from it in the world to come ? Are sinners able so to stifle the 
 voice of God within them, that it shall never utter a whisper 
 respecting the claims of his violated law, and waken " a certain 
 fearful looking-for of judgment ?" However this may be, it 
 will not alter the fact, that there is something for transgres- 
 ors to fear beyond the grave. It will not turn the truth of 
 God into a lie. It will not dissolve the connexion between sin 
 and misery. It will not make the broad and downward way 
 end amid the glories of the upper world. " The wicked shall 
 be turned into hell, and all the nations that forget God." 
 
SERMOxN Xlll. 
 
 409 
 
 And is there not in such a doom as this, enough to keep 
 ahve that rennembrance of God, by which only it can be 
 be avoided ? Is there not enough to do this, M'hen on the oth- 
 er hand a heaven of unutterable blessedness is the reward of 
 such remembrance ? With ruin impending on one hand and 
 salvation inviting on the other, can men choose the way of 
 transgression, from the want of sufficient motives to fix their 
 choice on the way of obedience ? On the contrary, does not 
 the fact, that they can make such a choice in such circum- 
 stances, afford the most convincing proof, that it must be 
 made under the influence of as deep and dreadful a principle, 
 as that of hatred to the character and requirements of Jeho- 
 vah ? From what but such a principle, could they derive suf- 
 ficient moral hardihood, to hve at ease without God in the 
 world, in the certain prospect of losing all that is glorious in 
 the immortality of heaven, and bringing upon themselves all 
 the woes of a ruined eternity ? If men can live in forgetful- 
 ness of God in such circumstances, can they do it from any 
 reason but enmity against him ? Will any other reason be 
 given at the tribunal of the last day ? Among all the excuses 
 that may now be urged for such conduct, will there be one 
 that death shall not sweep away, or the solemnities of the 
 judgment put to silence ? 
 
 From the view that has now been taken, of the subject un- 
 der consideration, I trust that our minds are in some measure 
 prepared, to acknowledge the truth of the following reflec- 
 tions. 
 
 1. The depravity of mankind is great. 
 
 It would seem as if the thought of such a being as God, af- 
 ter once entering the mind of man, would never leave it for a 
 single waking hour. How can he but be wrapt up continual- 
 ly in this solitary thought ? Why is it that all whom we meet, 
 are hot thinking of him, in whom they live and move and have 
 their being ? On the contrary, why is it so possible, that not 
 one whom we meet is thinking of him ? Why is it so certain 
 that the great multitude of every land and of every genera- 
 tion live in forgetfulness of him ? Who are the creatures that 
 
410 
 
 SERMON Xlll. 
 
 thus forget their Creator ? And what world is this in which 
 they dwell 1 Have they no understanding, to obtain the knowl- 
 edge of God ; and no memory, to treasure it up ; and no 
 conscience to feel the obligations involved in it ? Is this little 
 round of months and years the whole of their existence ? 
 And is this world of theirs a dark and desolate spot in the 
 universe, without one ray of divine glory, or one trace of the 
 divine presence ? Is there nothing here to bring the eternal 
 God to mind ? In all this earth are there no voices to plead 
 for him 1 Is all as silent as the grave ? Has no voice from 
 heaven reached the ears of mortals ? Has no book of laws 
 and overtures infinitely benevolent been handed down to 
 them from the throne of the Most High ? Has no redeeming 
 blood been shed for them ? Has no Spirit of truth and grace 
 been poured out upon them ? Has no bright pathway been 
 opened for them from the tomb to the skies ? And have they 
 been surrounded by no mighty array of means and motives 
 to press them into it ? If such were the condition of men in 
 this world, then might it be expected that God would not be 
 in all their thoughts. But their condition, however lamenta- 
 ble, would not be one of immeasurable guilt as it now is. 
 Are we struck with horror at the guilt of those angels, that 
 rose in rebellion against God at the very foot of his throne, 
 and, casting contempt upon his righteous authority, and upon 
 his infinite goodness, threw away all the glory of eternal life 
 in his presence ? And can we regard with insensibility the 
 guilt of men, who banish from their minds the thought of 
 God, while they are living at the very gate of that path, 
 which the Son of God, with tears and conflicts and dying 
 cries, has opened for them, up to the lost thrones of those 
 apostate angels ? Can it be believed that men, who thus ban- 
 ish God from their thoughts, and do it from enmity against 
 him, still retain any trace of his moral likeness ? Talk they 
 of the dignity of their nature ? Do they glory in the marks of 
 their high origin and intrinsic worth, that are to be discover- 
 ed amid the ruins of the fall ? It is true that they still possess 
 the faculties of a rational existence : but what dignity is 
 
SEUMON XIll. 
 
 411 
 
 there in so abusing them, as to change them from blessings 
 into everlasting judgments ? It is true that they are still im- 
 mortal ; but what intrinsic worth is there in an immortality, 
 which, after a few days of trouble and vanity, they would 
 gladly exchange for the doom of the beasts that perish ? 
 When we hear men, that live without God in the world, 
 boasting of their exalted rank in the scale of being, what do 
 we hear but infatuated immortals exulting at the thought of 
 occupying a height, from which their fall will only be the 
 more certain and dreadful ? Why should any glory in being 
 allied to angels and to God, by the possession of an intelli- 
 gent and imperishable soul, if by wanting all moral affinity to 
 them, they only fit themselves to be driven from them into 
 eternal exile 1 Will the thought of their intellectual eminence 
 mitigate the horrors of that exile ? Will the recollection of 
 their high origin reconcile them to an end in the depths df hell ? 
 Will they become satisfied with such a doom, by gazing up in- 
 to heaven, and ranking themselves with its inhabitants in un- 
 derstanding and immortality, when they cannot but remem- 
 ber that they should have been with them in that happy world, 
 had they been like them in moral excellence ? Will they then 
 think but little of their moral degradation, while they lived 
 on the earth, surrounded by the light of heaven's open gates ? 
 Will there then appear but little depravity, in spending thi» 
 life in forgetfulness of God, from latent enmity against him ? 
 On the contrary will they not look back upon such a life, 
 with amazement at their blindness and insensibility ? Will 
 they not cry out against the strange infatuation that possessed 
 them, and hurried them through a career of vain pleasures, 
 far away from their Maker and from all enduring good ? O 
 the bitter memory of their guilt ! How gladly would they 
 bury it, by burying themselves under everlasting mountains ! 
 My impenitent hearers, beware of such a day, when the light 
 of truth shall burst upon you and blaze around you only to 
 make visible the darkness of despair. Spend no more time 
 in making work for such remembrance. Think of your past 
 guilt as it is, ere the hope of deliverance be gone. Wait not 
 
412 
 
 SEKIMON Xlir. 
 
 to learn in the world of retribution, how dreadful a thing it is 
 to live unmindful of him, who is the Arbiter of life and death. 
 
 2. The enmity of them that forget God here will be 
 greatly increased hereafter. 
 
 This must be acknowledged to be a dreadful reflection, if 
 the truth of it be not doubted. No such doubt can exist in 
 the minds of any, who receive as true the preceding re- 
 marks, on forgetfulness of God, and on the great cause of it. 
 For if men can possess enmity against God, while they live 
 in forgetfulness of him, and in such a world of mercy as this, 
 who can deny that their enmity must upon natural principles 
 be far greater, when they shall live with God ever present to 
 their thoughts, and in a world of unmingled justice ? If there 
 be in unregenerate men in this life, an enmity towards God, 
 which is waked into exercise when his holy character and 
 government are brought but faintly to view, and constitutes 
 the secret spring of moral action while they are out of sight, 
 how can we avoid the inference, that this enmity will be 
 greatly augmented in the life to come, when the holiness of 
 God shall be the object of unobscured and uninterrupted vis- 
 ion ? Who does not shudder at the thought ? Who does not 
 feel a trembling of terror at the bare possibility, that such a 
 strong and undying enmity against the divine character and 
 government may take possession of his soul hereafter ? Do 
 any flatter themselves, that they shall be able to escape from 
 the anguish of such enmity, by banishing God from their 
 minds ? Banish him they cannot. They may forget him in 
 this world, where he surrounds them with the blessings of 
 his providence and his grace ; but they cannot forget him in 
 that world, where he shall pour out upon them the vials of 
 his wrath. They will there behold no bright and happy 
 scenes, like those of earth, to keep him in view. There will 
 be above them no heavens like these, to declare his glory, — no 
 firmamnt like this, to show the work of his hand. No day 
 unto day will utter speech ; nor night unto night show know- 
 ledge. No sun and moon will rise and set at his bidding. No 
 inmmierable host of stars will roll over their heads, meeting 
 
SERMON XllU 
 
 413 
 
 the eye wherever they look, and fiUing the vault above with 
 the light of his universal presence. No revolving seasons 
 will spread around them all the riches of his goodness. No 
 bible will reveal to their sight the wonders of his love. No 
 Sabbath with its hallowed stillness will call them away from 
 scenes of tumult and iniquity, into the calm retirement of 
 communion with God. No sanctuary will open its doors to 
 invite them into the gate of heaven. No cross will be erect- 
 ed as a monument of his mercy. No Holy Spirit will be sent 
 down from heaven, to give energy to his truth, and make 
 known the fulness of his grace. There will be none of these 
 things, to keep God in view ; but there will be the remem- 
 brance of them all. They can then forget God no more, till 
 the power of memory be gone. And O think, my hearers, 
 what misery there must be, in spending eternity, in contem- 
 plating the perfections, and the ways, of a God forgotten in 
 time. But there will be more than the memory of the past 
 to bring him to mind. There will be the deep ^nd abiding 
 sense of his present justice, in inflicting upon them the pun- 
 ishment which they suffer. He will be deemed afar off" only 
 as respects the resemblance of character and the union of 
 love. In other respects he will be regarded as nearer than 
 ever. They will see him as he is. They will see him, and 
 hear him, and feel him, as beings that are all sense, and 
 thought, and feeling. The idea of him as he appeared on the 
 judgment-seat, measuring out to them their portion for eter^ 
 nity according to their works, will never leave them. The 
 sound of his voice, as he passed upon them the sentence of 
 returnless banishment, will ring forever in their ears. They 
 will sink forever under the weight of his almighty hand press- 
 ing them down. Does this look as if he derived a malignant 
 pleasure from their sufferings ? The sufferers themselves can- 
 not think so. If they could, it would take away the bitter- 
 ness of their cup. They will be convinced of no truth more 
 deeply, than of the benevolent equity of their Judge. And 
 yet will they feel any the less enmity towards him ? Did 
 they feel less while on earthy as they obtained a clearer dis- 
 
414 
 
 SERMON XIII. 
 
 CO very of this truth, and a firmer belief of it ? On the contra- 
 ry, was it not then the benevolent equity of God, in threaten- 
 ing them with endless punishment, that more than any thing- 
 else excited this enmity ? And will not this very thing ex- 
 cite it in a far greater degree, when they are enduring that 
 punishment ? I say again, this is indeed a dreadful reflection. 
 But what is there, in the doom of the wicked beyond the 
 grave, that is not dreadful ? This reflection is not merely an 
 inference from the preceding premises, depending wholly 
 upon their correctness. If they could be proved false, this 
 would still be true ; for it has the word of God for its foun- 
 dation. With the v.'eeping and wailing of the bottomless pit 
 there will be mingled the blaspheming of irreconcilable enmi- 
 ty against God. Again I ask. Who does not shudder at the 
 thought ? And who that has feeling enough, to shudder at such 
 a thought, can live at ease without obeying the command of 
 God, " My son, give me thy heart ?" 
 
 3. Many are greatly deceived respecting their disposition 
 toward God. 
 
 They think that they have no enmity against him — that 
 they never had any. But why do they think so ? Is it not 
 because most of their time has been spent in forgetfulness of 
 him ? Is it not because this enmity has not been always in di- 
 rect exercise ? And when they have occasionally felt it stir- 
 ring within them at some exhibition of the justice of God, 
 have they not been ready to flatter themselves, that it is felt 
 only against a false view of the divine character ? The true 
 character of God they would fain think that they love, and that 
 all men love and must love whenever it is presented to them. 
 They pronounce it impossible for men to hate a being of in- 
 finite goodness, and when that being is the author of their ex- 
 istence with all its blessings. On the other hand they pro- 
 nounce it impossible for men to love God, when his goodness 
 is made to include infinite justice. Was it then a false 
 view of the divine character, which Christ exhibited in his 
 preaching, when he affirmed of the men of the world, that 
 they had both seen and hated both him and his Father ? The 
 
SERMOi\ XIII, 415 
 
 character which Christ ascribed to God, was certainly his real 
 character ; and it was this which he declared to be thus hated 
 by all except his few disciples. The fact that this character 
 was thus hated proves, that it was not represented as one, 
 from which transgressors have nothing to fear. 
 
 And now, my impenitent hearers, let me say to you with 
 becoming faithfulness. Be not deceived respecting your feel- 
 ings toward the true character of God. Think not that Christ 
 misrepresented the divine character, or the human heart. 
 Think not that you have no enmity against God, because you 
 are not generally conscious of the exercise of any. Are you 
 generally conscious of the exercise of any love toward him, 
 or even of any thought about him ? Come directly to the test 
 of his word. If you love him you keep his commandments. 
 Do you then keep them ? Can you say in sincerity, that you 
 make it your constant business to obey God in all things ? 
 How has it been with you the past week ? Fellow-sinners, 
 come to the test. By this trial you will see what is in your 
 hearts toward God, if you are willing to see it. Have you 
 lived through the last week without prayer ? If you have, is 
 not your case a plain one ? Can you fail to see your own 
 moral image ? Can you escape from the sight ? Does not the 
 command, " Pray without ceasing," meet you on one hand ; 
 and the declaration, " This is the love of God, that we keep 
 his commandments," meet you on the other ? And are you 
 not compelled to stand trembling between them, and ac- 
 knowledge that you are destitute of the love of God ? And 
 after this acknowledgment, must not the further declaration, 
 " He that is not with me is against me," rise to your view, 
 and flash into your minds the truth, that you are numbered 
 among his enemies ? Or are you determined that you will 
 not be brought to this conclusion by any such process of rea- 
 soning 1 Will you oppose your own consciousness to the uni- 
 ted testimony of God's word and your conduct ? What can 
 this avail you, when you see the vilest of men do the same ? 
 Ask them if they hate God, and they will answer, No ! we 
 feel that we do not. But ask them, if they pray daily; and 
 
416 SERMON XIII. 
 
 they answer. No ! — Do they keep the Sabbath holy ? No ! — 
 Do they always speak the name of God with reverence? No ! — 
 And yet they will tell you, that they have no enmity against 
 him ? But can you believe them ? Do you not stand amazed 
 at their blindness ? And can you be insensible to your own ? 
 Can any thing but the power of God open their eyes ? And 
 what else in the universe can open yours ? Again I say, " Be 
 not deceived ; God is not mocked" — No, he is not mocked. 
 " Now consider this, ye that forget God, lest He tear you in 
 pieces, and there be none to deliver." 
 
SERMOX XIV. 
 
 JOB, viii. 9. 
 
 •' For we are but of yesterday, and know nothing, because our days upon earth 
 area shadow." 
 
 The brevity of human life is illustrated in the word of God 
 by a variety of the most striking comparisons. The days of 
 man are said to be swifter than a weaver's shuttle. The 
 generations of the human family are said to be carried away 
 as with a flood. Life is called a vapour, which appeareth 
 for a little time, and then vanisheth away. It is likened to 
 the grass of the field, which is gone soon as the blasting wind 
 of the east passes over it. It is likened to the flower, which 
 groweth up and flourisheth in the morning, and in the even- 
 ing is cut down and withered. It cannot be necessary to 
 say any thing, to show the propriety or force of these simili- 
 tudes. We have only to look around us, to see them justifi- 
 ed in their full extent by an uninterrupted succession of facts. 
 Not only are they appropriate and forcible, when applied to 
 the life that is terminated in childhood or youth; they are 
 but little less so, when applied to that which is prolonged to 
 the utmost hmit allotted to man on the earth. For to an im- 
 mortal being how little in reality is the difference between 
 ten years and eighty, or between the life of a single day and 
 that of a century. It is a difference, which it would seem 
 will hardly be thought of, after we have spent ages in the 
 eternal world. How like the passing and fading vapour of 
 an hour appears to us at present the life of our first parents, 
 and of their immediate descendant*. And when we have 
 
 53 
 
418 
 
 SERMON XIV. 
 
 existed a thousand times as long, as the whole period from 
 the beginning to the end of the world, it would seem as if, on 
 looking back to this dawn of our existence, we shall hardly 
 remember whether its length was one year or twenty years, 
 or fifty or three score and ten. Children are cut down like 
 flowers of the morning ; youth pass away like the bright 
 vapours of noon ; and the aged spend their years as a tale that 
 is told. One generation after another is carried away as 
 with a flood ; centuries follow each other like shadows of fly- 
 ing clouds ; and time with all its ages, will be as yester- 
 day, when it is past, and as a watch in the night. 
 
 In the passage selected as the theme of the present dis- 
 course, this brevity of human life is given as the reason of the 
 small amount of human knowledge, or rather as a reason 
 why this amount must be at most but small. " We are but of 
 yesterday, and know nothing, because our days upon earth are 
 a shadow." How can our knowledge be great, when we 
 have existed only as it were since yesterday ? We have not 
 had time to learn much. We have been in being but just 
 long enough, to look around on a few of the works and ways 
 of God, and make a few inquiries respecting his character 
 and his will, and respecting our own state and prospects, and 
 come to a few conclusions on these important subjects. Our 
 days on the earth are so like a fleeting shadow, that we can 
 only begin to learn before they are gone. We can cast only 
 a look or two on a single page of the vast volume of nature, 
 before our eyes are closed in death. We can search but a 
 hand's breadth into the treasures of wisdom and goodness- in 
 the providence of God, before we stumble upon the dark 
 mountains and drop into the grave. We can only begin to 
 speak or hear a little of the wonders of hoHness and mercy 
 in the revelation of Jesus Christ, before our lips and our ears 
 are sealed up in the sleep of the tomb. The most learned in 
 secular knowledge may justly say, at the close of the longest 
 life, " We are but of yesterday, and know nothing, because 
 our days upon earth are a shadow." The same may be said 
 with equal propriety, and in like circumstances, by those 
 
SERMON XIV. 419 
 
 Avho have made the greatest attainments in divine knowledge. 
 This was said to the holy and venerable patriarch Job, by 
 one of his three friends and counsellors, in a day of mysteri- 
 ous calamity. And it was said with direct reference to that 
 knowledge which relates to the moral character and govern- 
 ment of Jehovah. Job is requested to inquire of former ages, 
 and search into the history of men of past generations, in or- 
 der to learn whether the Almighty would pervert justice, 
 whether he would cast aw^ay any but for their transgressions, 
 whether he would not awake for the help of them that sought 
 him, and whether he would not make prosperous the habita- 
 tion of the pure and upright, and make the paths of them that 
 forget him, like the rush and the flag, that wither in their 
 greenness as soon as the water at the root is gone. It is in 
 the veiy midst of these subjects of inquiry that the text is 
 found ; and the knowledge spoken of in it is most evidently 
 that which z'elates to these and similar subjects. It is divine 
 knoMiedge, or perhaps more generally the knowledge of re- 
 ligious truth. On the great subject of religion, then, in its in- 
 finite extent and variety of particulars, in its height and depth, 
 its length and breadth, we know but little in reality, and we 
 know nothing in comparison with what there is to be known, 
 and that because we are of yesterday, and our days on the 
 earth are a shadow. 
 
 If in the remarks that have now been made a correct view 
 has been given of the direct meaning of the text, we may de- 
 rive from it indirectly the following sentiment : — The reli- 
 gious knowledge of saints will become unspeakably great in 
 eternity. The time will come when they can no longer say, 
 that they are but of yesterday ; and they can never say that 
 the days of eternity are as a shadow. They will not be in- 
 terrupted at the very commencement of their progress. The 
 darkness of death will not overtake them just as the light of 
 truth is beginning to shed on their path a few glimmering rays. 
 The ages of immortality, as they roll away, will afford a pe- 
 riod long enough for them to make attainments in knowl- 
 edge, far beyond the conception of mortals. Nor can it be 
 
420 SERMON xir. 
 
 believed, that they will see those ages roll away, and live in 
 the midst of higher orders of intelligences, and near the great 
 source of all light, and yet make in reality no such attain- 
 ments. 
 
 But it may not be unprofitable, to consider more particu- 
 larly some of the arguments, in support of the sentiment, 
 that the knowledge of saints in eternity will become un- 
 speakably great. 
 
 1. The subjects of their knowledge are infinite. They can 
 therefore never be exhausted by finite minds. Here is room 
 for everlasting eflforts and attainments. Here is a race set 
 before immortals, to which there is no end ; but a higher and 
 higher prize at every step invites them onward forever. The 
 character and government, the works and ways, of the infi- 
 nite Being on the throne of the universe, will afford an un- 
 limited field, for the discovery of new treasures of wisdom, 
 and wonders of benevolence. It may seem at the first thought 
 that nothing new can be discovered in the perfections of God. 
 And it is doubtless true, that the light of eternity will show 
 us no new perfection — none of which we are now wholly ig- 
 norant. There is no reason to think that we shall hereafter 
 become acquainted with any new attribute in the character of 
 God, as they who go into eternity from heathen lands will 
 come to the knowledge of his mercy through the redemption 
 of Christ, when they may have been before entirely ignorant 
 of the existence of such an attribute. On the contrary we 
 have the best reason to believe, that, with the book of revela- 
 tion open before us, in addition to the book of nature and that 
 of providence, we are now able to ascertain all the constitu- 
 ent principles of the divine character. But is this the end of 
 all possible or all desirable knowledge of God ? Is this finding 
 out the Almighty to perfection ? Is there not beyond this, 
 enough even for angels to learn, and enough for eternity to 
 teach ? Though we know that God is possessed of infinite 
 wisdom for instance, are we acquainted with all the proofs of 
 that wisdom, and with every manifestation of it in the king- 
 dom of nature and of providence and of grace, from the fall 
 
SF.RMO.N' MV. 421 
 
 of a sparrow, to the revolution of a world, and to the death 
 on Calvary ? Though we know that God is infinitely holy, do 
 we know every thing involved in this attribute — every thing 
 which it requires God to do, in all worlds, and in relation to 
 all his moral creatures ? Though we know that God is infinite 
 in mercy, do we know all the instances in which that mercy 
 has been or shall be exhibited, and all the instances, in which 
 it may be, or may not be, consistently with the honour of his 
 throne and the highest good of the universe ? And thus we 
 may say of the other attributes of God. Well then may we 
 exclaim, " Canst thou by searching find out God 1 Canst thou 
 find out the Almighty to perfection ? It is high as heaven : what 
 canst thou do ? deeper than hell ; what canst thou know ? 
 The measure thereof is longer than the earth, and broader than 
 the sea." However much we may have studied the works 
 and the word of Jehovah, we have not learnt a thousandth 
 part of the whole, that is to be known respecting his attributes. 
 Indeed we can say no more than that we have begun to learn. 
 But the attributes of God are not the only exhaustless 
 themes for contemplation, and subjects for everlasting growth 
 in knowledge. To these we may add his natural and moral 
 government, his providential dealing towards the human fam- 
 ily in various ages, and towards different nations and individ;-- 
 uals in all their variety of circumstances, and his work of re- 
 deeming love in all its mysteries and glories. It is true that 
 these subjects, and others of the same general kind, are not 
 entirely distinct from those contained in the personal attri- 
 butes of God, for the knowledge of the works and ways of 
 God leads directly to the knowledge of his attributes, and the 
 latter increases with the increase of the former. These sub- 
 jects are mentioned separately, for the purpose of giving our 
 thoughts a wider range, over the different branches of the pri- 
 mary and ultimate subject of all religious knowledge, the in- 
 finite God. All religious truth is truth relating to God ; and 
 all centres in him. To grow in religious knowledge is to 
 grow in the knowledge of that Being, who fills immensity and 
 inhabits eternity, and who is the overflowing fountain of light 
 
422 SERMON XIV. 
 
 and life and joy to the universe. The history of the material 
 creation, is a history of the power and the goodness of God. 
 The history of providence is a history of the righteousness 
 and loving-kindness of God, The history of redemption, the 
 history of the church, and the history of every ransomed and 
 sanctified soul, are all histories of the perfect holiness and 
 everlasting mercy of God. And w^henever any one becomes 
 the theme of meditation in heaven, it leads all the thoughts to 
 God. He is then in reality the one great subject of contem- 
 plation in that blessed world ; and being a subject literally in- 
 finite in extent and glory, why should not all the inhabitants 
 of heaven grow in knowledge through interminable ages ? 
 And if their eternity be so employed, will not their knowledge 
 become unspeakably great ? 
 
 2. The capacities of the soul will never fail. Whether 
 they will be greatly increased or not by an immediate act of 
 the Almighty, as soon as the soul takes its happy flight from 
 earth and enters the world above, is perhaps not determined 
 in the word of God. It is evident from several passages that 
 the children of God will acquire a great increase of know- 
 ledge immediately after the change produced by death. 
 They will at once become acquainted with many things, 
 which eye had not seen, nor ear heard, and which had never 
 entered into the heart of man. The opening of the heavenly 
 world at death, to the man who has lived by faith in its invis- 
 ble glories, is like the first view of the starry firmament, to a 
 man just cured of a natural blindness, after having learnt 
 something of astronomy, and believed upon the testimony of 
 others in the existence of thousands of grand and beautiful 
 orbs while yet unseen. But from the sudden increase of 
 knowledge, after the saint's departure, it cannot with certain- 
 ty be inferred, that his capacities must be increased in like 
 manner. The most that can be inferred is, that such an in- 
 crease is probable, in the case of those who die in childhood. 
 But whether this be the fact or not, there is unquestionable 
 evidence, that the capacities of the soul are in no case di- 
 minished, either at its departure from the body, or at any 
 
SFK-^ION XIV. 
 
 423 
 
 subsequent period of its immortal life. If then on entering 
 the world of spirits they should only remain as great as they 
 are here, and should afterwards increase only by the natural 
 expanding and strengthening power of increasing knowledge, 
 who can measure the attainments that may yet be made in 
 the ages of eternity ? Let us look for a moment at that pro- 
 gress in knowledge, which the human mind is capable of ma- 
 king on the earth, though it be comparatively nothing, be- 
 cause the days of men on the earth are a shadow. Let us 
 look at the growth of knowledge, from childhood to old age, 
 in the mind of a Newton. At first he becomes acquainted 
 with one object after another in the dwelling of his parents, 
 then with the objects immediately around it, then with those 
 in his native valley, then by the help of books with those in 
 his country, and those in the four quarters of the globe, with 
 their mountains and rivers and seas and islands, then with the 
 history of all the empires and all the generations of men, then 
 with the nature and the action of the elements, and the laws 
 of the mineral and vegetable and animal kingdoms, and then 
 with the magnitudes and distances and revolutions of those 
 planetary worlds, attending one of the eighty millions of suns 
 discovered in the boundless firmament. Though the know- 
 ledge here described be called secular and generally used as 
 such, yet this progress in it illustrates no less clearly the ca- 
 pacities of the human mind. But this knowledge may be 
 brought to bear on the subject of religion, and may be conse- 
 crated to the service of God, and thus become in effect like 
 that which is moi-e appropriately called religious knowledge. 
 Let us then look at the mind of an Edwards, making the vast 
 progress just mentioned, and employing all its attainments for 
 holy purposes, and at the same time adding to it, in the un- 
 limited range of truth more strictly rehgious, a similar pro- 
 gress, from the first idea of the being of a God, to the Imow- 
 ledge of his various attributes — of his creating all things out 
 of nothing — his filling all places with his presence — his sus^ 
 taining and directing every thing that lives and moves — his 
 ordering all things in the natural world throughout the changes 
 
424 
 
 SERMON \1V. 
 
 of day and night and seasons and years — his maintaining a 
 providential government of judgments and mercies over every 
 nation and through every age — his reveahng himself as the 
 moral Ruler of his intelligent creatures, giving them laws 
 which are holy, just, and good, in their nature, and in their 
 eternal sanctions — his creating mankind in his own holy im- 
 age — his providing a way of infinite wisdom and mercy, for 
 their recovery from the ruin of the fall, by the incarnation and 
 death of his 8on as a mediator — his raising this mediator 
 from the grave, and exalting him at his own right hand, to in- 
 tercede continually for all his followers — his sending down 
 the Spirit of truth and grace, to give repentance of sin and 
 faith in the blood of atonement, and thus to sanctify and save 
 the soul — his bringing life and immortality to light in the gos- 
 pel — his proclaiming the future rising of the dead, and as- 
 sembling of all nations before his throne for judgment, and 
 their receiving an eternal allotment of joy or wo, according 
 to the deeds done in the body — and his establishing a church 
 in the world, and pi'eserving it through the revolutions of em- 
 pires and amid hosts of enemies, and his promising to make 
 it at length the glory of all lands — and in short his revealing 
 by his word a vast system of doctrines and duties, connecting 
 heaven and earth, angels and men, time and eternity, crea- 
 tures of yesterday and their eternal Creator. If then the hu- 
 man mind is capable of rising so high, and reaching so far, 
 and grasping so much, in this momentary life ; and yet all this 
 knowledge is called nothing, by him who sees what remains 
 to be known ; can we doubt that the mental powers, should 
 they only continue hereafter what they now are, will be for- 
 ever employed by the saints above, in learning more and 
 more of the perfections, the works, and the ways of the Most 
 High ? Can we believe that these powers will be inactive in 
 the midst of a universe of divine wonders ? Will the redeem- 
 ed in glory dream away the ages of eternity ? Or will they 
 do nothing but sit down and enjoy the reward of their earthly 
 labours and sufferings, and feed the flame of holy love with 
 the knowledge acquired on the earth ? Will they pant after 
 
SERMON XIV. 
 
 425 
 
 no more ? Is not heaven a world of li^ht as well as of love 
 and enjoyment ? And is not that light the source of that love 
 and enjoyment ? Will they not then open their eyes, and 
 keep them open forever, to behold it ? Though we know not 
 the particular means, by which they may receive instruction, 
 or the particular manner in which they make attainments in 
 knowledge, have we not reason enough for believing the fact, 
 and for believing therefore that their knowledge will become 
 unspeakably great ? 
 
 3. All hindrances to growth in knowledge will be re- 
 moved. In the present life there are many and various 
 things to retard this growth. Many of the necessary occu- 
 pations of men are such, as to contribute little or nothing to 
 its advancement, and leave but little time for its advance- 
 ment by other means. Thousands are kept in a state 
 of comparative ignorance by poverty ; and thousands are 
 kept in such a state by slavery. The outward circum- 
 stances of vast multitudes in every age are such, that they 
 have but little opportunity for making progress in know- 
 ledge. There are comparatively few, who have it in their 
 power to devote half of their time, to the acquisition of 
 knowledge, to be employed in the service of God. Other 
 hindrances arise from the natural constitution of men and 
 from their moral propensities. These bodies of flesh and 
 blood, with all their diseases and infirmities, often hang as it 
 were like a dead weight upon the soul. Through their influ- 
 ence the powers of the mind are often disordered and enfee- 
 bled. They require that one third of our time should be spent 
 in sleep, — that is, ten years in thirty, twenty years out of 
 sixty. The moral condition of men is also a great hindrance 
 to their growth in religious knowledge. The depravity of 
 their hearts naturally awakens a hatred of the light, and has 
 a constant tendency to bring on a dreadful blindness towards 
 it. Its natural effect is to excite prejudice against the 
 truth, to turn away the eye from beholding the proofs of it, 
 or the judgment from acknowledging their weight, or to fill 
 the soul with unbelief respecting it. To prevent this effect 
 
 54 
 
426 
 
 SERMON XIV. 
 
 requires the constant exercise of the opposite principle of ho- 
 liness. In no case however, not even in that of the most em- 
 inent saint, is the principle of holiness so uniformly powerful, 
 as altogether to prevent this effect from remaining depravity. 
 
 But in the world above all these hindrances will be remo- 
 ved. There will be no sin to pervert the judgment, and hide 
 the evidences of truth, and bring a cloud of darkness over the 
 soul. There will be no high thing exalting itself against the 
 knowledge of God. Among all the inhabitants of heaven, 
 there will never be a moment's dislike to retain God in their 
 knowledge. It will never enter into the heart of any to say 
 to the great and good Being on the throne of heaven, " De- 
 part from us, for we desire not the knowledge of thy ways." 
 There will be no mortal bodies, to clog the wings of the soul 
 with their wants and weaknesses, and to require an almost 
 uninterrupted succession of labour and sleep for their sup- 
 port. No chains of sense will be there, to bind down the 
 faculties of the illimitable mind. The soul will be all eye to 
 behold the truth, and all ear to hear it, and all intellect to 
 comprehend it, and all feeling to glow with the love of it, and 
 of its eternal Source and glorious End. There will be no- 
 thing in the outward circumstances, to drive or to tempt the 
 soul away from the study of the infinite subjects of know- 
 ledge. It will be free to expatiate forever over the bound 
 less extent of religious truth. And will not this liberty be 
 enjoyed 1 Will not the untiring spirit — having escaped from 
 the bondage of sense, and shaken off the incumbrances of 
 flesh, and laid aside every weight of sin, and having shone 
 forth in perfect freedom on the plains of immortality, and 
 fixed upon Jesus an unchangeable look — will it not then run 
 with delight the endless race set before it ? And will not ev- 
 ery voice in the great cloud of witnesses around bid it God 
 speed forever ? Who then shall ever say to it, " Hitherto shalt 
 thou come, but no further ?" 
 
 ■4. The motives to growth in knowledge will always be 
 powerful. There is probably, among speculative believers in 
 Christianity, a very general impression, that when eternal 
 
SEKMON XIV. 
 
 427 
 
 misery has been escaped, and eternal happiness scoured, so 
 that the fear of the one and the hope of the other exist no 
 longer, the great governing motives to obtain religious know- 
 ledge will be taken away. They seem to think, that when 
 once the sound of "Come ye blessed" has greeted the ears of 
 the redeemed, and the gates of the celestial city have opened 
 to receive them, and an impassable gulph has been fixed be- 
 tween them and the far-oft' prison of despair, they will sit 
 down in the contented enjoyment of present good, and seek 
 to know no more of the infinite Jehovah. Nor is it strange 
 that such an impression should prevail among men, who take 
 no delight in religious truth for its inherent excellence, and 
 desire an acquaintance with it for no other purpose but to se- 
 cure their own safety. Though the child of God cannot be 
 insensible to the love of happiness and the hatred of misery, 
 and though he ought not to be, yet he is capable of feeling a 
 mighty influence from another motive, or from the same mo- 
 tive operating in another manner than by the mere hope of 
 heaven and dread of hell. His happiness is directly promo- 
 ted by a discovery of the intrinsic glory of divine truth, 
 and of him who is the great subject of it ; and while this hap- 
 piness is enjoyed, he cannot but be excited to search for fur- 
 ther discoveries. Here then is a powerful motive, which 
 will last when the hope of heaven is consummated in its ac- 
 tual enjoyment, and the fear of hell is lost in the assurance 
 that this enjoyment shall never end. This motive may per- 
 haps be denominated the love of happiness. The happiness 
 however is any thing but selfish ; and the love is any thing 
 but selfish. Both are purely disinterested ; both are high and 
 holy as heaven. This motive may perhaps be regarded as a 
 general one, including such particulars as the love of truth, 
 the love of holiness, and the love of the general good, from 
 all of which there flows an exalted pleasure, by which the 
 love itself is strengthened. Or the general motive, including 
 these and all others felt in heaven, may be called the love of 
 God. And from what we know of the operation of this prin- 
 ciple on the earth we may safely argue, that the joy arising 
 
428 SERMON XIV, 
 
 from' the exercise of it in eternity will prompt the soul to use 
 the proper means for augmenting the power of the principle 
 itself. These means are found in an increase of the know- 
 ledge of God. In that blessed world, where every thought, 
 as well as eveiy affection, is sanctified, there is the best rea- 
 son to beheve, that the more there is known of God, 
 the greater will be the love to him. The saint that is highest 
 in knowledge will be highest in love, for all his knowledge 
 will be employed to swell the tide of love. As he looks in 
 one direction, he sees some new manifestation of divine wis- 
 dom ; his love glows afresh at the sight ; and the increase of 
 joy which follows becomes in turn a strong motive to contin- 
 ue the search. He looks in another direction, and sees some 
 new manifestation of divine holiness ; and the same effect is 
 produced. He looks in yet another direction, and sees some 
 new manifestation of divine benevolence ; and the effect is 
 still the same. Thus is he borne forward on the wings of a 
 love that grows stronger and stronger forever. His spirit 
 will never grow weary in its flight, and will never wander 
 from its course. Who then shall set bounds which it can- 
 not pass ? Who can measure the amount of knowledge 
 which it will gain in a progress without termination, when it 
 breathes the atmosphere of love, and lives in its glowing el- 
 ement, and moves and acts under the full impulse of its ever- 
 growing power. 
 
 Having now considered some of the reasons, why it is pro- 
 bable that the children of God, who know comparatively 
 nothing in this momentary life, will acquire knowledge un- 
 speakably great in eternity — having shown this probability 
 from the infinite subjects of knowledge, from the unfailing 
 capacities of the soul, from the removal of all hindrances, and 
 from the operation of everlasting motives, the discourse will 
 be closed with two brief reflections. 
 
 1. The view which has been taken of this subject shows 
 us the extreme folly of being stumbled at mysteries in the 
 present life. It is the declaration of God, that while in this 
 world "we know but in part," — nay, that "we know nothing," 
 
SERMON XIV. 429 
 
 compared with the immensity of truth that is to be known. 
 Life is so transitory that we have not time to make great ad- 
 vances in knowledge, encompassed as we are by so many 
 powerful obstacles, from a body of flesh, a heart of iniquity, 
 and a world of temptation. 
 
 It may be important to remark in this place, that the 
 smallness of knowledge, within our reach on this side of the 
 grave, is not spoken of in the bible as an excuse for indo- 
 lence in the pursuit 9f it. Nor does it furnish ground for 
 that skepticism, which finds nothing but difficulty every 
 where, and throws the darkness of doubt over the whole sub- 
 ject of religion. All the essential principles of Christianity, 
 involving our present duty and preparation for our immortal 
 destiny, we are permitted — nay, we are commanded to 
 know. Here all is light ; no one need stumble in this noon- 
 day, and grope as if he had no eyes. But beyond this 
 sphere of practical truth there is an unlimited field, where 
 are heights which we cannot climb, depths which we 
 cannot fathom, and labyrinths through which we cannot find 
 our way. And we have reason for everlasting gratitude to 
 God that there is such a field for future discovery, and that 
 it is now beyond our reach, lest it should draw us far away 
 from the plain path to heaven. 
 
 2. From the view which has been taken of this subject, 
 we learn the glorious destiny of the children of God in eter- 
 nity. Following them in thought beyond the bounds of 
 earth and time, and far along the ages of their immortal 
 state, we behold them tracing with an angel's pen the char- 
 acters of truth stamped on every part of the great volume of 
 the universe ; and while eternity pours in its light from ev- 
 ery quarter we behold them rising higher and higher in the 
 knowledge of God, as well as advancing from one degree 
 of grace to another, and from glory to glory. For the sake 
 of illustration, let us suppose that one of the patriarchs of 
 the infant world, after having received a revealed ac- 
 count of the recent birth of time and the creation of the 
 heavens and earth, and after having obtained all the know- 
 
430 SERMON XIV. 
 
 ledge within the reach of the wisest and best men of his 
 generation — let us suppose that he had then been made im- 
 mortal here below in the full possession of all his powers, and 
 had been carried forward from one generation to another, 
 down to the present, and had gathered from each all that 
 man could gather, respecting the works and ways of the 
 Most High, and were now in possession of the whole, with 
 what admiration should we behold him — and how like an an- 
 gel's flight, would seem to us liis future course, amid scenes 
 continually multiplying and brightening, into the glories of 
 the millennium, and onward to the consummation of all sub- 
 lunary things. But how soon do we lose sight of this man's 
 exaltation, when we look at that of the man who has lived as 
 long, or a thousand times as long, in that world which is in 
 the highest sense full of the knowledge of the Lord as the 
 waters cover the sea, — and where that knowledge is in- 
 creased continually by the many bright and burning spirits, 
 that fly to and fro through the universe, — and where Divine 
 Wisdom lifteth up her voice in the streets of gold, and crieth 
 at the openings of the pearly gates, and in the chief place of 
 concourse for saints and angels before the throne of heaven, — 
 and where there is no need of the sun or the moon, for the 
 Lord God and the Lamb are the light and the glory forever. 
 When we look at a mountain, whose summit is among the 
 clouds, we feel within us an expanding and elevating emo- 
 tion ; but how would this feeling be strengthened, were we 
 to behold it continually growing wider and rising higher. 
 And it is a glorious sight to behold an intelligent being rescu- 
 ed from the dominion and the condemnation of sin, and 
 from the ruins of a burning world, and set down on the 
 shores of immortality ; but how is the glory increased, when 
 we behold him moving forward in an endless course of im- 
 provement — growing wiser and holier and happier — his 
 crown ever brightening, and his voice and his harp sounding 
 sweeter and louder in the high praises of eternity. 
 
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