envying even the sparrow and swallow building about the capitals, for the rest which he could never find, until he should meet again with the old familiar faces, and mingle in the services, a sort of lamentation that I observe, poets seldom fall into any more, and as seldom into the services out of which it sprung. And so it comes to pass, because these men possessed these two great gifts,

first, that intense sympathy and oneness with

what they describe, which makes their description an immortal, spiritual photograph; and, second, that wonderful realization of the direct presence and agency of God, by which they are able to say "I and we," where even Milton can only say "he and they." The best of those Psalms have for ever been, and perhaps will for ever be, abreast of every new man that comes into the world. They are nature and divinity set to music,—to a perfect natural music, the key of which we bring into the world when we come. They will only die out, and be forgotten, when man ceases to wrestle and stagger under his burden, or to exult and clap his hands in his great moments of victory.

We shall for ever gather new insight into the

laws of nature; but, if we are imbued with the spirit of the Psalms, we shall never cease to hear the voice of God in the clang of the sea booming among the rocks; to see him in the light of the morning when the sun riseth, the fair morning without clouds, with the tender grass springing out of the earth by the clear shining after rain. We shall measure the courses of the stars, and discover their great secrets more and more clearly in the ever-growing ages; but no attainment will ever carry us above that grand utterance, "The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament showeth his handiwork. There is no speech or language where their voice is not heard. The sun rejoices as a strong man to run a race, and there is nothing hid from his power.” And men will for ever say, "I laid me down, and slept; for the Lord sustained me." And they will never forget to cry, "In the time when I am old and gray-headed, O God! do not forsake me. And, "As the hart panteth after the water-brook, even so panteth my soul after God," and, while there is danger, they will cry, "Keep me as the apple of thine eye; hide me under the shadow of thy wing;" while there is deliverance,

men will tell how God "bowed the heavens, and came down," and "redeemed the souls of his servants, so that none of them that trusted in him were desolate." And, while ever there is death, there will be men who will be sure to sing, "My heart is glad, for thou wilt not leave my soul in the grave, nor suffer thine holy one to see corruption: therefore I will rest in hope. Thou wilt show me the path of life. I shall be satisfied when I awake in thy likeness."

And so I think it will be for ever with this book, studded all over with living sentences set to the music of living souls. The vindictive Psalms will die out; we shall put them aside. They were the outpouring of hearts made savage by oppression in a savage time. They are nothing to us, or we to them. We could do better without them to-day. We can afford to have two psalms exactly alike, as we could afford to have two copies of the song, "To Mary in Heaven," in the same book. None of these things can trouble us, when we come with a sweet, wholesome frankness to this great book, and enter into the spirit and power of its utterances, wherever they chord with the longings and aspirations of the soul.

XV.

THE BATTLE-FIELD OF FORT DONELSON.

NARRATIVE SERMON, DELIVERED MARCH 2, 1862.

I PROPOSE to speak to you this morning about the battle-field at Fort Donelson,- of those that are alive and well there, those that are wounded and sick, and those that are dead. I do this because the subject fills my heart and mind above all others at this time; because you have a right to expect your pastor to tell you what reason justified him in leaving your church vacant last Sunday, without asking your permission; because I know nothing can be of so much interest to you as the story of my week's experience; and, finally, because the thing itself teaches the real divinity and gospel of the time.

It was natural, when the news was flashed into our city, that the great battle, as fierce, for the number engaged in it, and as protracted as Waterloo, was turned into a transcendent victory;

and when bells were ringing, banners waving, men shaking hands everywhere, and breaking into a laughter that ended in tears, and into tears that ended in laughter, that we should all remember that this victory had been won at a terrible price; and that those bells, so jubilant to us, would be remembered by many a wife as the knell that told her she was a widow, by Rachels weeping for their children, and by desolate Davids uttering the old bitter cry, "Would to God I had died for thee, my son, my son!"

And it was natural, too, that we should remember, that there, on that battle-field, must be vast numbers, friends and foes, alike suffering great agonies, which we could do some small thing to mitigate, if we could only get there with such medicines and surgery, refreshment and sympathy, as God had poured into the bosom of our great city, pressed down, shaken together, and running over.

Sydney Smith has said that there would be a great many more good Samaritans in the world. than there are, if we could be good Samaritans without the oil and the two pence. He might have said that there are a great many who give