golden harps are tuned to raise a louder song of joy over every one who repenteth. Will you not also cause the arches of heaven to re-echo, that another wanderer has returned? Shall angels long for your salvation, and you be unconcerned about it yourself? But more,

Jesus Christ desires your salvation. For this he became 'a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief." For this he endured the agony of the garden and the cross. He calls you by his word, by his providence, and by his Spirit. He declares that he "is not willing that any should perish, but that all should come to repentance." And shall he call in vain? Is it nothing to you, that he shed his precious blood, and bore our sins in his own body on the tree? It must be a heart of adamant, that will not melt in view of such condescension, suffering, and love. Oh, vile ingratitude, that can behold, unmoved, "the Son of God in tears," offering himself for man's redemption.

Consider, also, the glories of heaven. There is the throne of God and of the Lamb. There the pure river of the water of life for ever flows. There, saints and angels offer their unceasing praises. There, your departed christian friends mingle their voices with the heavenly choir. There, all unite in singing, "Blessing, and honour, and glory, and power, be unto Him that sitteth on the throne, and unto the Lamb for ever and ever." There, every humble penitent at last arrives. There he takes his fill of holy pleasure, for ever to increase with his capacity. It is there the angels wait to rejoice over your salvation.

Think, too, of the misery of hell. Oh, the horrors of despair!

What pencil can paint, what tongue can tell, or what pen describe them? Weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth! How will you then escape, if you "neglect so great salvation ?"

Consider the worth of the soul. Its value can be measured only by eternity. When millions of millions of ages shall have rolled away, your soul will still be active, and its capacity to suffer or enjoy for ever increasing.

"Oh, the soul that never dies"-here spending its short probation, and preparing for the glories of heaven or the miseries of hell for ever!

Death is rapidly approaching.

Perhaps this night you

will close your eyes to awake in eternity. Thousands have been thus surprised. How many of your

gone never to return. Their state is fixed.

companions are They are now enduring the judgments of God, or singing his praises in the paradise above. Whoever you are, you may be assured that death is nigh to you. To him you must yield, willing or unwilling; and eternal woe must be your doom, unless you haste to Christ, the only refuge from the impending storm. Oh, remember that you are mortal, that time flies, that death approaches, and that if you have yet no hope, you are exposed every moment to be cut down, and consigned to everlasting ruin.

The day of judgment is at hand. Soon the loud trump of the archangel will awake the sleeping dead; and you among them will come forth to "the resurrection of life," or to "the resurrection of damnation." Then the Saviour, whom you have loved, or despised, will appear in the clouds of heaven

to give to every one "according as his work shall be." Before him you must stand with assembled millions, while he bids you depart, or welcomes you to a seat at his right hand. How dreadful must be that day to you, if you are not clothed with the robe of Christ's righteousness. What will you do when the Judge shall pronounce your awful doom? How will you then feel, when your dear relatives and friends shall arise to meet Christ in the air, and go with him to the new Jerusalem above, while you are left behind a companion of wretched men and devils—for ever to sink in misery-for ever to remain an outcast from the presence of God, from your christian friends, and without the prospect of any alleviation or end of your woe?

Other motives might be urged, but if these will not awaken you to a sense of your danger, others would be unavailing. Now, you have a day of grace. Now, the saints are praying for you; the angels of God wait to rejoice over you; the Lord Jesus Christ, by his word and by his Spirit, is entreating you to come; the glories of heaven are offered you; the miseries of hell are unveiled to your view; while the worth of your soul, the rapid approach of death and judgment, urge you to make haste-to escape for your life from the destruction that awaits you. Oh, my young friend, as you value your eternal well-being, I beseech you awake from your slumber. Arise, and go to Jesus. beggar; go, penitent and believing. sent empty away. While you tarry, lating, your danger is increasing. Delay a little longer, and your soul, your precious, immortal soul may be lost for ever!

Go to him a humble None such, were ever your sins are accumu

As the beloved man who wrote these lines was drawing near to death, he was asked, "Do you feel that it is your choice now to go?" "Yes," he replied, "if it is God's will." "Should he please to restore you, would you not be willing to remain here and labour a little longer?"

"Oh, yes, I think so, if it was his will. But my work on earth is all done. I want now to go and be with Christ. Prophets, and apostles, and martyrs are there; and many pious friends are there I feel that I should like to meet them. Christ will be there; and we shall be like him, for we shall see him as he is; that will be enough."

Again he repeated the words, "Home, home," and prayed, Oh, for a free and full discharge. Lord Jesus, come quickly. Why wait thy chariot wheels so long? I dedicate myself to thee. Oh, may I have the victory. Oh, come quickly. Come, Lord Jesus, come quickly."

"WHEN IS THE TIME TO DIE?"

I ASKED the glad and happy child
Whose hands were filled with flowers,
Whose silvery laugh ran free and wild
Among the vine-wreathed bowers;
I crossed her sunny path and cried,
"When is the time to die?"
"Not yet; not yet;" the child replied,
And swiftly bounded by.

I asked a maid; then back she threw
The tresses of her hair;

Griefs traces o'er her cheeks I knew

Like pearls they glistened there.

A flush passed o'er her lily brow;
I heard her spirit sigh;

"Not now," she cried, "Oh! no, not now; Youth is no time to die."

I asked a mother as she press'd
Her firstborn in her arms;
As gently to her tender breast

She hushed her babes alarms.
In quivering tones her accents came,
Her eyes were dimmed with tears,
"My boy his mother's life must claim
For many many years."

I questioned one in manhood's prime,
Of proud and fearless air,

Whose brow was furrowed not by time,
Or dimmed by woe or care.

In angry accents he replied,
As flashed with scorn his eye,
"Talk not to me of death," he cried,
"For only age should die."

I questioned age, for whom the tomb
Had long been all prepared;

For death, who withers life and bloom,
This man of years had spared;
Once more his natures dying fire
Flashed high, and thus he cried,

"Life, only life, is my desire,"

Then gasped, and groaned, and died.

I asked the Christian, "Answer thou;
When is the hour of death?"

A holy calm was on his brow,
And peaceful was his breath;

And sweetly o'er his features stole
A smile of life divine;

He spoke the language of his soul,
"My Master's time is mine!"