the desert of its dwelling. But when health and strength are gone; when the days of his pilgrimage are numbered; when the world and all its joys are fading fast from his view; it seeks its victim to triumph in his ruin, and give him a foretaste of that hell to which he is hastening on. "The sting of death is sin," are the words of the apostle; and who, that has stood by the impenitent transgressor, in his last hours of earthly agony, does not shudder as he acknowledges their solemn truth. But to many of my brethren, especially to those who are young and inexperienced, scenes so melancholy seldom form a subject of contemplation. They view the unbeliever and the profligate only in their moments of riot and dissipation, when pleasure directs their course, and ere the body is enfeebled and the constitution ruined. They behold the worldling and the libertine pursuing their respective paths of perdition, with the semblance of tranquillity and peace; and floating down the stream of life apparently undismayed by the perils which surround, or the fate that awaits them. But the hour of the sinner's dissolution is known to few; and few, therefore, of those who have been the spectators of his guilty revellings and unhallowed indulgencies, are witnesses of the fearful penalty he pays, even in this life, for his brief career of iniquity and shame. Hence, it too often

happens, that the dreadful judgments denounced against sin are overlooked; and that we forget the terrors of that day when our souls shall be summoned from earth into the presence of a just and holy God.

Our indifference upon this subject does not proceed from any contempt of death, but from a most culpable and perilous neglect of its approach and its consequences. There are few of those now present before me, who would not tremble at the thoughts of being called away at the instant, from the world they have loved so long, without time for penitence or for pardon; and who, if a sudden and terrible destruction were to fall upon them, could resign themselves with hope and confidence to their Maker's decree, and give up their spirit with an humble prayer into their Saviour's hands. Death, my brethren, must be indeed to all of us a scene of awful anticipation, and, in some respects, of painful reflection. There are few who have not some ties which bind them to earth, some relatives whom they love, some friends whom they esteem. The home of their dwelling, too, is pleasant to their memories, and the plains amid which their feet have so often wandered are still dear to their hearts. To bid these, then, a long and last farewell, to set out upon a journey from which they are never to return, must, from the earthly affec

tions which still linger in their breasts, excite a momentary pang of sorrow and regret. But this is not that sting of death of which the apostle speaks. This is but a passing cloud of anguish, which will soon melt away before the sunbeams of Christian faith. But there is a death which harrows up the soul, which no charm can mitigate, no medicine relieve; when the restless spirit, summoned to quit its fleshy tabernacle, strives to evade the summons which it dares not disobey. It is, in truth, a fearful thing to view the closing hours of a life like this; to behold the wretch, who has never prayed before, supplicating for mercy now, begging for one moment more of being, one drop of water to cool his burning tongue. A dark cold mist of misery hangs upon his soul; from the past he derives no comfort, in the future he has no hope. The sins of his former years, his careless life, his mockery of worship, hitherto unnoticed and uncared for, come in a long procession now, and hover around the couch of his last earthly rest. Rest, did I say; oh, no! there is no rest, no peace for him, in time or in eternity. And why does he thus shrink with terror from that doom which he is conscious he cannot shun? Why does he cling so madly to earth, when he knows that he must soon quit it for ever? Not because he loves it, my brethren; not because the remembrance of its past enjoy

ments is pleasant to his spirit, (he has cursed them rather as the cause of his undoing;) but because he dreads that awful presence into which he must soon be hurried; because he would ra+ ther the hills should fall on him and the mountains cover him, than stand before the bar of God's tribunal when he comes to judgment.

This is the sting of death, and this is sin's doing. This end, terrible as it is, is, with various modifications, the fate of all who live without God in the world. This is the haven to which Satan conducts his victims; this is the goal of their hopes this the reward of their services. One would think indeed that so awful an end of guilt, might be sufficient to alarm the fears even of the most careless and indifferent; and to impress upon every soul, a deep and anxious desire to escape from such terrors, and to come before the Saviour's throne, with the hope, at least, of mercy and forgiveness. And yet there are many, I fear, amongst us, who would indeed, like Balaam, be willing to die the death of the righteous, but who refuse, like him, to embrace the only means by which they may attain such peace at the last. We would receive the prize without running the race; we would wear the crown of victory without mingling in the perils of the fight. But this may not be; we must enter the vineyard ere the hour of reckoning comes; we must traf

fic with the talent committed to our care, ere the master return to claim his own again.

But to what cause is to be attributed, that so many neglect the offers of salvation until it is too late to embrace them? Why do men so eagerly crowd to the ways of sin, which will lead them only to the gates of everlasting misery? Is God less careful to call us into his own paths of pleasantness, than Satan to lead us astray from them? Are the joys therein set before us, less intense or less enduring than the pleasures which the tempter offers? Is the happiness even we can enjoy on earth, less soothing when it is the gift of religion, than when it flows from the polluted fountains of guilty disobedience? You have seen the end of the sinner's career; is it such as you desire to make your own? You have beheld his despair, you have heard the agony of his vain and frantic supplications; do you wish your last hours to be so visited and so employed? Or would you rather, instead of thus trembling at death, thus shrinking with anxiety and terror when the gates of the grave are unbarred before you, receive the summons to enter them without dismay, and triumph even in the pangs of dissolution? By some, by many, I trust, amongst you, this sacred wish is by God's blessing deeply and sincerely cherished; ye do desire that the pillow of your last mortal slum