SERMON VI.*

Flight of Time.

"We spend our years as a tale that is told."— Ps. xc. 9.

THIS Psalm contains a prayer of Moses to the great Sovereign of the Universe. He commences by an acknowledgment of God's goodness and immutability and then proceeds to say "Thou turnest man to destruction; and sayest, Return ye children of men. For a thousand years in thy sight, are but as yesterday when it is past, and as a watch in the night. Thou carriest them away as with a flood; they are as a sleep; in the morning they are like grass which groweth up. In the morning it flourisheth and groweth up; in the evening it is cut down and withereth. We spend our years as a tale that is told." I have selected these words for my text at this time, because I believe them appropriate to the present occasion; and because I think they will suggest some interesting and profitable topics for our consideration. Another year has just past, like a tale that is told. Its requiem has just been chanted. There is, no power which can restore it to life

* Preached at Lamprey River, New Year's Sabbath, 1836.

no voice which can recall its scenes. Wrapt in silence, it lies buried in the grave of past eternity. The present is a joyous season, bringing with it a pleasing melancholy. The future, who can know? Death may soon shadow, with his ebon wings, the light that now beams from the glad eye; his dry cold hands may extinguish the lamp of life; and the heart which now beats with rapture may soon be hushed in silence! What a train of interesting reflections does this solemn hour bring with it? What feelings and recollections rush in upon our minds, as we survey the past, and contemplate the future? We have been permitted to hail the dawn of a new period in the history of time. The morning of a new year has dawned upon us; and we are still numbered among the moving throng that dwell upon this footstool of the Eternal, and still feasting upon the bounties of him whose watchful eye never slumbers nor sleeps. Let us pause and reflect. What changes mark the history of the past! Time like a swift-winged arrow, in its trackless course, has brought us to what we now are. a few days since, and we were infants-children -youth. Then we loved to linger around the paternal home, and indulge the pleasing hopes of childhood, hopes, which, alas! have never been realized; and which, like the clustering dew-drops, that salute the rising majesty of day, have perished in the ardor of that love which gave them their sparkling brilliancy! It is true,

But

“This world is all a fleeting show,
For man's illusion given;

The smiles of joy, the tears of woe,
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow:

There's nothing true but heaven!"

Who does not love, at such a season as this, to look back and reflect upon the pleasing scenes and sunny days of childhood, when all was life, light and joy when the bright star of hope lit up our pathway — and our glowing imaginations pointed out to us in the distant prospect of mature years, golden hours of bliss, which were already ours by anticipation? Then no anxious care disturbed our peaceful bosoms no rays of sorrow flitted across no stain of sin was

those halcyon moments there; but we could revel in innocent enjoyment, and quaff the nectar of pleasure and delight borne to us on every gale. These scenes are gone, and gone forever! Time has rolled on its rapid course. Year after year has obeyed the signal, and sunk into the fathomless ocean of eternity. The same sun has shone above us. the same bright and burning orbs have wheeled their appointed circuits

the same moon has walked in brightness through the firmament, and cheered the shades of night. The heavens still "declare the glory of God," and we still live, surrounded by the evidences of Jehovah's love, and upheld and preserved by that Being who is "good unto all, and whose tender mercies are over all his works.'

I have said that we still exist, amid the beauties

and blessings of creation; we are still permitted "to drink the pleasures of a golden day, and triumph in existence.” We are yet enabled to hail, with rejoicing, the return of a New Year's birth: but where are some of those who were with us when "life's opening buds were sweet "— who sustained us in our tender moments "ere sin could blight, or sorrow fade." Where now is the mother, who kept her constant vigils around our pillow; in whose arms we dreamed of golden stores of happiness, laid up for future life; and who loved us even unto death! Where now is the father, who cherished and protected us; whose arms were ever ready to embrace us, and who pointed us to the path of rectitude and virtue? Where are some of those who started with us in the career of existence, the gayest of the gay, and the happiest of the happy? Go to yonder grave-yard, and a voiceless answer will be returned; they slumber with the silent dead. They are gone their work on earth is over and their voices are forever hushed in the silence of death. But, there are some, whom we were permitted to greet at the commencement of the year which has just drawn to a close, whose faces we do not now behold; and where are they? I look around me, and, mingling with the circle of my acquaintance, I behold those I love and esteem, clothed in the habiliments of mourning. I find that one here, and another there, have gone - but where? Where is he who commenced with us the last year, with prospects as fair for a happy

life, as did any of us? he who was bound to us by ten thousand ties - whom we loved to greet as a friend and brother with whom we had taken sweet counsel, and walked to the house of God in company? Alas! his seat is vacant.

"His labors and his toils are o'er,

And he has reached the heavenly shore,
Where floods of light eternal roll,

And burst upon his famished soul."

Many of our dearest friends, who hailed with rejoicing the dawn of the year, have not lived to see its close. They have departed, and the murmuring breeze of heaven now sighs o'er the moss-covered hillock, beneath which they repose in silence. A few still remain, to remind us that we too must die; and that time is still beckoning us onward to our final home. When a few more changes shall have marked us, we shall be welcomed amid the waves of death. Nothing can save us from the hand of the destroying angel. His empire is universal. He wields his sceptre over all climes; and nations and nobles, princes and monarchs, bow to the dust. Statesmen, whose fame has been wafted to the four quarters of the wide world; orators, that have united the language of earth and heaven; conquerors, decked with proud laurels plucked from the fields of war; and tyrants, whose "tender mercies were cruelties," are at rest. Their lips are cold; their tongues are motionless; their laurels are withered; their arms are nerveless in the do