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Before Thee, Lord, thy creature stands,
A suppliant sincere.

5 Oh be this day's offence forgiven,

This night with slumbers blest;
And pious trust in pardoning Heaven
The pillow of my rest.

Exercise 70.

Universal Peace.-CHALMERS. The first great obstacle to the extinction of war, is the way in which the heart of man is carried off from its barbarities and its horrors, by the splendor of its

deceitful accompaniments. There is a feeling of the 5 sublime in contemplating the shock of armies, just as

there is in contemplating the devouring energy of a tempest; and this so elevates and engrosses the whole man, that his eye is blind to the tears of bereaved parents,

and his ear is deaf to the piteous moan of the dying, and 10 the shriek of their desolated families.

There is a gracefuiness in the picture of a youthful warrior, burning for distinction on the field, and lured by this generous aspiration to the deepest of the animated throng, where, in

the fell work of death, the opposing sons of valor strug15 gle for a remembrance and a name; and this side of the

picture is so much the exclusive object of our regard, as to disguise from our view the mangled carcasses of the fallen, and the writhing agonies of the hundreds and the

hundreds more, who have been laid on the cold ground, 20 where they are left to languish and to die.

There no eye pities them. No sister is there to weep over them. There no gentle hand is present to ease the dying posture, or bind up the wounds, which in the maddening

fury of the combat, have been given and received, by the 25 children of one common father. There death spreads

its pale ensigns over every countenance, and when night comes on, and darkness around them, how many a des pairing wretch must take up with the bloody field as the

untended bed of his last sufferings, without one friend 30 to bear the message of tenderness to his distant home, without one companion to close his eyes.

I avow it. On every side of me I see causes at work

which go to spread a most delusive colouring over war,

and to remove its shocking barbarities to the back ground 35 of our contemplations altogether. I see it in the history,

which tells me of the superb appearance of the troops, and the brilliancy of their successive charges. I see it in the poetry, which lends the magic of its numbers to the nar

rative of blood, and transports its many admirers; as by 40 its images, and its figures, and its nodding plumes of

chivalry, it throws its treacherous embellishments over a scene of legalized slaughter. I see it in the music, which represents the progress of the battle; and where,

after being inspired by the trumpet-notes of preparation, 45 the whole beauty and tenderness of a drawing-room are

seen to bend over the sentimental entertainment; nor do I hear the utterance of a single sigh to interrupt the death-tones of the thickening contest, and the moans of

the wounded men, as they fade away upon the ear, and 50 sink into lifeless silence. All, all goes to prove what

strange and half-sighted creatures we are. Were it not so, war could never have been seen in any other aspect than that of unmingled hatefulness; and I can look to

nothing but to the progress of Christian sentiment upon 55 earth, to arrest the strong current of its popular and prform

vailing partiality for war. Then only will an imperious sense of duty lay the check of severe principle, on all the subordinate tastes and faculties of our nature. Then

will glory be reduced to its right estimate, and the wake 60 ful benevolence of the gospel, chasing away every spell,

will be turned by the treachery of no delusion whatever, from its sublime enterprises for the good of the species. Then the reign of truth and quietness will be ushered

into the world, and war, cruel, atrocious, unrelenting 65 war will be stript of its many and its bewildering fasci

nations.

EXERCISE 71.

The Elder's Death Bed.-PROF. WILSON.- Edinb.

Part I. For six years' Sabbaths I had seen the ELDER in his accustomed place beneath the pulpit—and, with à sort of solemn fear, had looked on his steadfast countenance,

during sermon, psalm, and prayer. On returning to the 5 scenes of my infancy, I met the Pastor, going to pray

by his death-bed—and, with the privilege which nature gives us to behold, even in their last extremity, the loving and beloved, I turned to accompany him to the

house of sorrow, of resignation, and of death. 10 And now, for the first time, I observed, walking close

to the feet of his horse, a little boy about ten years of age, who kept frequently looking up in the Pastor's face, with his blue eyes bathed in tears. A changeful ex

pression of grief, hope, and despair, made almost pale, 15 cheeks which otherwise were blooming in health and

beauty;—and I recognised, in the small features and smooth forehead of childhood, a resemblance to the aged man whom we understood was now lying on his death

bed. “They had to send his grandson for me through 20 the snow, mere child as he is,” said the Minister, looking tenderly on the boy;

“ but love makes the young heart bold—and there is One who tempers the wind to the shorn lamb.”

As we slowly approached the cottage, through a deep 25 snow-drift, which the distress within had prevented the

inmates from removing, we saw, peeping out from the door, brothers and sisters of our little guide, who quickly disappeared, and then their mother showed herself in

their stead, expressing, by her raised eyes, and arms 30 folded across her breast, how thankful she was 'to see,

at last, the Pastor, beloved in joy, and trusted in trouble.

A few words sufficed to say who was the strangerand the dying man, blessing me by name, held out to 35 me his cold shrivelled hand in token of recognition. I

took my seat at a small distance from the bed-side, and left a closer station for those who were more dear.

“If the storm do not abate," said the sick man after a pause, “it will be hard for my friends to carry me 40 over the drifts to the kirk-yard.” This sudden approach

to the grave, struck, as with a bar of ice, the heart of the loving boy-and, with a long deep sigh, he fell down, with his face like ashes, on the bed, while the

old man's palsied right hand had just strength to lay it45 self upon his head.

“God has been gracious to me a sinner,” said the

dying man. “During thirty years that I have been an elder in your kirk, never have I missed sitting there one

Sabbath. When the mother of my children was taken 50 from me-it was on a Tuesday she died—and on a Sat

urday she was buried. We stood together when my Alice was let down into the narrow house made for all living. On the Sabbath I joined in the public worship

of God—she commanded me to do so the night before 55 she went away. I could not join in the psalm that Sab

bath, for her voice was not in the throng.–Her grave was covered up, and grass and flowers grew there."

The old man ceased speaking-and his grandchild, now able to endure the scene,—for strong passion is its 60 own support,-glided softly to a little table, and bring

ing a cup in which a cordial had been mixed, held it in his small, soft hands to his grandfather's lips. He drank, and then said, “Come closer to me, Jamie, and kiss me

for thine ówn and thy fàther's sake;” and as the child 65 fondly pressed his rosy lips on those of his grandfather,

so white and withered, the tears fell over all the old man's face, and then trickled down on the golden head of the child, sobbing in his bosom.

Jamie, thy own father has forgotten thee in thy in70 fancy, and mé in my old age; but Jamie, forget not

thou, thy father, nor thy mother; for that, thou knowest and feelest, is the commandment of God.”

The broken-hearted boy could give no reply. He had gradually stolen closer and closer unto the loving old 75 man, and now was lying, worn out with sorrow, drench

ed and dissolved in tears, in his grandfather's bosom. His mother had sunk down on her knees, and hid her face with her hand. “Oh! if my husband knew but of

this-he would never, never desert his dying father!" 80 And I now knew that the Elder was praying on his

death-bed for a disobedient and wicked son.

PART II.
At this affecting time the Minister took the Family
Bible on his knees, and said, “Let us sing to the praise
of God, part of the fifteenth Psalm.” Ere the Psalm

was yet over, the door was opened, and a tall fine look5 ing man entered, but with a lowering and dark coun

tenance, seemingly in sorrow, in misery, and remorse.

Agitated, confounded, and awe-struck by the melancholy and dirge-like music, he sat down on a chair, and

looked with a ghastly face towards his father's death10 bed. When the psalm ceased, the Elder said with a

solemn voice, “My són—thou art come in time to receive thy father's blessing. May the remembrance of what will happen in this room, before the morning again

shines over the Hazel-glen, wìn thee from the error of 15 thy ways! Thou art here to witness the mercy of thy God and thy Saviour, whom thou hast forgotten.”

The Minister looked, if not with a stèrn, yet with an upbrăiding countenance, on the young man, who had

not recovered his speech, and said, “ William! for three 20 years past, your shadow has not darkened the door of

the house of God. They who fear not the thùnder, may tremble at the still, small voice—now is the hour for repèntance—that your father's spirit may carry up to

Heaven, tidings of a contrite soul, saved from the com25 pany of sinners!”

The young man, with much effort, advanced to the bed-side, and at last found voice to say,

“ Father-I am not without the affections of nature and I hurried

home the moment I heard that the minister had been 30 seen riding towards our house. I hope that you will

yet recover, and, if I have ever made you unhappy, I ask your forgiveness;—for though I may not think as you do on matters of religion, I have a human heart.

Father! I may have been ur but I am not cruel. 35 I ask your forgiveness."

“Come near to me, William; kneel down by the bed side, and let my hand feel the head of my beloved son for blindness is coming fast upon me. Thou wert my

first born, and thou art my only living son. All thy 40 brothers and sisters are lying in the church-yard, beside

her whose sweet face thine own, William, did once so much resemble. Long wert thou the jóy, the pride of my soul,--ay, too much the pride, for there was not in

all the parish, such a man, such a son, as my own Wit 45 liam. If thy heart has since been changed, God may

inspire it again with right thoughts. I have sorely wèpt for thee-ày, William, when there was none near me—even as David wept for Absalom—for thee, my son, my son!”

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