Look at that aged saint! He has passed the world's trials; he has been acquainted with the "sweet uses of adversity," and learned wisdom, and seen God's hand in many blessings, and learned love. He is at peace. The evening of his days has come, his work is almost done; the discipline of this life is passed, the world's cares are laid aside, and his treasure and his thoughts are in heaven. "He knows in whom he has believed," and is waiting for his summons.

And what is that summons for which all things in a long life of probation have been preparing him? for which joys and sorrows, hopes and fears, helps and hindrances, trials and temptations, have been teaching, and enlightening, and purifying, and strengthening him? Is it to perish in a grave? Impossible-God cannot have made such a work for such an end.

The man has been taught by everything within

him and around him, and made to feel and know that he is immortal. God's own word has been given him, and he has made it "a lamp to his feet, and a light to his path," and it has never failed him. Is it now to go out in darkness? Will the God who has been proving his truth and justice to him all his days, suffer him to be cheated at the last? Impossible.

Consider his improvement-look at the advances he has made, by his discipline here, in all that ennobles man. God himself has taught him by his Spirit, led him by his hand, armed him for the conflict with sin and temptation, and given him the victory; will he now deny him the crown, and give him to the grave?

Has God purified his heart by faith, elevated him above the world, subdued his passions, healed his infirmities, given him holy and heavenly affections, and made him a fit associate for angels; and will

he now give him to the worms? Impossibledeath cannot be the end of life to him. No-it is the beginning of life. His death is the death of the seed cast into the earth, that shooteth up with renewed vigor rich in the fruits and flowers of another life. His death is the death of the worm that spinneth her shroud and dieth, to rise again a joyous and blessed thing, and spread her new wings in the breath of heaven, telling, wherever she flies, that God is great and good, and that death is not the end of life.

January 29th.

14*

The Worm's Death-Song.

O! LET me alone-I've a work to be done
That can brook not a moment's delay;
While yet I breathe I must spin and weave,
And may rest not night nor day.

Food and sleep I will never know

Till my blessed work be done;

Then my rest shall be sweet, in the winding-sheet That around me I have spun.

I have been a base and grovelling thing,
And the dust of the earth my home,
But now I know that the end of my woe,
And the day of my bliss, is come.

In the shroud I make, this creeping frame
Shall peacefully die away,

But its death shall be new life to me,

In the midst of its perished clay.

I shall wake, I shall wake, a glorious form
Of brightness and beauty to wear;

I shall burst from the gloom of my opening tomb,
And breathe in the balmy air.

I shall spread my new wings to the morning sun,
On the summer's breath I'll live;

I will bathe me where, in the dewy air,
The flowers their sweetness give.

I will not touch the dusty earth,

I'll spring to the brightening sky,
And, free as the breeze, wherever I please,
On joyous wing I'll fly.