may be a good philosopher or a
good historian, but a bad arithmetician he remains for life; for he
cannot lay the foundation at the moment when he must be building the
superstructure. The regiment which has not perfected itself in its
manoeuvres on the parade ground, cannot learn them before the guns of
the enemy. And just in the same way, the young person who has slept his
youth away, and become idle, and selfish, and hard, cannot make up for
that afterwards. He may do something, he may be religious--yes; but he
cannot be what he might have been. There is a part of his heart which
will remain uncultivated to the end. The apostles could share their
Master's sufferings--they could not save him. Youth has its irreparable
past.

And therefore, my young brethren, let it be impressed upon
you,--now is a time, infinite in its value for eternity, which
will never return again. Sleep not; learn that there is a very solemn
work of heart which must be done while the stillness of the garden of
Gethsemane gives you time. Now, or Never. The treasures at your command
are infinite. Treasures of time--treasures of youth--treasures of
opportunity that grown-up men would sacrifice everything they have to
possess. Oh for ten years of youth back again with the added experience
of age! But it cannot be: they must be content to sleep on now and take
their rest.

Rev. F. W. Robertson: "Sermons."

A CHRISTMAS HYMN, 1837

It was the calm and silent night:--
Seven hundred years and fifty-three
Had Rome been growing up to might,
And now was Queen of land and sea!
No sound was heard of clashing wars;
Peace brooded o'er the hushed domain;
Apollo, Pallas, Jove, and Mars
Held undisturbed their ancient reign,
In the solemn midnight
Centuries ago!

'Twas in the calm and silent night!
The senator of haughty Rome
Impatient urged his chariot's flight,
From lordly revel rolling home!
Triumphal arches gleaming swell
His breast with thoughts of boundless sway;
What recked the Roman what befell
A paltry province far away,
In the solemn midnight
Centuries ago!

Within that province far away
Went plodding home a weary boor:
A streak of light before him lay,
Fallen through a half-shut stable door
Across his path. He passed--for nought
Told what was going on within;
How keen the stars! his