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wrought; some reward which we have not merited; for how can the withering insects of time compass Eternity?
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It is a blessing, that the world furnishes us with so few satisfying pleasures; and that in our approaches, to what are supposed its purest fountains, we so often find them mixed and vapid. This withdraws our grasp from its perishable possessions; drives us to the strong hold of hope; shuts us up to the faith of the gospel; and if the heart sometimes sickens at its delusions, it learns that in heaven only it can find peace,
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There is a hand that writes vanity upon every mortal possession and hope. There is a touch colder than marble, which freezes the illusions of fancy. There is a power that severs the close woven web of man's felicity, and cuts the strong Cordage of the heart. He struggles awhile against that dart which pierces to "the dividing asunder of soul and spirit;" and, forgetful that he is of the dust, shudders at the voice which proclaims, "unto dust shalt thou return."
