growth of the body in childhood and youth, and the bounds which are set to the stature in perfected manhood, alike point us to the insignificance of our presumption and our despair, and to the power in whom unbounded confidence may be placed. Without power or skill without plan or effort, we grow from infancy to maturity; insensibly but constantly developing every mysterious part of the mysterious whole. Each part and member fitted in infancy to its several fellow; each joint to its socket each muscle to its tendon, each tendon to its joint the viscera to their place; the heart and lungs to theirs; the brain to its halfcemented roof, grow in their just proportion into the perfect and compacted frame; surely, under the constant. workmanship of Him, by whom at first we were wonderfully made; and our passing or remembered childhood, gives to us a constant and powerful lesson of faith, in harmony with the lilies of the field. The bounds, too, which, at maturity, we find are set, when that which passed without our pains can no longer be continued by our utmost effort; when we know that no contrivance or labor can enlarge the body, which seems. beyond all other material things within our power; the body which, at will, we can lay down and take up, which we can hold still, or set in motion; whose members we can move, how mysteriously, in innumberable ways; shall we presume or despair in regard to the raiment which it needs, and which can be furnished only by elements over which we have no imaginable control ? "The undevout astronomer is mad." Yes-and on these lower grounds—in this narrower sphere, amidst the fowls of the air, and the lilies of the field - in sight of ourselves only, is there not like occasion to say, 'He is mad, who can look upon the flowers of summer, the fowls of the air, or upon his own marvellous self, unmindful of the care and love of God?' How full and perfect, is the lesson to faith and hope! as abundant as the countless profusion of the flowers of summer, and the fowls of the air, as near, as present, as your own body and life. In that mysterious chamber of your body, the eye, lie the blooming tokens of the wisdom and power of God; into that mysterious chamber, the ear, soft melodies are sinking in token of his love; while these living senses of a living body are still more marvellous. Can he be less than mad who is not won to trust in God? The fool, only, can say in his heart, There is no God. If there be any class of persons whose attention ought to be fixed upon the mysteries of the life and the body as lessons of faith, it is exactly that class who are wont to take the most notice of the birds of the air, and the lilies of the field. I mean the young. Their eye is yet undimmed; their ear is alert to hear; and God has provided sights and sounds fitted to the perfect state in which they hold the senses of seeing and hearing; and at the same time he fills them with the full flood of life, flushing their cheek with health and beauty, and giving vigor to the body and the mind. Let it not be thought that the "liveliness" of youth, its vivacity, its flow of spirits, is all opposed to the influence of religion, to the rise and growth of faith in the heart, to "seeking first the kingdom of God and his righteousness.' Oh no; amidst the birds that feed and sing along their cheerful path, their own life beats high, that they may fix their faith and hope in God-that they may "remember their Creator in the days of their youth," before the evil days come, when the eye shall be dim, the ear deaf, and life wasting away. "Frequent returns of deafness," says White of Selborne, "incommode me sadly. I lose all the pleasing notices and little intimations arising from rural sounds; and May is to me as silent and mute, with respect to the notes of birds, as August: and wisdom, at one entrance, is quite shut out." It is not so in youth, while the fowls of the air and the full glow of life, call the heart to faith in God. I have heard how the first notes of the birds, and the first conscious breathing of a summer morning, have made the bed-chamber the temple of prayer, to a prayerless youth, and turned it into the house of God, and the very gate of heaven. And yet, life preserved amidst uncertainties and dangers, amidst "deaths oft" of friends and kindred, in a world of the dying and the dead, gives still greater token of the care and kindness of our heavenly Father; is a still more urgent call for faith. If we have inhaled the vital air fifty or a hundred millions of times, what further testimony of care and kindness can we ask? Is not the life more than meat? If our bodies, which, in a moment, might cease their living action and their - use which a summer's day may make unfit to be kept amidst the living, and which so rapidly dissolve into shapeless dust, retain their proportions, their form, their use and their vigor, after our heart has beat fifty or a hundred millions of times; if, after ten thousand exposures, known and unknown, they are still firm and undecayed, need no repairs after the wear and accidents of many years, are not these bodies more than raiment? And what if wrinkles mar our faces, and the skin looks shrivelled on our hands, and grey hairs are here and there upon us, or even thick upon our heads? what, too, if the pulse of life beats. somewhat more feebly, are not all these circumstances, memorials of many years of care and kindness-of skill and power, renewing the life and the body, even until now? Is not the life of the man in middle and (( man, more advanced age; is not the life of the old than meat, and the body than raiment ?" Amidst the lessons of the summer, let then our youth, and our aged our young men and maidens, our old men and children, "praise the name of the Lord, for his name. alone is excellent his glory is above the earth and heavens." Let them "seek first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness." SERMON III. THE WARRANT TO FAITH FROM THE FOWLS OF THE AIR AND LILIES OF THE FIELD. MATTHEW 6: 26 & 30. Behold the fowls of the air: for they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are ye not much better than they? If God so clothe the grass of the field, which to-day is, and to-morrow is cast into the oven, shall he not much more clothe you, Oh ye of little faith? THE proper end for which our Savior calls us to consider the fowls of the air and the lilies of the field, is the exercise of faith in God, as our present and everlasting Helper. Amidst our wants and fulness, our fears and hopes, our despondency and presumption; the birds fly before us, and are fed, and the lilies shine in their glory, to check our vain boasting, to raise us from our despair; offering a warrant for faith in God. 1. The fowls of the air, and the lilies of the field, furnish specimens of the skill and power which are engaged to feed and clothe us. These perfect specimens of all that is needful to each order of beings in kind, warrant the conclusion that God will provide for us, in our kind, with equal skill and power. There |