in deeper than midnight darkness; in an instant, at the word of Jesus, light breaks in upon his blinded eyeballs, and he sees the creation of God spread forth in all its loveliness before him.

He gazes with rapture on the splendor of the sun and the glories of the earth; and, above all, he gazes with astonishment and gratitude on HIM who had restored his sight.

He is now a new man, and enters on a new life. He no more depends on the charity of others to feed, and clothe, and lead him.

He walks erect and with a firm and steady step, conscious that he is now able to provide for himself, and to grant aid to others.

They are happy, who, like this blind beggar, have access to Jesus, and can spread their prayers before him. They have a season of mercy, rich with blessings. To the humble penitent, saddened and self abased by the remembrance of his sins, and crying to him for mercy, Jesus says, "What wilt thou that I should do unto thee?" He hears their prayers; he pardons their sins, and by his spirit he enlightens and renews their minds. Then a new world, as it were, opens and rises up before them; "God, who commanded the light to shine out of darkness," shines in their hearts, "to give the light of the

knowledge of the glory of God, in the face of Jesus Christ." They now see in Christ unutterable grace and glory, and contemplate with wonder the union of divine justice and mercy, holiness and goodness, in the work of redemption.

New feelings of gratitude and love are awakened within them, while they rejoice in God as their Father and portion in Christ.

Our blessed Redeemer, when he healed the blind beggar, said to him, "Receive thy sight, thy faith hath saved thee." Faith is the trust of the heart in Christ for the reception of spiritual blessings. Unbelief is the rejection of him, as though he were unworthy of our confidence, or unable to supply our wants, and arises from a false and sinful confidence in ourselves.

Faith arises from an humbling conviction of our own sinfulness and inability to save ourselves, accompanied with the firm conviction that Jesus Christ is the Son of God, God manifest in the flesh, mighty to save, and in the entire, cordial reliance of the heart upon him. This faith is necessary for our obtaining the blessings which he only can bestow. The great and the noble, as well as the poor and the mean, the learned and the wise, as well as the unlettered, must come

and receive salvation as his free gift, or miserably perish in their sins. There is every thing in his character and history to invite and encourage our confidence in him. Though he is now the Lord of glory and exalted to be Head over all, he is the same compassionate and condescending Saviour, as when he dwelt as Jesus of Nazareth in the land of Judea. His power, his love, his mercy, and his grace have no bounds.

As he came into the world to save sinners, so now he is "exalted as a Prince and a Saviour, to give repentance to Israel and remission of sins."

Let none despair. Let none imagine that their sins are too many, and their unworthiness too great for them to obtain pardon and salvation. Jesus is able to save to the uttermost all them who come to God through him." The wretched, the guilty, the poor, and the dying, have ever found a friend and a Saviour in him. He is even now passing by us in the preaching of his word, the administration of his ordinances, the dispensations of his providence, and the strivings of his spirit.

By all these he calls us to himself. He waits that we may come and present to him our petition; and if with true faith we receive him, he will bestow eternal life upon us.

ELIJAH IN THE DESERT.

BY LYDIA JANE PIERSON.

'Twas burning summer o'er the wilderness, And on the lofty mountains that look up, With heads uncovered, reverently to heaven.

The shrubs were fainting in the noon-day heat, And the tired song-birds droop'd their airy wings In silence mid the still and wilted leaves; The herbage lay all languid on the rocks,

The sweet breath of the aromatic vines,

And rich young flowers of glorious forms and hues,
That grew in ravine, cleft, or narrow dell,
Lay on the still air round the drooping cups,
In overpowering fragrance, while a hush

Of sickly languor brooded over all

The rough and thirsty landscape.

Lo! there comes

An aged wanderer from the wilderness.

With faltering step he lean'd upon his staff,

While toiling up the stern and rocky side
Of the majestic Horeb. His white locks
Were wet with perspiration, and his breast
Heav'd quick and painfully, while his worn feet
Flinch'd from the heated rocks; yet on he climb'd,
Till the faint flutter of the breeze's wing

Shook balm upon his parch'd and quivering lip,
And bathed his burning eyeballs. Gratefully

He rais'd his face tow'rd heaven, and the sweet breeze

Lifted his damp white locks, and kiss'd his brow,
Wooing him sweetly to repose and peace.

He sat him down, that hungry, tired old man, Whose tongue was swollen with thirst, and thank'd his God

For that delicious visitant,

Which, lifting now the tufts of vines that grew

Upon the rock, beneath whose shade he sat,

Show'd ripe red berries clustering 'mongst the leaves.
His joy gush'd forth in praises as he fed
Upon the cooling fruit, which quench'd his thirst,
And satisfied his hunger. Seeking then

A resting-place, he found a rugged cave
Extending deep into the mountain's breast;
He enter'd it, and laid him down to sleep
Upon its mossy floor.