risen. A stone is rolled to the mouth of the sepulchre; a seal is fixed upon it, and a guard of Roman soldiers set. Will the timid disciples, who ran away when their master was seized, now attack a band of armed men; or could they hope to carry off the body secretly? what is more improbable? Besides, if they had reason to think their master had deceived them, and filled their minds with false expectations; instead of running any risk to get the body into their possession, they would rather have renounced all connexion with him for ever. Had they even stolen away the body, as was said, that would have entirely cooled the ardour of their affection, and have banished the enthusiasm of love from their breasts, never to return. But their future lives, by the ardent fervour of their affectionate zeal, still more strongly confute the supposition.

It is evident the body is gone. The Apostles describe the resurrection of their Master; and assert, that he appeared to thein on the very day he rose, and frequently afterwards. Read the soldiers' account, Matt. xxviii. Observe the conduct of the Rulers. Why do they not order the Apostles to be seized? Why do they not command the soldiers to be punished? Why do they not bring the whole to a judicial determination? Why is this neglect in men who had been so anxious to have a guard placed on the sepulchre? On the supposition of the resurrection of Jesus, the whole is natural and easy; on a supposition, that the disciples came and stole the body away, every thing is inexplicable.

BOGUE.

DEATH A BLESSING.

THE death of a believer has been useful. It has encouraged and established those who were walking in the way to Zion, with many a trembling step, and many a shivering fear how it would go with them at last. When they have viewed a dying Christian, and have seen the grace of God, they have been glad; their courage has been revived, and they have rejoiced in hope. Why may it not be so with me? After turning their backs on a sermon, the careless have been convinced by a dying bed. There the evidence was too plain to be denied, too solemn to be ridiculed. The death of the saint has proved the life of the sinner.

The death of a parent has been useful. His expiring charge has never been forgotten. The thought of separation for ever from one so loved and valued, has awakened in the son a salutary fear. Returning from a father's grave, he has met with God, saying, "Wilt thou not from this time cry unto me, My Father! thou art the guide of my youth?" And the death of the parent has proved the life of the child.

The death of a minister has been useful. Some of the servants of God have laboured faithfully, without seeing the fruit of their labours. One has sown, and another has reaped; the servant of God has been but little regarded while living; but when dead, his word has recurred with power to the conscience; his addresses, prayers, and tears, have been remembered by the people; and the expectation of meeting him at the last day, has forced them to exclaim, How shall we escape! And the death of the minister has proved the life of the hearer.

The death of the martyr has been' useful. His patience and fortitude; his joy and triumph; his forgiveness of injuries, and his prayers for his persecutors, have struck beholders, rendered a religion honourable that could produce such marvellous effects, led to an examination of its evidences; and faith and zeal have been the result of inquiry. The wrath of man has praised God,-and the blood of the martyrs has been the seed of the church.

But where are we now? We have an example to produce infinitely greater than all these. Let us leave the disciples and behold their Lord. Jesus died; and his death is the life of the world. "I, if I be lifted up," said he, "will draw all men unto me,"

JAY.

THOUGHT IN A GRAVE-YARD.

How happy are the dead, who quietly rest
Beneath these stones! each by his kindred laid
Still in a hallow'd neighbourship with those
Who when alive his social converse shared :
And now perhaps some dear surviving friend
Doth here at times the grateful visit pay,
Read with sad eyes his short memorial o'er,
And bless his memory still!

MISS BAILLIE.

THE VALE OF TEARS.

"IN visions which are not of night, a shadowy

vale I see,

The path of pilgrim tribes who are, who have been,

or shall be ;

At either end are lowering clouds impervious to the sight,

And frequent shadows veil, throughout, each gleam of passing light;

A path it is of joys and griefs, of many hopes and fears;

Gladden'd at times by sunny smiles, but oftener dimm'd by tears.

Green leaves are there, they quickly fade-bright flowers, but soon they die;

Its banks are laved by pleasant streams, but soon their bed is dry;

And some that roll on to the last with undiminished force,

Have lost that limpid purity which graced their early source;

They seem to borrow in their flow the tinge of dark'ning years,

And e'en their mournful murm'ring sound befits the vale of tears.

Pleasant that valley's opening scenes appear to childhood's view,

The flowers are bright, the turf is green, the sky above is blue;

A blast may blight, a beam may scorch, a cloud may intervene,

But lightly marked, and soon forgot, they mar not such a scene;

Fancy still paints the future bright, and hope the present cheers,

Nor can we deem the path we tread leads through a vale of tears.

But soon, too soon, the flowers that deck'd our early path-way side

Have droop'd and wither'd on their stalks, and one by one have died;

The turf by noon's fierce heat is sear'd, the sky is overcast,

There's thunder in the torrent's tone, and tempest in the blast;

Fancy is but a phantom found, and hope a dream appears,

And more and more our hearts confess this life a vale of tears.

Darker and darker seems the path! how sad to journey on,

When hands and hearts which gladden'd ours appear for ever gone,

Some cold in death, and some, alas! we fancied could not chill,

Living to self and to the world, to us seem colder

still;

With mournful retrospective glance we look to brighter years,

And tread with solitary steps the thorny vale of tears.

Then wasting pain and slow disease trace fur. rows on the brow,

The grasshopper, alighting down, is felt a burthen

now,

The silver cord is loosening fast its feeble, slender

hold,

The fountain's pitcher soon must break, and bowl of purer gold;