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not pass it over; as though it were a slight offence;-but take warning, and "Beware of covetousness!" Lest the things, their souls lusted after, should sink them, with the merciless glutton,- to behold the boundless riches, and unfading treasures of Heaven;-sold for very-vanity, and so, at last, -gone forever.

--

MOURNERS, in towns and cities, (vast numbers) that go about the streets; have seen their households, torn asunder! Awful separations have been made! A bosom friend is gone; a lovely child, an indulgent parent, a kind brother, -and "All, is gloomy solitude!" "All, is as death!" "The full-strown, silent grave yard," says the parent, the mother, contains all, that was once dear to me, below!" " "The sun,, of my earthly joys has gone down, never to rise again!"- Mourner, "hope thou in God, and thou shall yet praise Him!" He doth not willingly afflict, nor grieve the children of men, but to make them partakers, of far superior comforts. He hath given you thus far, support; that your body is out of the grave;- and your soul is out of Hell. Be thankful, for the least of His mercies:- He still, careth for you. The loss of your friends, you deeply deplore;-but remember, if they died in Christ,- To die was gain. If you had not that evidence, of their interest in the Lord Jesus, that you desired;-you know not, what mighty change was wrought in them, at the last hour; or even, with the last expiring breath. The pains, intolerable, they then endured,-which were of short duration,- —were perhaps the last, the only suffering, they will ever know. You are left, behind, desolate to weep; but dry your tears. Be

dilligent, to have your work done, below-and well done. Then in a little while,-though your kindred, return not to you, you will surely go to them:-

--And in-Salem's fair, and happy land;
You'll no more take the parting hand."

HYMN,

Written by the late Bishop of Calcutta, and sung at Whittington Church, (England) on occasion of his preaching there, for the "Church Mission-ary Society," 1820.

1. From, Greenland's Icy Mountains;
From, India's choral strand;
Where, Afric's sunny fountains,
Roll down, their golden sand.
From, many an ancient river; ·
From, many a palmy plain;
They call us, to deliver,
Their land, from error's chain.

2. (What, though, the spicy breezes,
Blow, soft, o'er Ceylon's Isle:
Though, every prospect pleases;
And only, man, is vile.

In vain, with lavish kindness,
The gifts, of God are strown;
The Heathen, in their blindness,
Bow down, to wood and stone.)

3. Shall we, whose souls are lighted,
By wisdom, from on high;
Shall we, to man benighted,

The lamp of life, deny?
Salvation! O Salvation!
The joyful sound proclaim;
Till each, remotest nation,
Has learn'd Messiah's Name.

4. Waft, waft, ye winds, His story,
And you, ye waters, roll;
Till like a sea, of glory,
It spreads, from pole to pole.
Till, o'er our ransom'd nature,
The Lamb, for sinners slain;
Redeemer, King, Creator,
In bliss, returns to reign.

Not at Home.

THE CHRISTIAN.

An heir of glory, sav'd by grace,
I've here no certain dwelling place;
A stranger in a desert land,

But pressing on, to God's right hand.

I'm not at home amidst the toys,
Where worldlings find their fancied joys;
Nor can my Heaven-born spirit rest,
'Till, with eternal glory blest.

I'm not at home-shall I complain
Of foes or sorrows, want or pain?
Oh! no, my journey's end is nigh,
My home is well prepar'd on high.

I'm not at home--then all I meet
Of bitter things, or things most sweet,
I'll take as medicine, or food-
My home is stor'd with all that's good.
I'm not at home, but on my way,
My Father feeds me, day by day;
And by his grace, I shall hold on,
Until he brings me to his throne.
I'm not at home, but soon shall be,
And spend a long eternity;
With Father, Son, and Holy Ghost;.
Amidst the glorious, ransom'd host.

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I'm not at home, but going hence,
To leave the things of Time and Sense:
What shall I do, or whither fly?
'Tis certain, I must shortly die.

I'm not at home-then whither bound?
Or where at last shall I be found?
Life's journey, is at most but short,
And, I far on the road am brought.

I'm not at home, but passing on;
Just scen to-day-to-morrow gone!
But where?-my hope of Heav'n is vain!
For I am not yet, born again.

I'm not at home, this fact destroys

My highest hopes, my fancied joys

Earth's vanities, have won my heart,
Yet from them, I must soon depart.

I'm not at home, nor is my stay
On earth, secure a single day-
Where is my home? am I to dwell
With ruined souls, shut up in Hell?

I'm not at home---O could I see
A home in Heaven prepar'd for me---
Sinner, there's none but Christ can save
From endless woe, beyond the grave.

THE

CHRISTIAN'S

SWEET HOME.

While through this world of care and strife, with anxious steps we roam,
How sweet to look beyond the grave, and know we're going Home!
Where safe within our Father's house, with joy we shall abide,
And all our woes, and all our foes, for ever shall subside.

Home! sweet Home!

Oh, for that Heav'nly House above, our everlasting Home!

There, with the family and friends of Jesus, late below,

We shall surround the glorious Throne, his matchless praise to show;
While with holy emulation, each other we excel,

The burden of our song will be "He hath done all things well."
Home, &c.

How transient and unpleasant our stay below the skies!

Where ev'ry day, and ev'ry hour,-fresh troubles will arise!

Which makes us quite impatient, to quit this house of clay,

And take our flight, with dove-like wings, to realms of cloudless-day. Home, &c.

For this is not our place of rest, there's no remaining here!
While absent from our Father's House, we shed the briny tear

And longing with intense desire, our freedom to obtain,

We chide the lagging wheels of Time, that we the prize may gain.

Home, &e

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