of life have ceased. The late inhabitant is far away. Only the mouldering frame is left, and the dust must return to the dust as it was. Verily, life is a vapour. It appears like the mist upon the mountain's side; and while we behold, it suddenly vanishes away.

And what is your life, contemplated with reference to the sweetest and most lasting earthly enjoyments? How long will they continue? Perhaps an hour, or a day, and possibly a little longer. But what is a day, or a year, or even the space between infancy and gray decrepitude? What is the scriptural biography of one who lived twelve or fifteen of our ages? Why, that he was born, and that he died. Who is there that does not look back upon all his past enjoyments as upon a dream when one awaketh? Ah! ye votaries of pleasure, when you come to lie down upon the bed of death, and take an inventory of all that you now call happiness, what will it amount to? Read over the items one by one. So much sensual pleasure-so much money-so many houses and lands-so much honour. What is the available sum, when all these enjoyments are over? Think of it. Bring it still nearer to your waning grasp it again, if you can, eyes, and when friends shudder to remain with you in your chamber, and death's pale attendants are all busily at work in taking down your shattered tabernacle. What, in that awful moment, is the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eye, and the pride of life? What are all the bygone delights of the fancy, of the taste, of the imagination, or the intellect? They are as if they had never been, or when recollected they only serve to make the approach of the king of terrors more unwel

come.

your

And what, on the other hand, is your life, when estimated in full view of all its thousand ills? They may cause the flesh to quake and the heart to bleed for a moment, but they will soon be over; perhaps in one short hour certainly within a period so short that it will appear as nothing in the long retrospect of future being. "This I say, brethren, the time is short." "Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning. And this to the righteous is the morning of a day which will never end. But, whether you are righteous or wicked, when you come to look back from beyond the gates of death upon whatever you may have suffered in this life, your past sorrows, like your past joys, will flit

away as the shadows of a momentary dream, and you will wonder how you could ever have been so disquieted by them.

What, my gray-headed and tottering friends, is your life? How short the period since you were in the cradle and dandled in the lap of parental affection! Once you

thought, no doubt, that seventy years must be long enough for any one to live; but, tell me, what is your present estimate? Ah! methinks I hear you falter, Few and evil have been our days. So true it is, that

"Time advancing hides his wings,

And seems to creep on young."

What, then, is the past with you, but a restless night spent between waking and sleeping? How much of life is now left besides weakness and infirmities,—days without pleasure and nights without repose? And how long can you expect to live? Oh, how many warnings have you of approaching dissolution: loss of sight, loss of hearing, loss of memory, loss of strength; limbs trembling; joints stiffening; hair whitening; in short, all the harbingers of death gathering about you, and solemnly warning you to prepare for your last bed, your coffin, your shroud, and your abode in dust!

And what, my young friends, is your life? It appears to most of you, I doubt not, like a great estate, or something far better than that, in almost certain reversion. But what is the tenure by which you hold the precious boon? If you have any lease of life, produce it. What though you never seriously think of dying? can this stupid presumption save you when the relentless messenger shall come up into your windows? You are young; but how many millions have died younger! Consult the first bill of mortality that comes in your way, and ask yourself, "What is my life?" A mere scratch may destroy it an insect may undermine the frail tabernacle and sever some thread on which all depends. It is only to shut out a little air, or to let in a floating atom to rankle for a few moments in your vitals, and all will be over. Your bloom, health, and hopes perish together.

What, then, my young friends, is your life? Oh, be persuaded, whenever you enter the place of graves, to make out the estimate there. Consult the records of the

marble-planted fields: they will not deceive you. Go from stone to stone, and as you read, say, "What is my

life ?"

In every view, thus far taken, of the text, we are brought to the same solemn conclusion, that all flesh is grass; that man at his best estate is altogether vanity.

II. But there is another view of the subject, which makes life of unspeakable value. I mean when we consider it as preparatory to an endless existence beyond the grave. In this light, a vapour as it is, our present life is everything. If all the mountains in the world were gold and silver, they would not be weighed against it. Their value would be nothing in the comparison. Think, oh think, if you can, what are the interests which are suspended by this most brittle thread! God has sent us to stay a few days here, and for what? To prepare for death. For death, not on account of its intrinsic importance, but as the gate of eternity. Here, then, we are put on trial, and here the momentous question is to be decided, whether we shall go to heaven or hell-whether we shall dwell with angels or devils-whether we shall rise and shine, and shout in glory, or sink and wail in the blackness of darkness for ever.

Yes, the grand question is to be settled here, and settled soon, and settled finally. In this point of view, the length of one person's life, compared with that of another, makes not the least difference. Be it longer or shorter, it is all. It may be ten, or fifteen, or twenty years; it may be a little more, or it may be less. But there will be no other state of trial. The young man or young woman who lives in sin but twenty years, and then dies impenitent, plunges as surely into the lake of fire and brimstone as the hoary-headed sinner of fourscore.

There is, therefore, no equal portion of our existence, no conceivable duration in eternity, which can for one moment be compared with the present life in point of importance. There, a thousand ages of joy or woe will decide nothing as to the future. Here, one day may decide everything. A million of years, then, after death, may be of less moment to the man who is now on his death-bed than the few moments which he still has to live. Upon that short period a whole eternity may be suspended.

Does this point need illustration? Suppose, then, that a kingdom were offered to a man, and that he must comply

with the conditions in an hour, or lose it for ever; how much more would depend upon that hour than upon all

the rest of his life!

Suppose that one of you had been condemned to suffer perpetual imprisonment, in chains and in a dungeon, and an hour was granted you to sue for pardon, and upon the most humble confession to obtain your liberty-how much more valuable would that hour be than fifty subsequent years of night, and solitude, and chains!

But how inadequate, how poor is every possible illustration to set forth the amazing value of a life which in every other point of view is nothing!

"Good God! on what a slender thread

Hang everlasting things!"

The subject suggests many solemn inferences and remarks, among which are these:

-:

1. If human life is so short and so uncertain-if it is but a momentary vapour-let all make out their estimates, and lay their plans, and conduct all their concerns accordingly. You know that you must die; oh that you would lay it to heart! You know that the present breath is all that you are sure of. As for the past, what is it? I appeal to you, whether it appears most like a reality or a dream. As for the present, you see, continually, the dying and the dead. But, oh, tell me, are you not living as if life never closed? You are, unless you are actually striving to enter in at the strait gateunless you are working out your salvation with fear and trembling.

How little do many think, in the hurry of business, in the pursuits of literature, of gain, and of pleasure, in the strength of manhood, in the heedlessness of youthhow little do they think of the hour of death, of the darkness, and the worm, the dust and oblivion to which they are hastening! Oh, my dying fellow-sinners, pause, I beseech you, pause and think, What is your life? Strive to live every day and hour under the impression that it is even a vapour. Let all your worldly schemes be based upon this great truth-that you know not what shall be on the morrow.

2. Is life, when contemplated in connection with eternity, of such amazing importance?-is it a state of trial? and is all beyond it a recompense of rewards?—are the eter

nal interests of your souls depending on the few sands that remain ?-is heaven to be won or lost, on this foot or two of earth, and in this inch or two of time?—is a crown of glory to be soon gained or lost for ever, by each? -and are you rational beings? Do you know all this? Has God told you that "Now is the accepted time?" Does he expostulate with you, "To-day if ye will hear his voice, harden not your hearts?" Does he admonish you, "Boast not thyself of to-morrow?"-and yet can you waste in unprofitable care or speculation that precious time which to each sinner in a state of probation is worth more than millions of worlds? Be astonished, O heavens, at this! Thousands there are who will not be persuaded to seek the salvation of their souls-to secure the pearl of great price, though God from above warns them; though hell from beneath is moved for them-though justice frowns from her awful seat, and mercy pours out her heart over them like water.

Is not this the case with some who read these lines? Are you not wasting life, and wearying Divine forbearance, and slighting heaven, and braving the terrors of damnation? And what will you do when the scene closes? Will you not then curse your present infatuation? Will you not cry out, A world for an hour!-A world for an hour? But where will be your world to offer? And if you had a million, what would the offer avail?

Is there, fellow-sinner, one thing between you and the grave which you can cling to, with any confidence that your hold may not in a moment be broken?; And then, oh eternity! eternity! Have you thought of eternity? And in this view have you ever attempted to estimate a day, an hour of probation? Have you been convinced of your perishing condition as a sinner? Have you fled for refuge to lay hold on the hope set before you in the gospel? Is your soul washed in a Saviour's blood? Is it meet for the society of angels ?-of the just made perfect? What if death should enter your room this night, and you wake up to-morrow in another world? For what world, I ask, would you be fitted?

Oh think, What is your life? When you lay your plans, and hopes rise before you in endless prospect, think, What is your life? When God calls, and the tempter says, To-morrow shall be as this day, and much more abundantthink, What is your life? Ah! "it is even a vapour, that