Words of Cheer for the Tempted, the Toiling, and the Sorrowing
TekstOUTWARD MINISTERINGS
EACH owns some secret law;—the flowers that flourish
Bloom in their season, in their season die;
Dews flow beneath, their feeble strength to nourish,
The wind, Earth's angels, life's sweet breath supply.
As in the wondrous world of faultless Nature,
So in the moral universe of man,
Given for the spirit's every form and feature,
Are powers fulfilling its immortal plan.
Whether its aim be fixed on seeking Pleasure,
Whilst draining deep her falsely-sparkling bowl,
Or in the light of Love be sought the treasure
Whose worth may satisfy the craving soul;
Whether it court the applause of listening nations,
And toil, with earnest energy, for fame,
Or seek with nobler hopes those elevations,
Whence from its God with spotless robes it came:
All help to lead it on; to Truth or Error,
Darkness or Light, as its own pathway lies;
Here, seeming seraphs, hidden shapes of terror,
There, darksome shadows, angels in disguise.
Behold yon miser bend, with palsied fingers,
O'er the rich gold around him glittering piled,
How, with a father's care, he tireless lingers
By life's all-precious hope, his darling—child.
Fond wretch! his aim to narrow life is bounded,
Yet, true to Nature, all for him hath proved;
The glorious gifts that once his path surrounded,
Have served to strengthen feelings basely loved!
By glittering lights, behold yon splendid palace,
See squalid youth and beauty enter there,
Eager to drown within the brimming chalice,
All pangs of grief—all thoughts of woe or care.
Alas! for them, that such a sad fruition
Should burst from seeds bright with the hues of Time;
These specious splendours fail not in their mission,
But spur their spirits on the road to crime!
In yonder room, behold a beauteous maiden,
Who bright the standard of her hope unrolls;
But, oh! that smiling bark, with evil laden,
Leads on to fatal depths, or treacherous shoals!
Gaze on the gambler, pale with care and sorrow,
And mark the dismal shades he long hath trod,
Who lives to witness each returning morrow,
Sin-burdened, roll before an outraged God!
Seest thou the light from yonder casement streaming?
Seest thou the shadow on the window cast?
There, lost in thought and poesy's wild dreaming,
Waits one to hear Fame's loud but fickle blast.
This is his life's great aim; but what beyond it?
Of Truth's bright treasure though he love to tell,
In barren mines of lore he hath not found it,
Bowing beneath his idol's deadly spell.
But gaze on One, who seeks in all around him,
Lessons of good to cheer him on his way,
As every golden year through life hath found him
Nearer the realms of Heaven's eternal day.
With him events of earth are sweet evangels,
All meaner things but step-stones hurled beneath;
Whilst nobler lead to Eden-realms of angels,
With shining robes, and crown, and amaranth wreath.
Oh! fellow-pilgrims through this desert dreary,
In all the scenes of life God's mercy trace,
Then though with grief cast down, with watching weary,
Strong shall ye stand in His sufficient grace!
Thus sweet, melodious tones and forms of beauty,
All glorious sights and sounds may ever prove
Angels to lure us on the path of duty,
Echoes of symphonies that float above!
BODILY DEFORMITY, SPIRITUAL BEAUTY
WHO has not observed in passing through the crowded streets of our city, how great, comparatively, is the number of those, who are more or less deformed? My heart aches for these poor unfortunates, who are deprived of some of the legitimate avenues of enjoyment which God has so bounteously vouchsafed to me.
Here is one (and it would seem to me the most unmitigated of all the catalogue) who is groping his way along in darkness, holding fast by the hand of a little girl. There is another who has lost a limb, and makes his way along with the utmost difficulty. Yonder is one so extremely deformed, that his sensitiveness forbids him often to appear in the crowded streets. And there is another still, who is quite helpless, sitting in a little wagon drawn about by a faithful dog.
In the minds of different individuals, these various aspects of deformity produce pity, disgust, and horror; but I have often thought, could we but look, as God looks—down into the audience chamber of the spirit—the heart—how differently our minds would be affected at the sight of these bodily deformities. Perhaps yon poor blind man, grinding away upon his hand-organ, whose natural eyes for long, weary years, have been closed against the profusion of beauty around him, has had the eyes of his understanding opened, and the pure light from the eternal throne illumes the depth of his soul. Perhaps he, who hobbles slowly and sadly along upon his crutches, treads with care and unknown joy, the narrow way,—and when, life's journey's over, he walks through the valley of the shadow of death, he will fear no evil; for a rod and a staff unknown to his earthly pilgrimage, they will comfort him. Who shall say but he, whose deformity drives him from the public way, walks continually before God and Angels—a perfect man? It may be, that yon helpless one—so helpless that his mother feeds him—has power to move the arm that moves the world; for God hears prayer.
It is a most solemn truth that He who is the judge of quick and dead, looks not upon the outer man; but upon his inner, spiritual nature. With His judgment, it matters not, that a man be deformed; that his eyes be blind or his tongue be tied: is the heart all right?—has it become a sanctuary, meet for the spirit's residence and lighted by the Sun of Righteousness, where every word, thought, and deed, becomes an acceptable sacrifice to God? is it not disturbed by sin or blinded by passion? These are the things which have to do in the estimate which God puts upon every intelligent creature. Take good care then, my brother pilgrim, that the heart is all right—though the body which covers it for a little season is distorted and maimed.
THE DEAD CHILD
"Though our tears fell fast and faster,
Yet we would not call her back;
We are glad her feet no longer
Tread life's rough and thorny track.
We are glad our Heavenly Father
Took her while her heart was pure;
We are glad He did not leave her,
All life's troubles to endure.
We are glad—and yet the tear-drop
Falleth, for, alas! we know
That our fireside will be lonely,
We shall miss our darling so!"
HOW beautiful a young child in its shroud! Calm and heavenly looks the white face on which the blighting breath of sin never rested.
The silken curls parted from the marble brow—the once bright eyes closed—once red lips pale—little hands that have ofttimes been clasped as the lips repeated "Our Father," now meekly folded over the throbless heart, tell us that Death, cruel, relentless Death, has been there.
Surely, the soul that once beamed from those closed eyes is happy! Hath not the Saviour said, "Of such is the kingdom of heaven?" Robed like an angel is she now, a lamb in the Saviour's bosom. Could parental love ask more? Surely not. Cleansed from all earthly taint; secure from all trouble, care, or sin, those eyes will no more weep; but the tiny hands will sweep a golden harp, and the childish voice will be heard making music in heaven.
Often, O, how often had our hearts said, "God bless her!" And has not our prayer been answered? The yearnings of love cannot be stifled; for we miss the loving clasp of white arms—the soft pressure of fresh lips—the prattle and smile that were music and light to our world-weary hearts; our hand moves in vain for a resting-place on the golden head; yet we feel, we know that "it is well with the child," for we see how much of woe she has escaped; how much of bliss she has gained; a home with the sinless; the companionship of angels for ETERNITY. Blessed one!
Alone, yet fearlessly, didst thou pass through the "dark valley" and enter into the home prepared for thee. As fearlessly, trustingly may we meet the conqueror, Death, and when the conflict is ended, meet thee in thy new home to dwell for evermore!
WATER
GOD is the author of all our blessings. There is no truth, perhaps, to which we are more ready to give our assent than this; and yet, a great many people seem to act as if they did not believe it, or, at least, as if they were prone to forget it.
A traveller stopped at a fountain, and, letting the rein he held in his hand fall upon the neck of his horse, permitted the thirsty animal to drink of the cooling water that came pouring down from a rocky hill, and spread itself out in a basin below. While the weary beast refreshed himself, the traveller looked at the bright stream that sparkled in the sunlight, and said thus to himself:—
"What a blessing is water! How it refreshes, strengthens, and purifies! And how bountifully it is given! Everywhere flows this good gift of our Heavenly Father, and it is as free as the air to man and beast."
While he thus mused, a child came to the fountain. She had a vessel in her hand, and she stooped to fill it with water.
"Give me a drink, my good little girl," said the traveller.
And, with a smiling face, the child reached her pitcher to the man who still sat on his horse.
"Who made this water?" said the traveller, as he handed the vessel back to the child.
"God made it," was her quick reply.
"And do you know anything that water is like?" asked the traveller.
"Oh, yes! Father says that water is like truth."
"Does he?"
"Yes, sir. He says that water is like truth, because truth purifies the mind as water does the body."
"That is wisely said," returned the traveller. "And truth quenches our thirst for knowledge, as water quenches the thirst of our lips."
The little girl smiled as this was said, and, taking up her pitcher, went back to her home.
"Yes, water represents truth," said the traveller, as he rode thoughtfully away. "The child was right. It purifies and refreshes us, and is spread out, like truth, on every hand, free for those who will take it. Whenever I look upon water again, I will think of it as representing truth; and then I will remember that it is as important to the mind's health and purity to have truth as it is for the body to have water."
Thus, from a simple fountain, as it leaped out from the side of a hill, the traveller gained a lesson of wisdom. And so, as we pass through the world, we may find in almost every natural object that exists something that will turn our minds to higher and better thoughts. Every tree and flower, every green thing that grows, and every beast of the field and bird of the air, have in them a signification, if we could but learn it. They speak to us in a spiritual language, and figure forth to our natural senses the higher, more beautiful, and more enduring things of the mind.
BEAUTIFUL, HAPPY, AND BELOVED
WOULDST thou be beautiful?
Ah, then, be pure! be pure! An angel's face
Is the transparent mirror of her soul.
If ghastly guilt on fairest brows you trace,
Then do you hear the knell of beauty toll.
Let Purity her seal on thee impress,
And thine shall be angelic loveliness.
The pure are beautiful.
Wouldst thou be dearly loved?
Then love, love truly all that God has made;
For by His name of love is He best known.
No damp distrust be on thy spirit laid;
And let affection's words and deeds be one.
Thy soul's warm fountain shall not gush in vain;
From Love's deep source it shall be filled again;
For they who love, are loved.
And wouldst thou happy be?
Then make the truth thy talisman, thy guide.
Be truth the stone in all thy jewels set.
Into thy heart its opal-light shall glide,
And guide thee where are happier spirits yet.
For these three rays are in the shining crown:
The seraph by the Throne of Light lays down,
Truth, Love, and Purity.
"EVERY CLOUD HAS A SILVER LINING."
WHAT! can this be true in this dark world of ours, where the thick clouds of sorrow, disappointed hopes, and bereavements are continually hanging over us, obscuring even the bright star of hope; where upon every passing breeze is borne deep wailings of woe, bitter sighs ascending from bruised and broken hearts mourning over lost hopes, crushed affections, wasted love; struggling vainly for victory in the fierce battle of life; groping about in darkness to catch, if possible, one gleam of sunlight from the heavy clouds—but in vain?
"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust." Another shrine robbed of its idol; another hearth left desolate. See, how the black clouds settle down and press more closely around that lonely widowed one. Grim Death mocks at his grief from the open grave, so soon to receive his heart's idol. Ay, remove the coffin lid; gaze with all the agonizing bitterness of a last look upon that cold marble face; was aught on earth so lovely? Kiss for the last time the pure forehead. Ah! those pale white lips give back no answering pressure of love; sealed for ever by that last chilling blast from the cold river.
And now the damp earth presses heavily over that cherished form; far down in the darkness and silence of the grave must the loved one remain, never more to cheer by her gentle words of love and kindness, the heart of him who so needed her sympathy and love. Gone, gone for ever.
What on earth is now beautiful or bright since the dearest, best treasure is removed? Oh, no! there can be no bright spot in affliction like this; there can be no bright ray to gild this night of sorrow.
Ah! thou erring mortal, repine not. The all-wise Father knew thy frail heart, saw thy whole life and soul bound up in that one creature, weak and sinful like thyself; forgetful of the Creator; and wilt thou dare raise thy feeble voice against the Almighty when He removed the idol that He alone may reign? Wilt thou not bow meekly, kiss the rod, and accept the bitter cup of bereavement, offered as it is in mercy?
And is this all? Is there no life beyond the grave? Is the spirit which held such communion with thine for ever quenched?
Can the grave contain for ever the immortal part? Look up, oh! mourning one; thy loved one is not there.
Hark! hearest thou not soft, heavenly voices, whispering sweetly of a life beyond the dark river, where Death can never come; of glorious mansions where is peace and joy for ever more, and of another freed spirit welcomed to the blissful home? Dost thou not feel upon thy tear-moistened cheek, gentle wavings of angel wings perfumed with the breath of heavenly flowers?
Even now, may the happy glorified spirit of thy loved one be hovering around; think you it would return again to that perishing body of clay?
The sweet star of faith is already rising over thy grief; the clouds, all bright and shining with hues caught from heavenly skies, are no longer dark and rayless; and now, even with thy lonely bleeding heart, canst thou humbly receive the chastisement from Him who doeth all things well.
Henceforth will earth seem less dear, heaven nearer, and more to be desired; thy own cherished companion is there, and who can know but that her pure spirit may sometimes look down upon thee, still to encourage thy endeavours to battle manfully with life and its trials, still to cheer and console in thy hours of distress; but now, with heart and affections all purified from the dross of earth, will not the influence be more blessed than when she walked with bodily presence at thy side?
Yes, thanks to our merciful Father, every cloud has a silver lining, however dark the side presented to our view, ladened heavy though it be with sorrows and woes, which almost crush the life from our hearts as it presses upon us; yet there away, hidden from our short mortal vision, gleams the soft silvery lining, ever gently shining, perhaps never to be revealed in this world, reserved for us to discover after we too have been called from this to our heavenly home, and look back upon our earthly pilgrimage with rejoicings that we have been so safely borne through every trial and temptation.
Ah! then will our sky be without a cloud. All joyous and happy will we tune our harps anew to the praise of Him who loved us and hath given us the victory!
AN ANGEL OF PATIENCE
BESIDE the toilsome way,
Lowly and sad, by fruits and flowers unblest,
Which my lone feet tread sadly, day by day,
Longing in vain for rest,
An angel softly walks,
With pale, sweet face, and eyes cast meekly down,
The while from withered leaves and flowerless stalks
She weaves my fitting crown.
A sweet and patient grace,
A look of firm endurance true and tried,
Of suffering meekly borne, rests on her face,
So pure—so glorified.
And when my fainting heart
Desponds and murmurs at its adverse fate,
Then quietly the angel's bright lips part,
Murmuring softly, "Wait!"
"Patience!" she meekly saith—
"Thy Father's mercies never come too late;
Gird thee with patient strength and trusting faith,
And firm endurance wait!"
THE GRANDFATHER'S ADVICE
IT was a golden sunset, which was fondly gazed upon by an old man on whose broad brow the history of seventy winters had been written. He sat in the wide porch of a large old-fashioned house: his look was calm and clear, though years had quelled the fire of his eagle glance; his silver hair was borne mildly back, by the south wind of August, and a smile of sweetness played over his features, breathing the music of contentment. His heart was still fresh, and his mind open to receive an impress of the loveliness of earth. The dew of love for his fellow-creatures fell upon his aged soul, and pure adoration went up to the Giver of every good from its altar. He lifted his gaze to the cerulean blue above him, and dwelt upon his future, with a glow of hope upon his heart—then he turned to the past, and his beaming expression gradually mellowed into pensiveness: in thought, he travelled through the long vista of years which he had left behind him, and his mental exclamation was,
"There has not been a year of my life since manhood, that I might not have lived to a better purpose. I might have been more useful and devoted to my race. I might more fully have sacrificed the idol self, which so often I have knelt to, in worship more heartfelt than I offered the Divinity. Yet have I laboured to become pure in thy sight, oh, my God! build thy kingdom in my breast!"
A tear trembled in the aged suppliant's eye, and the calm of holy humility stole over him; the gentle look was again upon his countenance, when a young man of about twenty years, swung open the gate leading to the house, and, approaching, saluted the old man with a cordial grasp of the hand; flinging his cap carelessly down, he took a seat in a rustic chair, and exclaimed with a smile of mingled affection and reverence, which broke over his thoughtful features, making him extremely handsome,
"Well, grandfather, I believe you complete seventy years to-day!"
"Yes, my son, and I have been looking back upon them. I do not usually dwell upon the past with repining, yet I see much that might have been better. My years have not always been improved."
The young man listened respectfully; presently he asked, with sudden interest, "Pray tell me, if there ever was a whole year of your life, so perfectly happy that you would wish to live it all over again?"
"I have been perfectly happy at brief intervals," was the reply, "yet there is not a year of my long life, that I would choose to have return. I have been surrounded by many warm friends now gone to their homes in the spirit-world,—I have loved, and have been loved, and the recollection yet thrills me; still I thank God that I am not to live over those years upon earth. I have struggled much for truth and goodness, and there has not been one struggle which I would renew, though each has been followed by a deep satisfaction."
"To me, your life appears to have been dreary, grandfather," replied his companion. "I ask for happiness!" After a pause, he added with impetuosity, "If I am not to meet with the ardent happiness I dream of, and desire, I do not care to live. What is the life which thousands lead, worth? Nothing! I cannot sail monotonously down the stream—the more I think, and thought devours me, the more discontented do I become with everything I see. Why is an overpowering desire for happiness planted within the human breast, if it is so very rarely to be gratified? My childhood was sometimes gay, but as often, it was clouded by disappointments which are great to children. I have never seen even the moment, since I have been old enough to reflect, when I could say that I was as happy as I was capable of being. I have even felt the consciousness that my soul's depths were not filled to the brim with joy. I could always ask for more. In my happiest hours, the eager question rushes upon me, involuntarily, 'Am I entirely content?' And the response that rises up, is ever 'No.' I am young, and this soft air steals over a brow of health—I can appreciate the beautiful and exquisite. I can drink in the deep poetry of noble minds—I can idly revel in voluptuous music, and dream away my soul, but with that bewitching dream, there is still a yearning for its realization. I cannot abate the restlessness that presses upon me—I look around, and young faces are bright and smiling with cheerful gayety. I endeavour to catch the buoyant spirit, but I succeed rarely,—if I do, it floats on the surface, leaving the under-current unbroken in its flow. Yet after I have endeavoured to lighten the oppressive cares of some unfortunate creature, a sort of peace has for a time descended upon me, which has been infinitely soothing. It soon departs, and my usual bitterness again sways me. I sought for friendship, and for awhile I was relieved, but I cannot forbear glancing down into the motives of my fellow men, and that involuntarily-searching spirit has proved unfortunate to me. I met with selfishness in the form of attachment, and then I turned to look upon the hollow heart of society, and it was there."
"Alfred, you make me sad," said the old man, in a solemn and deeply pained voice. "This is the first time I knew that your heart was such a temple of bitterness."
"If I have saddened you, I wish I had not spoken: but the thoughts rushed over me, your kind heart is always open, and I gave them expression. You have lived long, and there is more sympathy in your experience, than in the laughing jest of those near my own age. Pardon me, grandfather, I will not pain you again!" Alfred turned his eyes upon his aged friend; he caught the look of kindness upon that honoured face, and it fell warmly, upon his soul.
"It is right to think deeply," said the revered adviser, "but one must think rightly, also. You must not look out upon the world, from the darkened corners of your soul, or the hue is transferred to all things which your glance falls upon. Take the torch of truth and heavenly charity to chase away the dimness within you, then powerful changes will be wrought in your vision. You will begin to regard your fellow man with new feelings of interest. I am a plain and blunt old man, Alfred, but you know that my only desire is for your good; so bear with my remarks if they be unpalatable."
"Certainly, sir, I value frankness before flattery."
"You may say that you have never been perfectly happy," continued the old gentleman; "that is neither strange nor uncommon, for I have met with few thoughtful persons of your years, who, upon close reflection, could say that their souls could desire no more than had been granted to them. You must seek for resignation, not entire bliss upon earth, although it is possible that you may enjoy it for a season."
"Why is joy so transitory and unquiet so lasting?" demanded the young man impatiently.
"The fault is not in the transitoriness of the joy, but in the very soul itself,—it is in a state of disorder; its nature must be changed before it can receive for ever only the image of gladness. In a chaos of the elements, can a smiling sky be always seen? Lay asleep all unruly elements in the spirit, and a pure heaven of brightness will then greet the uplifted glance."
"But how can all this be done, grandfather? hath unruly elements do you speak of? What can I do; for instance? I certainly am willing and glad to see my kind happy—if my soul be in disorder, I do not know in what it consists, or how to bring it to order. I am weary of its unsatisfied desires; it is, continually in search of something which it has never caught sight of,—and the fear, that that unknown, yet powerfully desired something may never come to quench my thirst, falls with the coldness of death upon my bosom."
"That something may be found by every human being, if sought for in the right way. Those yearnings are not given us, that they may fall back and wither the fountain from which they spring. But the question is, do we seek for happiness in the right way? Do we not rather ask for an impossibility, when we ask for permanent bliss, before we have laid a foundation in our souls for it? You wish to take this life too easy by far, my son; rouse up all your strength, look around you with the keenness of a resolved spirit, and seek to regenerate your whole being,—let that be your object, and let the desire for happiness be subservient to it. You will clasp joy to your breast, as an everlasting gift, at the end of the race. What are your aims and objects? You hardly know; you are in pursuit of that which flees, before you as a shadow, and your restless spirit sinks and murmurs,—you have no grand object in view, to buoy you up steadily and trustfully through every ill which life has power to bestow. Those very ills are seized upon, and become instruments of glory to the devoted and heaven-strengthened spirit,—they prepare for a deeper draught of all things dear and desired, and though the soul droop beneath the weight of human suffering, yet the rod that smites is kissed with a prayer. Turn away from your individual self, as far as you can, and regard the broad world with a philanthropic eye—"
"Impossible—impossible!" interrupted Alfred, hastily, "I defy any person to turn from himself, and look upon the world with a more interested gaze than he casts upon his own heart. One may be philanthropic in his feelings and devoted to alleviating the distresses of less fortunate beings, but I hold it to be impossible that our individual selves will not always be first in interest. A sudden and powerful impulse may carry us away for a time, but after that rushing influence leaves us, we see yourselves again, and, find that we had only lost our equilibrium briefly. I say only what I sincerely think, and what thousands secretly know to be the case, even while advocating views quite opposite. There is no candour in the world!"
"Softly, my good friend," said the grandfather, mildly smiling. "I also hold it to be impossible that we can lose either our individuality or our interest in ourselves, but I believe it possible that we may love others just as well, if not better than ourselves. I do not refer to one or two particular persons whom we may admire, but I speak of the mass of our fellow-creatures."
"I cannot even conceive of such a love!" returned the young man, shaking his head. "I cannot see how I could love a person who possesses no attractive qualities whatever;—I always feel indifference, if not dislike. I think I could sacrifice my life to one I loved, if thrown into sudden and imminent danger; still, I think I might give pain to that same person many times, by gratifying myself. For instance, grandfather,—suppose you were to be led to the stake, to be burned to-morrow,—I would take your place to save you; yet I do not now do all I possible can, to add to your happiness. I gratify whims of my own; I idle away hours in the woods, or by some stream, when I fully know that it would be more pleasing to you, to see me bending patiently over my Greek and Latin."
"Very true!" sighed the old man. "You prove your own position, which is that your ruling love is self-love."
Alfred lifted up his eyebrows, as if he had heard an unwelcome fact. We are often willing to confess things, which we do not like to have old us. He fell into deep thought. Finally he said, "It is universally allowed that virtue is lovely; those who practise it, appear calm and resigned, and often happy—but, to tell the truth, such enjoyment seems rather tame and flat. I wish to be in freedom, to let my burning impulses rush on as they will, without a yoke. I love, and I hate, as my heart bids me, and I scorn control of any kind."
"Yet you submit to a yoke, my son; one which is not of your own imposing either."
"What kind of a yoke?"
"The yoke of society,—you bow to public opinion in a measure. You avoid a glaring act, often, more because it will not be approved, than because you have a real disinclination for it. Is not that the case sometimes?"
Alfred did not exceedingly relish this probing, but he was too candid to cover up his motives from himself. He answered a decided "yes!" but it was spoken, because he could not elbow himself out of the self-evident conviction forced upon him.
"Do you think it degrading for a man to conquer and govern the strongest, as well as the weakest impulses of his soul?" pursued his grandfather.
"Certainly not degrading,—it is in the highest degree worthy of praise. It is truly noble! I acknowledge it."
"And yet you deem such enjoyment as would result from this government, tame and flat."
"I beg pardon; when I spoke of virtue, I referred to that smooth kind which is current, and seems more passive than active,—that soft amiability which appears to deaden enthusiasm, and to shut up the soul in a set of opinions, instead of expanding it widely to everything noble and generous, wherever it may be found."
"It was not genuine virtue, you referred to, then,—it was only its resemblance."
"It was what passes for virtue. But to come at the main point, grandfather;—where is happiness to be found, if we are to be warring with ourselves during a lifetime, checking every natural spring in the soul?"
"Stop there, Alfred! We only quench the streams, which prevent the spirit's purest wells of noble and happy feelings from gushing forth in freedom. We must wage a warfare, it is true; why conceal it? But it does not last for ever, and intervals of gladness come to refresh us, which the worn and blunted spirit of the man of pleasure in vain pants for. An exquisite joy, innocent as that of childhood, pervades the bosom of truth's soldier in his hours of peace and rest, and he lifts an eye of rapture to heaven—to God."