VALIANT FOR THE TRUTH.

J. Montgomery.

FIGHT the good fight;-lay hold

Upon eternal life;

Keep but thy shield, be bold,

Stand through the hottest strife; Invincible while in the field,

Thou canst not fail,-unless thou yield.

No force of earth or hell,

Though fiends with men unite, Truth's champion can compel, However press'd, to flight; Invincible upon the field,

He must prevail,-unless he yield.

Apollyon's arm may shower

Darts thick as hail, and hide

Heaven's face, as in the hour

When Christ on Calvary died;

No powers of darkness, in the field,

Can tread thee down,-unless thou yield.

Trust in thy Saviour's might,

Yea, till thy latest breath,
Fight, and like him in fight,
By dying conquer death;

Then rise to glory from the field,
And with thy sword thy spirit yield.

Great words are these, and strong;
Yet, Lord, I look to thee,
To whom alone belong

Valour and victory;

If God be for me in the field,
Whom can I fear? I will not yield;

GOD, THE CHIEF GOOD.

Cowper.

THOU art the source and centre of all minds, Their only point of rest, Eternal Word! From thee departing, they are lost, and rove At random, without honour, hope, or peace: From thee is all that soothes the life of man, His high endeavour, and his glad success, His strength to suffer, and his will to serve.

But O, thou bounteous Giver of all good,

Thou art of all thy gifts thyself the crown!

Give what thou canst, without thee we are poor: And with thee rich, take what thou wilt away.

ON HIS BLINDNESS.

Milton.

WHEN I consider how my light is spent,

Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent, which is death to hide,
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he, returning, chide ;-
Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts; who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his state
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.

NATURE.

John Bedson.

OH! what beauty and perfection
Through the works of nature shine;

Who but must, on calm reflection,
See in all a Power divine.

Every object bears impression
Of his all-creating hand,

From the sun, that cheers creation,
To the smallest grain of sand.

Is there one endow'd with reason,
One who views the earth and sky,
One who marks each change of season,
Can this sacred truth deny?

Air and water, light and darkness,
Every animal and flower,

Do continually bear witness

To His wisdom, love, and power.

Yet the volume of creation

Speaks not to the troubled breast; Tells it not of a foundation,

Where its hopes and fears may rest.

Never have the works of nature

Yet to mortal man revealed,

How his much-offended Maker

May to him be reconciled.

Flower, nor tree, nor rock, nor mountain, Ever yet have show'd the way,

Ever told him of a Fountain

That could wash his guilt away.

Man could never yet discover,

From the sky, the earth, or sea, When his days on earth are over, Where or what his state should be.

But the page of Inspiration

Casts a light upon the whole, Bringing peace and consolation

To the never-dying soul:

Guiding every true believer

To a land of pure delight, Purchased by a dying Saviour,

Far above yon starry height.