beautiful domain; then that (though viewlessly) they rejoice with, they
sorrow for, (if angels can sorrow) and they minister unto "the heirs of
salvation," as they did in the days of old, and as they will do, to the
end of time. Were we not assured of this blessed fact in the book of
books, reason would assert, that for a thankless, graceless generation
alone, earth should not have been formed so divinely fair; but it is
heavenly, that the immortal servitors of man may even here find records
of the divinity, and themes for undying thanksgiving. Are we indeed
visited, watched, and ministered unto, by beatific essences? Oh, reason
and revelation, both loudly proclaim the fact; those beneficent beings
may be with us then, when we deem ourselves alone; they may be our
society in the solitude of our chambers; they may pass us in the breeze,
and they may wander beside us in our loneliest walks. Such meditations
are calculated to inspire our bosoms with new life; to brighten all
nature around us, and to unite us to the invisible world by ties, of the
existence of which we were never previously sensible; ties, at once so
sweet and so sacred, that we almost crave the blessing of death, in
order more surely to strengthen them! Then doth the beauty of "the vale
of tears" confound us; then doth it infuse into our bosoms such
unalterable fore-tastes; such mysterious and undefinable sensations of
the blessedness of "the isles of joy," that our very souls seem to have
become but one prayer, one fervent, wordless, agonizing prayer, for
divine repose, and unimaginable blessedness; and then doth the mere
suggestion of final reprobation amount to insufferable torture! Oh, that
such heavenly imaginings, such divine intimations of a transcendent
futurity, were more frequently vouchsafed to us, and were less
evanescent. They are glimpses of everlasting day, shining on wanderers
in "the valley of the shadow of death;" they are droppings from the
overflowing and ineffable cup of mercy; they are presciences of
eternity, inestimable, unutterable! and the pen that would describe
indescribable perceptions, droops in shame and sorrow at its own
imbecility. Such perceptions have visited, do visit us, on this most
rapturous of Christmas Days? Is it not a golden day? does it not remove
us for a little space from earth, into the society of the holiest
sentient beings, and to the beauty of a celestial, surpassing, world?
Does it not bestow on our souls th