It softened men of iron mould;

It gave them virtues not their own.
No ear so dull,―no heart so cold,

That felt not,-fired not at its tone,

Till David's lyre grew mightier than his throne.

It told the triumphs of our king,

It wafted glory to our God,

It made the gladdened vallies ring,

The cedars bow,-the mountains nod,

Its sound aspired to Heaven, and there abode.

When the Greek artist undertook to represent on canvass the tragic scene of the sacrifice of Iphigenia, he employed every secret of his talent in heightening the expression of grief upon the faces of the assistants, but when he came to that of Agamemnon he drew a veil over it, for he felt that the depth of a father's despair under such circumstances, was beyond the reach of the pencil. There is one other character, gentlemen, in Scripture, which should now be presented to you as a summary of all that I have said, but I dare not make the attempt. What language can delineate, or pretend to give an idea of perfection? What early maturity! While yet a child, he astonishes the wisest by his learning. What docility to his parents! What affection for his friends! What indulgence to the fallen! What sympathy with female weakness, and infant innocence! What faultless purity of life! With all this gentleness, what unshrinking severity for vice! With all this innocence, what unerring sagacity! In this lowly condition what power of thought, what elevation of sentiment, what grace and charm of language! "Never man spake as he spake." In his doctrine, what before unheard of, unthought of, wisdom; the wisdom not of books, but of the heart! "I give unto you a new commandment, that ye love one another." In conduct, what unaffected self-sacrifice! "Father, forgive them! they know not what they do." Whence then comes this moral phenomenon, still more strange, and on ordinary principles, inexplicable than the one just alluded to? If the history 'be true, how happens it that the most unpropitious circumstances have brought out this grand result? If false, how is it that a few illiterate persons have invented a character, which to invent would

be, in one form, to realize? Answer once more, infidelity! Answer once more, scepticism! Gentlemen, infidelity, scepticism, have answered. The force of truth, long since, tore from the lips of one of their ablest champions the reluctant confession. Hear it in the words of Rousseau :

"Socrates lived and died like a philosopher: Jesus Christ lived and died like a God!"