That, never setting, o'er this sea doth move, SONNET. Far from the city, and its towering spires; Give me sweet friendship's unsuspecting look. Give me a friend whose bosom heaves with love; Whose heart's with mine in sacred union twined; Give me a treasure in the realms above; Give me, to crown my pleasures, peace of mind: Grant me withal a calm and sweet releaseA Home eternal in the realms of peace. BIBLIOT SERMON, PREACHED AT GREENOCK ON OCCASION OF THE DEATH OF MR. CAMPBELL, ON SABBATH THE 7TH JANUARY, 1844. FUNERAL SERMON. 1 COR. xv. 55-57.-" O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory? The sting of death is sin; and the strength of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory, through our Lord Jesus Christ." THIS is the language of triumph-of joyous, confident, exulting triumph. From the connexion in which it stands, a question naturally arises, Is it the language of present or of anticipated triumph? It stands at the close of a glowing and sublime description of the resurrection of the just, and the final consum mation of their blessedness and glory. It might, therefore, be understood as the paean, or song of victory, for the coming day, when these prospective visions are to be realized. The ancient Grecian philosophers scoffed at the resurrection of the dead. They pronounced it impossible—and, were it possible, not desirable. But their mockery was that of ignorance. When they spoke of impossibility, they only verified the Apostle's affirmation, that "the world by wisdom knew not God;" for the question, "why should it be thought a thing incredible with you, that GOD should raise the dead?" is one which, |