hem only in trust, and in
helping to bear others' burdens, they will actually, strange to say,
lighten their own.

"'Tis worth a wise man's best of life,
'Tis worth a thousand years of strife,
If thou canst lessen but by one,
The countless ills beneath the sun."

While, on the other hand, can there be a sadder thought for the man
whose earthly course is nearly run, than the thought that there will be
none to rise up after him and call him blessed, but that he will die,
as he has lived, unhonoured, unwept?

If that, then, is not to be our fate, we cannot use too diligently
every opportunity of well-doing which God has placed within our reach;
we cannot live too earnestly, not for ourselves only, but for others:
that from the seeds which we sow now, there may spring up hereafter a
rich and abundant harvest.

III.

_Barzillai was contented_.

Not many men in his position would have refused the king's offer. It
seems rather to be one of the penalties of wealth and greatness, that
their owners cannot rest satisfied with what they have, but are always
desiring more. But Barzillai felt, and felt rightly, that in his
circumstances, the place in which he had been brought up--"_his own
place_"--was the best place for him. He was a home-loving old man, and
the simple interests and pleasures of his daily life had more
attraction for him than the excitements and rivalries of the court.

I do not, of course, mean to say that either here or elsewhere in
Scripture, a wise and healthy ambition is discouraged. It is natural
to wish to get on, if only for the sake of a wider sphere of
usefulness; but let us see to it that we avoid that restless longing
for change, simply for the sake of change, that coveting of positions
for which we are not suited, and which, if gratified, can end only in
disappointment.

"It is a great thing," said one to an ancient philosopher, "to possess
what one wishes." "It is a greater blessing still," was the reply,
"not to desire what one does not possess." And surely, in what we do
possess, in the beauties of nature with which we are here surrounded,
in the love of home and wife and children, in the intercourse with
friends and acquaintance, we have much to make us contented, much, very
much, to be thankful for. "To watch the corn grow, or the blossoms
set; to draw hard breath over ploughshare or spade; to read, to think,
to love, to pray,"--these, says John Ruskin, "are the thing