tives graced the triumphal entrance of the victors into Babylon, and the city shook to the shouts of welcome. But the pageantry was soon forgotten, and the prisoners became objects only of idle curiosity, as they moved sadly along the streets, or sat in groups under the public walks. Methinks I see that little band, as, strolling one day through the city, they sat down by its fountains and listened to the murmur of the streams that swept by. The scene was beautiful, and it reminded them of the hill of Zion where they had so often strayed-the home of their hearts--never to be seen again. As they thus sat and conversed in their native tongue, filled with sad remembrances--their neglected harps hanging on the willows the heartless and curious passed by, and stopped to view their strange apparel and listen to their still stranger language. As they saw their harps hanging beside them, they asked for a native song. The hearts of the captives were sad enough before, but this sudden recalling of the joys of the past was too much for their overburdene i feelings, and a burst of tears was the only answer, as they shook their heads in mournful silence. Zion looked beautiful upon her throne of hills and as he thought of the past of her toils anc sufferings-of her former faithfulness-and all; that God had done for her, words of deepes: love were heard to fall from his lips. But amid them was also heard the startling language, "Behold your house is left unto you desolate." The last drop in the cup of crime, the crowning guilt at length came-Zion crucified her Saviour. Then the long delayed curse fell, and Roman legions girdled the city. Mount Zion became the scene of the severest strife that had ever wasted it, and of the keenest sufferings its crimes had ever brought upon it. Although a troop of flaming seraphs had stooped on the temple, and with the words, "Let us depart," wheeled away to heaven again, and chariots of fire had been seen jostling against each other in the evening heavens, and a flaming sword been suspended over the city. and the woe of the denouncing prophet heard along its walls, still the doomed inhabitants believed them not as omens of evil. Under their ancient banner they once more rallied | for the conflict, and for a long time Mount Zion stood like a tower of strength amid he foes. Beating back the tide of battle from her sides, she proved worthy of her olden renown Standing shoulder to shoulder on that glorious That day of bitterness they could never forget; and, whe. ever memory recalled it, the heart seemed to live over again its hour of woe, and they said, " By the rivers of Babylon there we sat down, yea, we wept when we remem-hill-top, the tens of thousands of Israel's bered Zion. We hung our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof. For there they that carried us away captive required of us a song, and they that wasted us asked for mirth, saying, Sing us one of the songs of Zion. How shall we sing the Lord's song in a strange land? If I forget thee, O Jerusalemi, let my right hand forget her cunning. If I do not remember thee, let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth, if I prefer not Jerusalem above my chief joy." They did not forget her, and the city of David once more rose over the hill of Zion, and the banner of Israel again floated from its heights; for God had remembered her tears and forgiven her sins. warriors presented an unbroken front to the foe, and their shout went up as strong and terrible as when Joshua led them on to victory "Zion shall be ploughed as a field, and Jerusalem. shall become heaps!" Impossible! "Walk about Zion and go round about her: mark he bulwarks, tell the towers thereof, consider hei palaces," number if ye can her warriors, proud of their strength and confident in their resources. But the decree has gone forth, "Zion | shall be ploughed as a field." Famine is stronger than the arm of the warrior, and inward dissensions more wasting than the sword of the enemy. The banner of Israel still floats in the breeze, but it waves over the blood of her Pestilence has entered the gates, and the groans of the dying rise from every house. Bloated forms are seen staggering round the empty market-places, chewing wisps of straw and leather for food, and falling dead in their footsteps. Despairing eyes, and wan and haggard faces, stare from every window, and corpses are hurried in crowds over the walls, till even the enemy turn away from the fetid air. The strong fall on the weak, and tear them asunder, to get the morsel they have swallowed, and mothers devour even their own offspring. The thunder of engines is heard against the walls without, and the clash of steel mingles in the wild confusion. Yet even amid this terror and woe, Zion fights| against herself, and strives to swell the slaughter of her own children. At length the last Years passed, and though visited by misfor-children. tune and ruin for its departures from the Lord, Zion still arose in its glory and strength. But at length its long line of kings disappeared the Roman occupied it, and the eagles of Cæsar took the place of the banner of David. Still Mount Zion stood, beautiful as of old, the pride of the conqueror; but its cup of iniquity was fast filling to the brim. Shiloh had come, and the rejected Saviour, as he overlooked the city, wept in view of its approaching doom. There was Mount Moriah lifting the temple on high, whose glorious form dazzled the eyes of the beholder as the sunbeams fell upon it; and there, higher yet, Mount Zion, with its countless palaces, and domes, and towers of strength, before him. His heart yearned over the "glory of the earth," and the daughter of DIVERSE GIFTS IN THE MINISTRY. day and last hour comes-the temple is on fire, and blazes balefully up from Mount Moriahthe eagles of Cæsar flash along the crowded streets, and the shrieks of the flying and the shout of the struggling, mingling with the crackling of the flames, rise over the city. Zion at length yields, the last stronghold is taken, and the spoiler roams unchecked through the streets. "Jerusalem is in heaps," destruction has done her worst, and silence reigns amid the desolation. Their task at length accomplished, the victors take up their line of march, followed by the long train of captives, and depart. As they ascend the last slope that overlooks Jerusalem, that mournful band pause and turn to give a farewell look to Mount Zion. As they behold it strewed with burning ruins, and think of their desolate homes never to be rebuilt or revisited, and see but a cloud of smoke where the glorious temple stood, tears of unavailing sorrow stream from their eyes, and a "note of lamentation swells upon the breeze." Years have passed by, and the plough-share is driven over the top of Zion. Where its towers and palaces stood grain waves in the passing wind, or ruins overlaying each other attest the truth of the Word of God. The Arab spurs his steed along the forsaken streets, or scornfully stands on Mount Zion and surveys the forsaken city of God. But the promise is still sure-Zion is not forgotten, nor is her glory gone. The Church of God still lives and flourishes in more than her ancient beauty. Kingdoms may rise and fall like waves along the sea, and the strongest monuments of human skill crumble to dust, and the earth itself change places-Zion is still secure. No foe can finally prevail against her, nor even time-under whose corroding tooth all things disappear-touch her life. She has brighter palaces than those which adorned Jerusalem, and firmer towers and bulwarks than those built by human hands. Unseen warriors hover around her battlements, and the banner over her shall float triumphantly amid the chaos of a crumbling world. There is also a Mount Zion in heaven, covered with harpers, and the redeemed in their white vestures are there, and the song they sing has no dying cadence. Its top is crowned with a more glorious temple than ever adorned an earthly city, and there nothing that "can hurt or make afraid,” shall ever enter. DIVERSE GIFTS IN THE MINISTRY. MINISTERS differ in their intellectual powers and accomplishments. Here is an Edwards or a Butler, trained to the most profound and discriminating research; there is a Hall or a Mason, the grandeur of whose conceptions throws the thoughts of common minds into the shade; and youder, standing alone-I 173 had almost said in the world's entire historyis a Whitefield, who is familiar with avenues to the heart which others have not explored, who can raise a tempest in the bosom when he will, and as quickly speak it into a calm; while a great multitude shine with inferior but different degrees of lustre. There is a difference in their moral constitutions. The unshrinking boldness of Paul, the head-strong impetuosity of Peter, the winning gentleness of John, the docile spirit of Nathanael, and every other variety of natural disposition, is continually exemplified in the Christian ministry. There is a difference in the amount of piety which they possess; some keeping the world under their feet, and having their conversation habitually in heaven, while others seem scarcely to rise to the ordinary level of Christian attainment. They are favoured also with dif ferent degrees of usefulness; and their usefulness flows in different channels. One exerts an influence in advancing the kingdom of Christ which is felt far and wide; while another, with feebler powers and less zeal and perseverance, would seem to labour to comparatively little purpose. One is directly instrumental in turning many to righteousness, and there are hundreds, and even thousands, who expect to heap blessings upon him in heaven as the instrument of their salvation; while another exerts a more silent but scarcely less important influence, in vindicating the claims of Christianity, in moulding the character of the young, in guarding the generalinterest of the Church. And, to crown all, they differ in their ultimate reward. They that have been faithful in a few things will not lose their reward; but they that have turned many to righteousness, will shine as the brightness of the firmament. Such is the variety which the great Head of the Church permits-I may say, has ordained, in the Christian ministry. And the wisdom of this appointment, especially in regard to the different intellectual and moral constitutions of ministers, is as manifest as its existence; for the ministry has to perform its work upon every variety of character, and the influence which might be entirely lost upon one individual, might operate with mighty power on another. Hence I cannot think it desirable that all ministers should try to force themselves into a conformity to any one particular standard; indeed, that seems to me to be doing violence to the divine constitution. God requires, indeed, that all his ministers should preach the same great principles, but He has not required that they should all be of the temperament of Peter, or of John, or of Paul; he chooses to have his sons of thunder and his sons of consolation; and no one may say with the greater degree of favour. I have sometimes heard even ministers complain of their brethren as likely to accomplish little or no good by their preaching, because, though they preached the truths of the gospel plainly, they preached them with less energy or less apparent fervour than could be desired. But I would say in all such cases, You have no right to require the brick where God has not given the straw; and besides, the very mode of preaching which you desire, would doubtless be far less acceptable and far less useful to many individuals. than that to which you ob. ject. Let a minister keep himself within those bounds of decorum which God's Word and the dignity of his own office prescribe, and the more closely he follows the bent of his own mind, the better; he may not be a Paul or Apollos, a Chalmers or a Hall; but he will be himself; and in that mest natural and appropriate of all characters, he will be likely to do his Master's work in the best manner, and with the greatest success.-Sprague. THE SHEPHERD. FAR in a vale remote, where a clear stream Their great Creator in their days of youth. Oft on the Sabbath, that sweet day of rest, Which God in mercy on mankind bestow'd, To fit their souls for heaven, the pious sire Would, while his flocks were feeding full in view, On some soft flowery eminence recline, And, to his listening little ones, relate The sacred history of the Son of God, Reveal'd to man in that most blessed bookThe HOLY BIBLE. Pointing to the stones Of hoary aspect, standing here and there On the green mountain's side, to mark the graves Where sleeps in peace the martyrs' sacred dust, He would their bosoms thrill with solemn joy And hallow'd indignation, while he told Them melting tales of days of other years. And ever, when the curlew's mournful note Was heard to sound, amid the twilight dim, The lonely requiem of departed day, And welcome in the night, was duly heard, Ascending from the shepherd's humble cot, The artless notes of the glad evening hymn. 'Twas sweet to see, as on a summer's eve He sought his peaceful home, his children run, Their flaxen hair bedeck'd with blooming flowers, But in that cottage, where unmingled joy Death's victim fell; and to a troublous world His loving wife and helpless children left 'Twas winter when he died; and the loud winds, "Farewell! thou partner dear of all my joy In my short pilgrimage. This is the hour Where God himself shall, with his gracious hand, THE LAST ILLNESS AND DEATH OF REV. CHARLES SIMEON. And glory, to the Lamb that once was slain, WILSON. NARRATIVE OF THE LAST ILLNESS AND DEATH OF REV. CHARLES SIMEON. (From Memoir by the Rev. W. Carus.) WE are now brought to the closing scene of the life of this devoted servant of God. His vigour and zeal were perhaps never greater than immediately previous to his last illness. He had preached on Thursday evening (September 15), with his usual animation and energy, from John xv. 8, "Herein is my Father glorified, that ye bear much fruit; so shall ye be my disciples: and again on the Sabbath morning after, from 2 Kings x. 16, "Come with me, and see my zeal for the Lord." This was the last sermon he delivered. On the Tuesday following he was in high health and spirits, and talked of the journey he proposed to make next day to Ely with no ordinary delight. In conversation, however, at this time with the kind friend who nov became his constant attendant, he made the following remarks about his nearness to the eternal world. "Well, though I am talking of putting things by for my journey to Bath next June, the Lord knows that I am thinking, and longing to a certain degree, for a far better journey, which in a few days I shall take; but I find it difficult to realize the thought that I am so near the eternal world; I cannot imagine what a spirit is-I have no conception of it. But I rejoice in the thought, that my coffin is already cut down, and in the town at this very time-of this I have no doubt; and my shroud is also ready; and in a few days I shall join the company of the redeemed above." His friend replied, "Why, dear sir, should you talk so? you are in good health and strength; and November is so near, I think you will be permitted to preach your sermons, and also to prepare the other set you were thinking of; and perhaps you may preach them too." He said, "That will be as the Lord pleases; but I do often wonder at the degree of strength and spirits which of late the Lord has blessed me with. I never remember to have had greater energy for work than at this time; and I do seem to think that it is now the Lord's will to spare me through November: but you know it is quite immaterial 175 to me; the sermons are finished—that is all I care about; I would not have to write them now for a thousand pounds. But if I should be per mitted to preach them, I expect it will bring me down, indeed; I give you all leave to break all my bones in December. Still I am fully determined, if I have any degree of strength left, instantly to begin a set of sermons, on that grand subject out of Ephesians, 3d chapter, 18th and 19th verses. I don't expect or desire to preach them; but if my life be spared, WRITE THEM I WILL." The next day (Wednesday, September 21), he went over to Ely to pay his respects to the bishop. He had been very anxious about this visit; for, as he was one of the oldest of the clergy, it was his wish, he said, to be among the very first to show all respect to his diocesan. The day was damp and chilly, and he needed more than usual care to prevent any injurious effects from the journey; but he felt so strong and vigorous, that he imprudently dispensed with his ordinary outer dress. The bishop received him with marked kindness and attention; and proposed that they should go together to see the Cathedral. Here they lingered too long: the coldness of the building, increased by the rawness of the day, soon began sensibly to affect Mr. Simeon, and was the direct cause of the severe illness from which he never recovered. The next morning early he was seized with a violent rheumatic attack, and, during the day, became so seriously indisposed as to be unable to leave his room for the evening lecture. The sermon he had intended to preach was upon Luke xi. 1: "Lord, teach us to pray;"-and this was the last subject he ever prepared for the pulpit. During the whole of the next day he continued very feeble, though he cherished a hope of being able to go in his carriage on the following Monday to Ipswich; and wrote to his beloved friend Mr. Nottidge, to say that he should preach for him, according to promise, on the opening of his new church. Saturday (September 24) was his birth-day, when he entered his seventy-eighth year. Though he had passed but an indifferent night, he rose early this morning; and when his attendant came to him, he was sitting in a favourite spot before the window, to enjoy the first beams of the sun, and employed in writing another letter to Mr. Nottidge, in which he observed, "Of course, my University Sermons are laid aside, if not life itself." On repeating this to his attendant, he added, "What can I expect! I never expected to live so long: I can scarcely believe I am so old: I have as yet known nothing of the infirmities of age, though I have seen a good old age. I know, however, it will all be ordered well." Soon after, when referring to his journey to Ely, he remarked, "If this is to be the closing scene, I shall not at all regret my journey to the bishop; it was of vast importance to you all; and I shall rejoice to close my life from such a circumstance." perfectly aware, and in consequence seemed more than usually calm and happy. The writer was sitting by his bed-side, and on making some inquiry as to what had been lately pass ing in his mind, and of what at that time more particularly he was thinking, he immediately replied with great animation, "I don't think now I am enjoying." He then expressed his entire surrender of himself to the will of God, and spoke of his extreme joy in having his own will!! so completely in unison with that of God, add For some days he remained much in the same state; but subsequently so far recovered, as to make it probable that the malady might eventually be subdued. So far, indeed, was he restored, that occasionally he could take a drive in his carriage; and we began to indulge a hope of his ultimate recovery. On October 6, he dictated the letter at the conclusion of the preceding chapter, which exhibits all his usual precision on subjects which deeply interesteding with remarkable emphasis, “He cannot do him. The good hope we had ventured to entertain of his recovery was soon at an end. On another damp and chilly day he went out once more in his carriage, though earnestly entreated not to run the hazard of a relapse. This short drive was too much for his reduced frame; all the former pain and fever returned with increased violence, and he was obliged immediately to take to his bed. He was now fully aware that the hand of death was upon him; and having lately contemplated some changes in the disposition of his property, he was anxious, without delay, to make the necessary alterations in his will. He had already, indeed, disposed of the greater part of his fortune in promoting a variety of religious and charitable designs; but during his late journey, he had been so much impressed with the importance of the work in which he had been so generously assisted, that he determined to devote the small remainder of his property (with the exception of a few legacies to his relatives) to the furtherance of the great object which had so long engaged his regards.* When his desire on this point was accomplished, his mind seemed relieved from every care, and he prepared himself with joy for his departure. me." anything against my will." After a short pause, he looked round with one of his very bright and significant smiles, and asked, "What do you think especially gives me comfort at this time? The creation!-the view of God in his work of creation! Did Jehovah create the world, or did I?-I think He did; now if He made the world, he can sufficiently take care of Ilis restlessness from excessive pain was now so great, that he was continually requesting his position to be changed; but when it was suggested that it would be better to attempt to lie quietly, he said most calmly, "I will do just what you like--I will be guided entirely by what you think best." Shortly after, by way of turning his thoughts to a subject which seemed likely to interest him, I said, "How blessed a prospect is opening before you; to be so soon with the innumerable company of angels, and the general assembly and Church of the first-born, and with Jesus the Mediator of the new covenant!" Upon this his countenance became peculiarly solemn and grave; and hesaid nothing, but only looked up most humbly and devoutly. I then alluded to another subject, which I knew would be agreeable to him; and made a remark about veiling our faces as the cherubim did in the presence of God: to this he immediately gave a sign of assent and pleasure. About midnight he was raised up in his bed, and having sent for me to his side, he began to speak, in a very slow and impressive manner, what seemed to us all to be his dying remarks. "I am a poor fallen creature, and our nature is a poor fallen thing; there is no denying that, is there? It cannot be repaired: there is nothing that I can do to repair it-well, then, that is true. Now what would you advise in such a case?" As he made rather a long pause, apparently waiting for an answer, I replied, "Surely, sir, to go, as you always have done, as a poor fallen creature, to the Lord Jesus Christ, confessing your sins, and implor During the second week of October, when one of his particular friends had called at his rooms to inquire after his health, Mr. Simeon immediately begged to see him, and in a feeble whisper requested him to pray by his bed-side. After the prayer, his friend expressed a hope that he was now supported by Divine conisolations. Mr. Simeon then replied to this effect: "I never felt so ill before I conceive my present state cannot last long-this exhaustion must be a precursor of death; but I lie here waiting for the issue without a fear, without a doubt, and without wish." To another afterwards who remarked, "Many hearts are engaged in prayer for you;" he rejoined, “Ining prayer ay, and I trust in praise too-praise for countless, endless mercies." On Friday (October 21) all hopes of his recovery were taken away. The gout had at length attacked him internally, and the means used for his relief were evidently in vain; of this he was *This was the purchase of advowsons to which he might present ministers whom he knew to be Christian and Evangelical. and expecting pardon and peace." He auswered in a very determined and joyful manner, "That is just what I am doing, and will do." I added, " And you find the Lord Jesus Christ to be very present, and giving you peace?” He instantly replied, looking up to heaven with the most remarkable expression of happiness ou his countenance, "Oh! yes; that I do." "And He does not forsake you now?" "No, indeed; that NEVER CAN BE!" I observed, " He has said, |