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passed away; or, if the names of some of them remain, it is but to tell that such men wore out their earthly span, and then gave their mouldering bodies to these undecaying tombs. O empty ambition, what a beacon hast thou erected to a thoughtless and perishing world!

The Pyramids, those mountain heaps of stone,
The temples rear'd by human pride to Fame,
Remain to mock old dynasties o'erthrown,
And kings that built them, now without a name.
Unscathed by earthquake, thunder, flood, or flame,
And Time, that ruins all, each still uprears

Its tapering top to the bright heaven, the same
That has defied four thousand ruthless years:
But man, the builder vain, how feeble he appears!

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TENTH WEEK-SUNDAY.

THE CHILDREN OF THE WORLD WISER THAN THE CHILDREN OF LIGHT.

"THE children of this world," says our Divine Teacher, 66 are wiser in their generation than the children of light," and this truth is confirmed by all experience, and is obvious to the most cursory view. The astonishing labours and inventions of man in promoting his own plans of comfort, or luxury, or in gratifying his love of acquiring, and his thirst for power, which we have been contemplating, give an additional force to the aphorism; and while they exhibit, in a very striking light, the powers of the human mind when strongly called forth and intensely occupied, serve at the same time to mark more distinctly the difference which exists in the success with which men prosecute their temporal and their eternal interests.

If we inquire into the cause of this difference, it will not be difficult to discover that it lies in the comparative degrees of zeal and intelligence which are applied to each. In the one case men are in earnest, in the other they are careless and indifferent. This at once explains the mystery, and opens up a very painful view of the perverseness of the human mind. It has been alleged, in excuse for men's disobedience to the law of God, that human nature, in its fallen state, is so constituted as to be unable to perform the moral and religious duties required of it. But, though there be truth in this assertion, it cannot be urged as an adequate excuse, because the very principle which prevents our obedience is a principle of obstinacy, rebellion, and ingratitude. Our impotence lies neither in our understanding nor in our bodily power, but simply in our inclinations. The

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duties of religion are around us and within our reach. They are not hidden from us,” as Moses expresses it, "neither are they far off. They are not in heaven, that we should say, who shall go up for us to heaven, and bring them to us, that we may hear them, and do them; neither are they beyond the sea, that we should say, who shall go over the sea for us, and bring them to us, that we may hear them, and do them; but they are very nigh to us, even in our mouth and in our heart, that we may do them." Yet the law of God, although it be thus obvious and practicable, is not performed by Why? Just because we are disinclined. There is no other disability. But it is inveterate.

us.

To be convinced of the truth of this view, we have only to ask our conscience, what prevented our performance of religious duty in any one instance that may occur to us. We will be forced to acknowledge, that we failed merely because we were unwilling, or rather, because our propensities and desires urged us in an opposite direction. We were sensible, perhaps, all the while, that the action to which we were tempted was sinful,— contrary to the law of God, and contrary, also, to our own best interests; but inclination prevailed over judgment and principle, and thus we fell.

Let us take a particular example, and we shall be able more clearly to estimate the nature and extent of this disability. A familiar instance occurs to us in the keeping of the Sabbath. What does this command imply? Certainly nothing impossible. It implies, that we abstain from our usual worldly employments,—that we reject worldly conversation,-that we check and banish worldly thoughts. In this negative part of the duty, there is clearly nothing impossible; nor can it be said that its positive duties are beyond our reach. It requires that we be actively employed in religious exercises in our closets, in the bosom of our family, and in the house of prayer; and, while thus occupied, that we raise our souls from the contemplation of things which

are seen and temporal, to the contemplation of those that are unseen and eternal.

These are exalted and sublime employments, but they imply no impossibility. The great bulk of mankind, indeed, do not perform them, and the very best of men perform them but imperfectly; but it is not from want of mental or physical capacity. There is no other disability but want of inclination. From the moment we love such exercises, they become easy and agreeable. Men execute tasks as difficult every day, and delight in them, although the real value of these tasks be infinitely inferior. They are able to do this because their hearts are set on them.

Of this, the progress society has made in the arts of civilized life, which we have lately been considering, is a striking proof. The laborious improvement of agriculture, the inventions connected with manufacturing industry, and those amazing piles, or beautiful or convenient structures which have crowned architectural skill, all show what can be effected by human ingenuity and labour, when the mind is roused, and gives itself willingly to the work. Who can examine a well cultivated farm, with all the implements of husbandry employed in its management; or consider the magical labours of the cotton mill; or contemplate the gigantic ruins of Egypt, without being filled with astonishment at the capabilities of man's natural powers. Nor will our wonder be lessened when we turn to the achievements of science, and think of the reach of intellect which could define and demonstrate the laws of the material universe, and, penetrating to the remote stars, could trace, at the distance of millions of millions of miles, the movements of an infinite Creator.

But it is not necessary to have recourse to these more extraordinary efforts of the human mind, in order to convince us of its capacity when roused by some engrossing object. We see the same thing in the very humblest vale of life. Look at the fond mother, who presses her

smiling infant to her breast, and watches over it night and day, and denies herself her necessary rest, and seeks no other occupation, no other enjoyment; look at the affectionate father, who toils, and bustles, and racks his ingenuity, and "rises early, and sits up late, and eats the bread of carefulness,” to provide for the wants and comforts of his beloved offspring,—whether as a merchant he compasses sea and land, and buys and sells, seeking for gain; or as a husbandman he cultivates the ground, and attends the weekly markets, and urges the labour of his servants, and studies the soil and the seasons; or as a common labourer he plies his daily task from morning to night, then throws his weary limbs on a couch of straw, and then rises with the lark, and plies his unvarying task from morning till night again ;—nay, look at the lowest of the low, at the common beggar, who extorts charity by some well feigned tale; or the nightly pilferer, who lives by the dexterity of his petty thefts; look, I say, at the ability, the zeal, the perseverance with which these perform their several tasks, and you will be forced to confess, that he who should, with equal assiduity, apply the powers of his body and mind to the keeping of the Sabbath, or to any other course of religious duty, however severe and arduous, would rise at once to a height of piety, which would put to utter shame the religious pretensions of the every-day Christian.

Why, then, are our religious duties neglected, or inadequately performed? Not evidently from want of talents, or of energy; but for this simple reason, they are not the object of our affections; we feel no interest in the performance of them; the things of time are more congenial to our hearts than the things of eternity. We love Mammon more than God.

Assuredly, if the mind were unbiassed by this strange perverseness, and unoccupied by a most undue and irrational love for those things which perish in the using, there would not be wanting sufficient inducements to

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