NO MORE SEA.

REV. RUFUS W. CLARK D. D.

OW little, after hearing of a wreck, and of the sad fate of all on board the ship, do we realize that there were sons, fathers and husbands, in that struggling, gasping group,that those lifeless forms were bound to friends by ties as strong and tender as those that unite us to the dearest objects of our affection! How little do we think of the families in different towns and villages, to whom the announcement of the wreck comes as a thunderbolt,—whose sighs, and tears, and habiliments of mourning, tell where the lightning of affliction has struck!

Is there not a depth and intensity of meaning, to such, in the declaration of St. John, that in the heavenly world there is no more sea,—no more separation from dear friends, no more nights of weary watchings and deep agony, -no more startling intelligence of the loss of those we love?

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The sea is the emblem af all life's trials. Its ceaselessly rolling billows shadow forth the agitations of many hearts. Its roar is the echo of the groans of an afflicted world. Its perils are emblematic of the moral dangers that surround the soul of man. We are all upon the ocean. Every human being has his voyage to make, his dangers to encounter. Many a dark wave lies between us and the haven of rest. We have barks freighted with more precious substances than silver or gold. The merchant may lose his ships. The sea may engulf his property, and leave him a bankrupt. This is a calamity. But greater calamities threaten many voyagers now sailing upon the ocean of life. They are attempting to make the passage without noticing the compass, whose needle points to the throne of God, and with no pilot at the helm. They seldom consult their chart, that marks out the only course by which they can reach the celestial city, that indicates the rocks and dangers of the way. They heed not the beacon-lights held forth by patriarchs, prophets and apostles. Though the forms of these holy messengers may be seen moving along the shore, with torches in their hands, though their voices may be heard amid the roar of the waters, warning the careless mariner of the dangers that surround him, pleading with him to escape the wild breakers that have swallowed up thousands of human

beings, yet he heeds them not. Bent upon his pleasures, absorbed by his schemes for transient good, he thinks that it will be time enough to arouse himself, when the peril is more apparent. He sees that his ship is strong. Every timber is sound; every plank is bolted with iron. He looks above, and every mast, spar, sail and rope, is in its place. What need of alarm, when every thing appears so secure? Thus reasons the man in health and prosperity. But suddenly the alarming tidings ring through the cabin, that the ship has struck, and is fast upon the rocks. Now, in the panic of the hour, the voyager runs to his chart; but this cannot help him. He looks at the compass; but it points whither he cannot go. He seizes the helm; but its power is gone. He pleads for deliverance; but there comes from the shore a voice, "Too late."

O! is it not a blessed announcement, that there is a world where no such moral danger will surround the soul,-where no waves of temptation will roll over us, and no sea of sorrow endanger our hopes or our happiness?

In the next place, we are assured, by the declaration before us, that no storms will arise in the home of the blessed.

Here they rage

The sea is emphatically the theatre of storms. with their greatest fury, and produce the most marked and terrific results. How frail an object is the stoutest ship, when in the fatal grasp of an ocean tempest! With what speed it is driven before the resistless force of the wind! How easily the billows sport with it, tossing it from wave to wave, as though it were but a feather! The stroke of a single surge makes every timber tremble, and causes the vessel to quiver like an aspen-leaf. I need not describe a storm at sea. Its violence, its awful grandeur and disastrous effects, have oft been told. The piercing, maddened winds; the wild, foaming surges; the lurid lightning, the crashing thunder, the reeling of the ship like a drunken man, the strained and cracking ropes, the bending mast, falling spars, rent and torn sails, the cold mist that fills and darkens the air, the consternation of rapidly-beating hearts, the dread, horrible suspense of the hour,-all these are familiar to the reader. I have read of Christian voyagers who have said that they never knew the full meaning of the apostle's declaration until they had experienced a storm at sea! And not a few, going down into the dark waters, have derived great comfort from the assurance that in the heavenly world there is no more sea. There

serene skies, an unclouded atmosphere and perfect peace, forever reign. The saint, instead of gazing upon a wild waste of waters, is surrounded with the splendors of celestial cities. Instead of the roar of midnight tempests, the music from angelic choirs, and from the worshiping multitude around the throne, thrills his soul.

In heaven there is no sea to furnish a burial-place for the dead. Since the beginning of the world, what vast multitudes have been deposited in the seaman's church-yard! Though no tolling bell has called together sympathizing friends, though no green sod has opened to receive them, and no quiet grove invited them to rest beneath its shadows, yet they have had their funeral services. The winds have sung their requiem, the waves have furnished a winding sheet, and coral monuments mark their resting-places. Generation after generation have sunk in the dark waters, and now wait the summons of the last trumpet-peal. Multitudes more will follow them, and go down to sleep beside them.

Mrs. Hemans has beautifully described a wreck and death at sea, in the following touching words:

All night the booming minute-gun

Had pealed along the deep,
And mournfully the rising sun

Looked o'er the tide-worn steep.

A bark, from India's coral strand,
Before the raging blast,

Had veiled her topsails to the sand,
And bowed her noble mast.

The queenly ship! brave hearts had striven

And true ones died with her!-

We saw her mighty cable riven,

Like floating gossamer.

We saw her proud flag struck that morn,

A star once o'er the seas,

Her anchor gone, her deck uptorn,

And sadder things than these.

We saw the strong man still and low,
A crushed reed thrown aside;

Yet, by that rigid lip and brow,
Not without strife he died.

And near him on the sea-weed lay,—
Till then we had not wept,-

But well our gushing hearts might say,
That there a mother slept!

For her pale arms a babe had pressed,
With such a wreathing grasp,

Billows had dashed o'er that fond breast,

Yet not undone the clasp.

Her very tresses had been flung

To wrap the fair child's form,

Where still then wet, long streamers hung,

All tangled by the storm.

And, beautiful 'midst that wild scene,
Gleamed up the boy's dead face,
Like slumbers trustingly serene,

In melancholy grace.

Deep in her bosom lay his head,
With half-shut violet eye;—
He had known little of her dread,
Naught of her agony!

O, human love, whose yearning heart,
Through all things vainly true,

So stamps upon thy mortal part
Its passionate adieu,

Surely thou hast another lot,

There is some home for thee,

Where thou shalt rest, remembering not

The moaning of the sea!

Yes, there is a home, far above all ocean tempests,—a home where the death-chill from cold waters will never be experienced!

At the appointed hour, the sea shall give up its dead. Coral tombs, and "the giant caverns of the unfathomed ocean," will resign their charge; and this corruption shall put on incorruption, and this mortal be clothed with immortality. Then may the glorified saints, having reached the haven of peace, cast their anchors within the vail, and feel secure from all danger.

"O, for a breeze of heavenly love,

To waft my soul away

To the celestial world above,
Where pleasures ne'er decay!

From rocks of pride on either hand,
From quicksands of despair,
O, guide me safe to Canaan's land,

Through every fatal snare!