of God, proclaimers of truth and religion, stop at the boundary of decay? They pass immediately from the truth of death, to the truth of life. "But the word of our God," says the prophet, "shall stand forever." "But the word of the Lord," says the apostle, "endureth forever."-"But the mercy of the Lord," sings the royal bard, “is from everlasting to everlasting upon them that fear him." Happy will it be for us, if, while we feelingly perceive the transitoriness of nature and of man's mortal state, we acknowledge the steadfastness of God's word, and the everlasting mercy of his providence. That which passes away should speak to us of that which remains. The constant rotation of decay is an intimation of the Being who ever lives to superintend it; whose throne decay cannot harm, because decay itself is his ministering servant. The certainty of death reveals an eternal word which commands death, and which both killeth and maketh alive. Let that word be our trust, even when we look on the withering grass, and think of the perishing children of men. Let it be our trust, as it was the trust of those "holy men of God, who spake as they were moved by the Holy Ghost;" and as it always is the trust of those who behold the operations of that same Spirit in all the signs of the universe, and feel its promptings in all the nobler aspirations within them. If we cannot trust in verdure, freshness, beauty, which soon languish and fail, in goodliness and glory which fade and pass away, let us trust in the word which ordains their vanishing and departure, for that word is above them, and must endure. If the soul has any trust-and O how it wrongs its nature and neglects its endowments, when it has no

"The

trust-it must place that trust in something which abides. What is abiding, but the word of God? grass withereth, the flower fadeth; but the word of our God shall stand forever."

The very grass itself as it withers, and the flower as it fades, seem to express such a trust, in their humble manner, and to inculcate it on their withering and fading human brethren. How quietly the grass withers! How submissively the flower bows its head on its stalk; how sweetly it exhales its last odors; how peacefully it fades!-Nature dies gently.-Listen! Do you hear any discordance in her parting sighs? They are all harmonious; as musical, though with a different character, as the melodies of spring. You may be affected with sadness as you listen, but it is a sadness which soothes and softens, not disturbs and terrifies. I can sympathise with the man who relieves his full heart by weeping amidst the autumnal emblems of human dissolution; but I must only wonder at him if he weeps tears of anguish or despair. I could not weep so, surrounded by such mild and uncomplaining monitors. I perceive that the honors of the forest are resigned without a struggle. Wherever I turn, all is acquiescence. There is no questioning the will of Heaven. There are no cries when the leaves part from their stems, and sink to the ground. How can I do violence to the spirit of submission and trust which is diffused about me? It rebukes my misgivings, if I have indulged any; it silences my repinings, if unthinkingly I have uttered any; it steals into and hushes my heart. Why should we not receive the lessons which nature is, even though unconsciously, teaching us? Why should we break the general peace?

י!

Let us trust in the word of God, though it sends forth the decree, "Return, ye children of men Frail, fading, perishing, what are we without trust? The support of the soul is trust in God, trust in the eternal, undecaying word of God.

And in nature's decline at this season, it may be observed further, there is not only the expression of quiet submission, but of hope and joy—such joy as they should feel, who, though in extremity, know that the word of the Lord endureth forever. There are no richer hues than those of autumn. Though the leaves wither, shrivel, and turn to darkness and dust, they wear their brightest colors just before they die. The trees are not clothed in mourning, but in triumphal robes; in scarlet and gold, like kings. Do they not prefigure the deep and solemn joy which may invest and imbue the soul, the trusting soul, in the prospect of the last change? The trees cannot anticipate the new dress which they shall put on, when the warm influences of spring return the sap into their branches; but man may contemplate the season when "mortality shall be swallowed up of life;" the season not only of restoration, as to nature, but of inconceivable addition; the time when a new earth shall be under him, and new heavens over him, and glories of which he cannot now form any distinct conception, shall clothe the spirits of the redeemed.

"The grass withereth, the flower fadeth; but the word of our God shall stand forever." And let me ask whether it is not that very withering of the grass and fading of the flower, which most effectually bring us to rest on the word of God? The conviction of frailty which is thus impressed upon the heart, obliges it to

inquire for that which is durable and unchangeable, and to seek for its security where alone it is to be found. While the green and glossy leaves stand thickly on the trees, we walk beneath them in shadow, and only see the earth, and the things which grow out of it; - but when the leaves begin to fall, the light comes in, the view is opened upward, and we behold the ever blue and vaulted sky. The goodliness of man and his glory, are they not likewise apt to conceal the goodliness and glory which are above, infinitely above them? When they fade and are shaken down, a new radiance visits our eye, the sunbeams shine in by day and the moonbeams and starbeams by night, and heaven is revealed to the soul, which looks up, watches, and adores.

BLOODY BROOK.

BY GEORGE LUNT.

"September 18th, 1674, Capt. Lathrop, with a number of teams and eighty young men, the flower of Essex county, went to bring a quantity of grain from Deerfield; on their return they stopped to gather grapes at the place afterwards known as Bloody Brook. They were assailed by a body of Indians, amounting to seven or eight hundred, who were lying in wait for their approach. Seventy of their number were slain and afterwards buried in one grave: never had the country seen such a bloody hour. It is said that there was scarcely a family in Essex which did not feel the blow."

BY BLOODY BROOK, at break of day,

When glanced the morn on scene more fair!
Rich pearl-dew on the greensward lay,
And many a bright flower flourish'd there :

The holy forest, all around,

Was hush as summer's sabbath noon,
And through its arches breath'd no sound
But Bloody Brook's low bubbling tune.

And rich with every gallant hue

The old trees stretch their leafy arms,
And o'er them all the morning threw

A tenderer glow of blushing charms ;
And varying gold and softest green,

And crimson like the summer rose,
And deeper, through the foliage screen,
The mellow purple lives and glows.