breathing its sweet, soft hymn, and whilst awed by the still silence and the profound solitudes of the arid desert, he bends lowly to the vast material universe as to his living god, to tell him that there is One whose lineaments of beauty are far more exquisite, and whose features of majesty are far more glorious, and whose attributes of grandeur are far more divine; and that this stupendous universe, on which he leans as on the Supreme, is but the "goings forth" of this Holy and this Highest, and that there is a communion yet more elevating and soul-enkindling, and a worship yet more hallowed and spirit-blessing, and a service yet more exalted and heart-freeing!

We will tell these lofty beings what it is that missions do. In the place of darkness, they shed the full beauty of immortal day; in the stead of death, they put life; they find the man lower sunk than "the beast which perisheth," and they exalt him to throneship with the Everlasting; they find him going down to the grave without one bright hope, and they strike out the hymn of an imperishable existence; for corruption, they give health; for pollution, purity: they find homes girt around with wretchedness, and within full of misery, and they cast thereon the hallowed beams of blessedness, and love, and peace; and in the desert, where once prowled the savage, is seen the tapering spire pointing heavenwards, and often on the winds comes the silvery chime of its chapel-bell; and in the place of adultery and uncleanness do they place chastity and holiness; and in the stead of violated abodes do they give the lovely shrine of domestic bliss; and in cities do they make good subjects and loyal people; and in kingdoms do they establish the throne, and teach him

U

that sitteth thereon to rule righteously; and over the whole world do they throw a calm, unruffled repose and ripening plenty.

Thus missions regenerate the world; and what sacrifice is like to one who, for the redemption of the roaming savage, forsakes the land of his fathers, with its thousand memories and its thousand sweets, and bidding adieu to kinsmen whose faces were as the light of heaven, and whose love as deep as a river, and whose kindness made the years pass as one short, sunny hour, betakes himself far off amid strangers and amid foes, to labour till his death-hour for the renovation of immortal spirits? Deride it as they may, sport with it as they will, the missionary character is essentially and truly great; it approaches nearest to the Eternal's; it bears his impress most deeply; its voice is but the voice of the Divinity; its master-principle is the principle that governs him; it is man's highest dignity, man's loftiest bearing.

How exulting the song for Easter-day; enthusiasm is in its every note:

God is gone up with a merry noise

Of saints that sing on high;

With his own right hand and his holy arm

He hath won the victory!

Now empty are the courts of Death,

And crushed thy sting, Despair;

And roses bloom in the desert tomb,

For Jesus hath been there!

And he hath tamed the strength of hell,

And dragged him through the sky,

And captive behind his chariot-wheel

He hath bound captivity.

God is gone up with a merry noise
Of saints that sing on high;

With his own right hand and his holy arm
He hath won the victory!

A fit hymn for the hour of the church's triumph-it is one of joy. Blackness and gloom were the clouds that before had bedimmed the tomb; there was no life, there was no hope; the cypress and the yew moaned beside the grave; there were sounds of lamentation— sounds of woe; the agonizing moment-so heart-rending, so heart-bursting, so heart-stifling-was without one cheering anticipation of meeting again. Ah, those deep, deep, heavy, gigantic wails were without one consoling assurance!—the parting of husband and of wife, of child and mother, was without one cheering ray; the tearing, breaking, convulsive, forcing away was without one beam of comfort; the last glance of the eye, the last language of the lips, the last pressure of the hand, the last-it was all the last: a separation, a disunion, annihilation, or worse, for ever;-no more to gaze on each other, no more to greet with fondest love, no more kind and gentle services, no more vows of unchanging attachment, no more prattle of babe, no more tenderness, no more love, no more life! What partings, then; what adieus—what farewells! But henceforth there was light; immortality sprang up and everlasting peace; the dying man heard the imperishable notes, caught the divine music; his heart moved with happiness, throbbed with bliss; his countenance shone with brightness, was radiated with glory; the room, the awful, terrible room of death became the antechamber of heaven; the viol and the harp were there; ever and anon would come the harmonies of the invisible world, and the scents of that sweet clime; there were breathings of deepest hope; angels came and tarried; and He, the morning star, stood up the sky, and pointed to a land where there is everlasting reunion, everlasting love.

Such strains as Heber's are suited to the worship of the Everlasting One; they become the lips of the renewed man; they express the feelings of the humble, but believing heart; the truths of the sky are sung to an earthly lyre; we listen to their consoling and divine music; happiness then takes possession of the soul, a gentle soothing peace the spirit; we become assimilated to the angels; they become one with us, we one with them. The hymn is eternal; it rises now, it will rise for ever-it is immortal and imperishable; as ages roll on, it will deepen in its intonations; it will become grander and more sublime. We already feel its kindling, growing power. We awaken to its dignity and gigantic influence. Bear us on thy breast, O song, to that world of love!

ROBERT BLAIR.

"Look nature through, 'tis revolution all;
All change, no death; day follows night, and night
The dying day; stars rise and set, and set and rise:
Earth takes the example. See, the Summer gay,
With her green chaplet and ambrosial flowers,
Droops into pallid autumn: Winter gray,
Horrid with frost, and turbulent with storm,

Blows autumn and his golden fruits away,

Then melts into the spring: soft Spring, with breath
Favonian, from warm chambers of the south,
Recals the first. All, to reflourish, fades;
As in a wheel, all sinks to re-ascend:
Emblems of man, who passes, not expires."

YOUNG.

THE life of Blair is deficient in all those striking events which cast around the works of an author a deeper feeling of interest: his days, which were passed happily away in the discharge of pastoral duties, remind one of some flowery spot on which the slant rays of the western-sun fall, making it golden with beauty. He was born in 1699; studied at the University of Edinburgh; visited the Continent; in 1731, was ordained, and appointed to the parish of Athelstaneford. He was a man of much learning and taste, and to these he added sincere piety. He laboured quietly among his flock till 1746, when death gave him to the eternal world.