Then

support man in the gloomy hours of adversity, where that gratitude and love that lend such a zest to his hours of joy! What sadness would reign over the world! what unalleviated despair! Or, if we might extend this melancholy picture, if the imagination might carry us beyond this earth to a universe ignorant of its Maker, O, what a chasm to strike the Infinite One out of existence! should we see in their once happy spheres, the angels sitting apart and weeping that they had no God; or behold them flying through infinite space, winging their way through the mazes of the whirling planets, and seeking some token of the Father they had lost, and, as they met, saying to one another, Is it so? Have we no God-no Father? No, we have no God! And with boundless grief and despair they would wing their way farther and farther through the universe. Then would every harp be unstrung, every song silent, and the despairing words, we have no God-no Father a blind chance rules--be all that would break the awful silence of heaven. In one dismal region these sounds might, perhaps, bring some joy. Fiends might triumph-might laugh and exclaim, Heard ye there is no God-there is no Heaven? This universe is now one boundless place of torment! Then let it be supposed that to this despairing world the news should be brought that God still ruled. Let the note peal as from a trum pet through the universe, "He lives, he reigns;"and what transport would fill the earth and the

heavens! Then would the child of sorrow lift his head from the dust to his Father who is in heaven. Angels would string again their harps, and re-echo the tidings,-"He lives, he reigns God over all, blessed for ever!"-The triumph of fiends would be turned into shame, and hell resume her ancient gloom and despair.

We are not competent to appreciate the effect, were the knowledge of God blotted out of the universe. There was a moment when the only created mind fully capable of comprehending the fearful thought, seemed to feel it as an insupporta ble reality. And who can tell the feelings of that mighty mind at that awful moment, when God hid his face from him, and the suffering Son locked up in vain, and exclaimed, "My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me!" Nearly such would be the condition of this world without the Bible. The Bible alone points the exile to his native land. It conducts the wandering, thirsty traveller to the very fountain of life. It leads the long-lost spirit back to God.

But beside the support and hope which the knowledge of God procures, unspeakably greater is the pleasure we derive from loving him. What greater blessing has heaven bestowed upon the human race than pure and amiable affections? Of all men he is the most miserable who has nothing to love. His heart is cold, and his bosom like the desolate heath. Nor is there any thing that can revive and refresh his withered mind

until he has found an object on which to bestow his affections. No small portion of our happiness in this world arises from the love we feel toward those who are dear to us. We may indeed have affections that are not virtuous; but the pleasures we derive from them do not deserve the name. We may love what is unworthy, inconstant, and changeful; and then our expectations are defeated. We may love what is transient and dying; and then our joys are turned into grief. And yet, with all its fickleness and uncertainty, earth furnishes no such happiness as where heart yearns toward its fellow heart. In so far as their characters are faulty, the pleasure of our love it is true is in proportion diminished; and yet with all their blemishes, the loss of their affections could not be easily repaired. But suppose those we love are exalted beyond their fellow men, endowed with an amiable and generous mind, gifted with a strength of intellect and purpose that are softened by benevolence and condescension, and over all these qualities a winning manner throws its attractive charms; what delight do we experience in affectionate intercourse with them. We feel as it were almost raised to their level, and enjoy a pride and gratification that we are esteemed worthy of their love. And this thought elevates us indeed, and keeps us above the level of the common world. And how careful are we to do nothing to forfeit their confidence, and what grief and self-reproach do we feel if we

have forfeited it; for conscience tells us that the folly, the error is all our own. What then must be the happiness of fixing the heart on God, where there is nothing unlovely, nothing fickle, nothing false or dying! From our best affections toward creatures up to the love of God, there is a height as lofty as his ways and attributes are above the attributes and ways of mortals. No fear can haunt the mind, that he may change in his character, or in his love. He is above the reach of accident, or mutation, perfect in benevolence and power, and to those who trust in him is a sure and perpetually increasing source of joy. Men no longer grasp at shadows, when they fix their hearts on God. They think of him, and are happy; they contemplate his nature, and their best affections and purest happiness become more exalted and more pure, the greater their love. Solicitude subsides into tranquillity, peace is in vigorated to confidence, love awakes to joy, and not unfrequently joy to transport, at a view of the divine excellence and glory. And then to receive love for love; to lean on the bosom of divine faithfulness; to make the Eternal God our refuge and portion-this is the blessedness for which the spiritual nature of man is formed. This is that great law of moral attraction by which the soul enjoys even a sort of sympathy with the divine nature and participates in his blessedness,

The world has no substitute for such a source of joy. You may be happy my young friends, with

until he has found an object on which to bestow his affections. No small portion of our happiness in this world arises from the love we feel toward those who are dear to us. We may indeed have affections that are not virtuous; but the pleasures we derive from them do not deserve the name. We may love what is unworthy, inconstant, and changeful; and then our expectations are defeated. We may love what is transient and dying; and then our joys are turned into grief. And yet, with all its fickleness and uncer tainty, earth furnishes no such happiness as where heart yearns toward its fellow heart. In so far as their characters are faulty, the pleasure of our love it is true is in proportion diminished; and yet with all their blemishes, the loss of their affections could not be easily repaired. But suppose those we love are exalted beyond their fellow men, endowed with an amiable and generous mind, gifted with a strength of intellect and purpose that are softened by benevolence and condescension, and over all these qualities a winning manner throws its attractive charms; what delight do we experience in affectionate intercourse with them. We feel as it were almost raised to their level, and enjoy a pride and gratification that we are esteemed worthy of their love. And this thought elevates us indeed, and keeps us above the level of the common world. And how careful are we to do nothing to forfeit their confidence, and what grief and self-reproach do we feel if we