of faith and hope and love are made, and in both there should be the same manifestation of the holiness of God's house.

In referring to the examples of the primitive church, we find no such distinction made in the ordinances of divine worship, as is made in the present day. We do not find unbelievers uniting with the church in one or more, but not in all. While it was the duty and privilege of believers to go "every where preaching the word," and while unbelievers were permitted to come in and see all the ordinances attended to by the disciples of Christ, we have not the shadow of evidence that any visible union or fellowship was manifested with them in the worship of God, until they obeyed the gospel and worshipped God in spirit and in truth.

And now I beseech my brethren, for whom I pray, that they may be "followers of God as dear children," to consider whether they are keeping the ordinances as they have been delivered to them by the great Head of the church. Let us, dearly beloved, with a remembrance of our infinite obligation to obey the King of Zion, compare our present mode of singing in public worship with his holy word.

That word declares that "God is a spirit, and they that worship him must worship him in spirit and in truth." Now, does not our practice declare, that they may worship him, who will not worship him in 'spirit and in truth? That word declares that the Christian church is built up of "lively stones," to offer up spiritual sacrifices. Does not our practice declare that it is built in part of dead stones, to offer dead sacrifices, even the sacrifices of the wicked, which "are an abomination to the Lord." The Apostle in referring particularly to that worship which the Lord requires in his church, says, "I will sing with the spirit, and with the understanding also." He directs his brethren also to sing with grace in their hearts. But does not our practice say, you may continue to sing with the voice without the spirit, and without grace in your hearts? Jesus Christ says, "Except a man be born of the spirit, he cannot enter into the kingdom of heaven," or the gospel church. Does not our practice deny this, and represent those engaging in the holy services, and enjoying the sacred privileges of his kingdom, who have never been born again ?

[A continuation of the above, consisting of objections answered, will appear in our next.]

CHRISTIAN FIDELITY.

A JUDICIOUS, affectionate, and earnest appeal to the conscience will rarely fail of producing a happy effect, even on the minds of the scoffing and profane. I will relate one fact which goes to confirm

this.

A gentleman from the West, on business in New York, was solicited to lend his aid and care to a lady, who was travelling alone in the stage on the same route with him. Out of respect to the gentle

man who made this request in behalf of the lady, he could not decline, though, when he found, by inquiry, that she was the wife of one of the missionaries at our western stations, and on her way thither, he felt a great reluctance in promising his services. He had been a noted opposer of religion, had a most sovereign contempt for all missionary efforts, and for those who would engage in them. He made every shift in his own mind to invent an excuse to refuse taking charge of the lady, but finding none, his sense of honour would not permit him to decline.

The lady was amiable, intelligent, and interesting-and, with her missionary spirit, the condition of the heathen, and the means for evangelizing them, was a favourite topic of conversation. The gentleman showed his dislike to the subject by his attempts to reason her out of her enthusiastic notions, as he would call them; but, like many other men who have been engrossed with business, and have thought too little on religion in any form to speak upon it to much purpose, he was soon made to see his own ignorance, and of course his unreasonable prejudice.

This at first awakened in him a spirit of inquiry in regard to the heathen, and the measures and success of missionaries. She was prepared to answer his inquiries, and in such a manner too, as to allay his opposing feelings, and leave a favorable impression on his When he inquired into her prospects as a missionary, and her motives for making such a personal sacrifice, she manifested such modesty, and humility, and self-denial, as utterly surprised him. He had supposed, that those who engaged in such service, were either seeking their own aggrandizement, or were far gone with religious frenzy. But he found her acting from enlarged views, an enlightened judgment, and real benevolence. His views of missions, therefore, from what he saw and heard, were entirely changed.

The lady was not satisfied with this; she managed her conversation so as to sound him in his general views of religion, and as she had already secured his respect for her intelligence and goodness, he was more careful in exposing his ignorance and opposition. They rode in company for several days, and the lady frequently expressed her gratitude for his kind attentions, with an anxious solicitude for the safety of his soul. She manifested such humility, such sincerity and engagedness, as soon led him to think favourably of religion, and soon after to a conviction that she possessed what he was an entire stranger to; and then to a deep sense of his awful condition, as a sinner. What set home her remarks to his mind with peculiar force, was a conviction similar to that of some one, who, having heard Whitfield preach, observed, that "the only difference between him and other preachers is, that he believes what he says." Her sincerity awakened his mind to consider his danger. His profanity, hostility to the truth, and his heedless and wicked life were brought to mind, by an enlightened and disturbed conscience; and after a season of great distress, he was led to hope in the pardoning blood of Christ.

When he came to part with the lady, his feelings were such as can better be imagined than described. He regarded her as the in

strument of his conversion; he disclosed the bitterness of his feelings, when he felt compelled to accept of her company, and after making a liberal donation for the benefit of her contemplated mission, and uniting in a fervent prayer for the heathen, he took his leave, adoring that overruling hand of Providence, which had led his ways, and resolving, henceforth, himself to imitate her Christian Fidelity. Rr.

POETRY.

AFFLICTION'S ANTIDOTE.

WHEN Sorrow, with a grasp which knows no mercy,
Fastens its vulture fangs within our breasts,

And holds us victims of his dire embrace,
Where can we fly for succour, for support ?-
When disappointment tears away the joys

Which we most fondly cherished, when we knew
No days of sadness; when the grave contains
Our dearest earthly hopes, and we are left
To feel the anguish of a broken heart;

To what dear object can we cling? And where,
Where, in the wide extent of Nature, Art,
And Fancy, can we find a substitute ?-
When storms and tempests, chill and pitiless,
Rudely assail our shiv'ring, aching frames,
Where can we find a welcome refuge?
Can the weary, fainting soul find rest '----
Alas! I knew not, once; but now I know-
-Example taught me . . . . . . .

Where

Some years have pass'd, since A- was woo'd and won.
In early youth she gave her hand and heart
To one who knew her value. He had gazed
With dear delight upon her op'ning virtues;
And blest himself when he had made them his.
And well he might-She was a treasure, such
As worlds of gold could never buy. And he
Was worthy of her. Both had given to God
Their best affections; and as Angels love,
They loved each other.-Years went swiftly by
In smooth succession. And if indeed a cloud
Did overspread their sky; it soon again
Was blown away, and soon forgotten too,

Four blooming daughters and an infant son
Were pledges of their mutual love. They gave
Their offspring up to God and vowed them His.
They oft invoked His care-the bended knee,
And voice of supplication often proved
Their true devotion-and the cheerful heart
Told their delightful trust in man's best Friend.-
But Nature has a voice which will be heard.

Once, at the setting sun, I saw this pair
Walking adown the vale, which, could it speak,
Would tell its sacredness to thoughts, to prayer,

And pious contemplation; bidding vice
And profanation not approach too near.
I saw them wand'ring slowly; and I heard,
Ungenerous intrusion! heard their free
And unrestrained communion-and I wept
With childlike weakness. 'Twas a tender scene.
In lovely helplessness, which seemed to speak
A volume large, A- leaned upon the arm
Which fondness loves to trust in. She had found
It always faithful, ready to protect.

An air of melancholy threw itself

Across her softened features; and a wildness
Seized her beauteous eye; and faster still

She grasped her partner's arm, as she, in sighs,
Unbosomed to her friend her inward fears.

"If heaven," she cried, "should take thee from the world,
Should tear thee from these arms which now embrace thee;
What more could ever please me? I would wish-
Yes, I would throw me on the grave which held
My dearer self, and there sleep sweetly with thee.
I would not live, and know such bitter sadness-
And these dear babes which cling around our knees,
Those pledges of our love, whose infant smiles
Have chased away our sorrows-who would be
A father to them? Who would take them kindly
Home, and with a father's care instruct them?
Who would guard their virtues, feel their wrongs,
And clasp them to his heart, and call them his ?"
-Her partner was a christian; and he learned
A pious resignation to the will

Of Him who gives and takes away again.
"Can you not trust a wise and gracious God?"
This only he replied. The mild reproof,
So sweetly given, banished every fear
And quell'd each rising murmur. Soon they left
The lonely, green retreat, and wandered back
To taste afresh the pleasures of their home......
......The days of sorrow came. The bitterness
Of grief roll'd o'er them-for the dread, the dismal
Summons snatched away a tender lover,
Husband, father, friend; and hid him deep
Beneath the ground, in a cold bed of clay.

I saw the shroud-the bier-the new-laid sods-
And all the sable trappings of the grave.

I turned away and wept; for thought of orphans
Helpless, and a lonely widow's grief,
Demand the tribute of a falling tear;
And heartily I gave it. One there was,

Alone, who shed no tears, who murmured not,
Who spoke no words of sorrow. It was she,
The faithful, fond companion of his youth,
Who now is seen no more. A placid air
Of sweet composure sat upon her brow,
Bespeaking inward peace-Oh, call it not
A cold and heartless apathy, which thus
Could lull to sleep the tumults of the breast!
Say not it was a stupor which despair
In mercy gave, to sooth the anguish'd heart!
This wretched consolation cannot smooth
The brow of care, or drive away the pain
Whice gnaws with agony a heart like her's.

Ah no; a better refuge is the grave.
But this she needed not-she raised her eyes
With pious, filial confidence to heaven,
And in the language of devotion said,

"Thy hand inflicts the blow, Most Gracious God!
And art Thou not my Father ?—I will bear
The stripes which fall upon me-and will kiss

The hand which deals them. Here I throw me down
In calm submission at Thy feet, and trust

Thy promise. Thou art still the widow's God-
The orphan's Father, Judge, and faithful Friend.
Oh, heal the wound which Thou thyself hast made-
Which only Thou canst heal. To thee I cling,
My Saviour God! and learn Thy will divine."

W.

Selected from Dr. PERCIVAL'S Poems.

I LAUNCH'D my bark upon a waveless sea-
The morning glow'd, the sun, just risen, shone
In dazzling light along the glassy plain,
That seem'd a golden mirror, or as oft
A transient zephyr ruffled it, a flood
Of molten amber. How the purple sail,

And blue and crimson streamer woo'd the wind!
At times the bellying bosom of the sheet
Receiv'd the rising gale, and onward bore
The white and glittering prow, as through the wave
It plow'd and heav'd around the crested foam,
Like snow-wreaths resting on a ground of gold.
Again the rising zephyr died away,

The boundless air was still, the canvass flapp'd
And trembled on the yard, the streamers droop'd
And fluttering wav'd around the mast-head, sea
And air were motionless-the crystal flood
Open'd its awful depths beneath-so clear,
The bark seem'd hanging in the midway space
Between the sky above and earth below:
So still the elements, the briny drop,
That trickled from the prow to meet the wave,
Was heard distinctly, and the rippling shoal
Of blue-fin'd mack'rel, or the whispering flight
Of the air-loving dweller of the deep,
Fell on my ear and woke me from my dream.
So pass'd the bark of life o'er childhood's sea;
But youth came on, and blustering winds arose ;
Dark tempests gather'd round, the howling blast
Roar'd through the cordage, every sail was rent,
The loosen'd helm gave way, and like the steed
Madden'd with luxury, that flies the rein
And hurries on to ruin, so the bark

Ran wild before the tempest; now it rose

The billowy mountain, in the yawning gulph

Now headlong plung'd; the shriek was then unheard

Amid the vaster tumult; then the night

Of storms enwrapp'd me, by the bursting foam,

The sparkling fire of ocean, or the flash,

The harbinger of thunder, or the pale

And baleful meteor of sickly green,