From ths ". '. Sunday Mercury. SHORT PATENT SERMON.
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 man. will compose my text for this occasion Give me the boon of love! a Feme's trumpet strains depart; h But loves sweet Eute hreathes melody That fingers in the heart; And the scroll of fame will burn When sea and earth consume, fl but the rose of love in happier sphere, Will live in doathless bloom

 My hearers-pure love, love without licen-

 tiousnesS or sensuality, is manufactured by

 the angels in heaven expressly for this ter

 restiaI market. It is glorious thing for US

 that friendly intercourse is still maintain ed in relation to this indispensable commod-

 ity; for, without love, we should be as mo-

 rose and miserable as an old maid. Itkeep. the heart moist with the genial dews of aflec- tion-renders soft and pliable tho putty of pity-and calls up spirits of compassion from the vasty deep of human selfishness. - know there are some, who prefer fame to love-who had rather plunge headlong into perdition with the worlds applause, than push for paradise alone and unnoticed. But, my friends. why should they make fever in the brain and set their blood boiling for the sake of gaining wreath whose green leaves shall not decorate a withered brow, and wave above bosom barren in peace and comfort! Give me the boon of love! Ihad much rather 'lay off and bask in the warm sunshine of affection, than be led by crazy ambition to the top of the mountain, where cold winds rave and everlasting snows en- compass. Oh, I had rather lean upon a breast that beats responsive to mine, and feast upon kisses than sit pavillioned upon kjngly throne, and be pricked by the pins of care, an object of fear and favor but not of love-

 My friends - renown is but a hollow sound that echoes through the silent halls of death, where it dies away, and is heard no more. The path of fame is dreary and dangerous one-now leading through a gloomy vale of disappointment, and now bordering on precipices and dangerous cEasms, down which one may tumble ere he is aware of it, and break himself into so many pieces, that while one eye was hunt iLg after his nose, the other could go to sleep for an hour and wake up in time to see it proportionately adjusted. One single wild flower plucked from the path of love no matter how lowly or humbe it may be- looks prettier and smells sweeter than the brightest blossoms that ambition may cull from the hot house of fame. There is as much difference between tho two, as there is between toadstool and the handsomest hollyhocks that grow spontaneous upon the OAtShbtS OI ucdNCIs OlIS luCu EtN6 tIIC tUC boon of love The will-o'.wisp of fame rescent EEs-w amid the fogs of doubt and un. certainty; but the light cf love is near and cheering. It gradually warns person all over from one extremity to the other-thaws out feelings of tenderness that have lain congealed in long winter of misanthropy and, every now and then, drops new SnnFK tho ipIo or h se Aonfynnc 0no tender glance from the bright eye of beau- ty, in cold day, will throw caloric enough into the soul to keep the body warm for a week; and our InerHIOuue+e~s ef joy and pleasure will stand upon an average at fe- yer heat But the flame of glory, my friends, burns fitfully and scorchingly for few moments, upon the funeral pyre of mans happiness, and then leaves him surrounded by the midnight darkness of the tombs.

 My dear friends,-give mo but the boon of love, and will ask no other. There is no more music in the wild, harsh, trumpet strains of fame, there is in a woman's whis- fling. They resound for awhile over moun- tain and pl lin. rousing toads, Hazards and loafers, to peep from their holes in wonder and aston ishment-and then they depart fo- rever; but the soft sweet lute of love breathes heaven-b born melody, that fingers in the bo- som when bereft of all other enjoyment, and causes the heart strings to vibrate with jov, even at the door of the tomb. When the snows of age shall settle upon us, and life's landscape looks sad and dreary-when the sounds of mirth and jollity have ceased to please-the recollection of loves early mu- sic will awaken such pleasing echoes in our bosoms as shall oft cause us to forget that we are ola and are not able to properly ap- vWonsaNn xx,hoA 10 1,seh1xz oA

 Though the winter of onr existence shall have set in upon us. and the trees of our youth shall have been stripped of their verdure, the leaves of love will start forth anew in the warm sun of memory and they will flourish for short time as fresh and fair as though they were not soon to be destroyed by the frosts of forgetfulness

 My hearers-seek not for fame. It's scroll will he burnt to ashes, when the dust Of vour bodies shall mingle with it's original dust; but seek for love-for that ahideth ferever. When this world of ours shall be shipwrecked upon the unknown shores of eternity-when combustion shalltake place, and all things perish amid the sinful wreck of matter-love, immortal love. shall Pho- nix-like rise from her own ashes and wing her way to those realms of glory, where honor has no seal-where fame is stript of her laurels-and where the steam of ambi- ton is blown of forever. Look for the rose of love, my friends, in the garden of virtue. Pluck it-plant it in your bosoms-water it with the tears of affection-and it will never fade. It's perfume will never be exhausted tits leaves will never fall-aDd not a petal will wither. It will continue in deathless bloom through the countless ages of eterni- ty, in a better sphere than this: that is to say, if it is never exposed 10 the storms of neglect. nor wilted before the burning blaze of dissipation. So mote it be!