Chosen not for good in me,

Wakened up from wrath to flee,
Hidden in the Saviour's side,
By the Spirit sanctified,

Teach me, Lord, on earth to show,
By my love, how much I owe.

Oft I walk beneath the cloud,
Dark as midnight's gloomy shroud;
But, when fear is at the height,
Jesus comes, and all is light;

Blessed Jesus! bid me show
Doubting saints how much I owe.

When in flowery paths I tread,
Oft by sin I'm captive led;

Oft I fall-but still arise

The Spirit comes-the tempter flies;
Blessed Spirit! bid me show
Weary sinners all I owe.

Oft the nights of sorrow reign—
Weeping, sickness, sighing, pain;
But a night thine anger burns—
Morning comes and joy returns!
God of comforts! bid me show
To thy poor, how much I owe.

GIDEON'S WAR-SOLE.

DAV D VEDDER.

OH! Israel, thy hills are resounding,
The cheeks of thy warriors are pale;
For the trumpets of Midian are sounding,
His legions are closing their mail,
His battle-steeds prancing and bounding,
His veterans whetting their steel!

His standard in haughtiness streaming,
Above his encampment appears;
An ominous radiance is gleaming,
Around from his forest of spears:

The eyes of our maidens are beaming,—
But, ah! they are beaming through tears;

Our matron survivors are weeping,

Their suckling a prey to the sword; The blood of our martyrs is steeping

The fanes where their fathers adored; The foe and the alien are reaping

Fields,-vineyards,-the gift of the Lord!

Our country! shall Midian enslave her,

With the blood of the brave in our veins?
Shall we couch to the tyrant forever,

Whilst manhood-existence-remains?

Shall we fawn on the despot? Oh, never!-
Like freemen, unrivet your chains!

Like locusts our foes are before us,
Encamped in the valley below;
The sabre must freedom restore us,

The spear, and the shaft, and the bow;-
The banners of Heaven wave o'er us,-
Rush!-rush like a flood on the foe!

IMPORT AUCE OF EARLY PIETY.

THOMAS BLACKLOCK, D. D

(Dr. Blacklock was blind from infancy.)

IN life's gay morn, when sprightly youth

With vital ardor glows,

And shines in all the fairest charms

Which beauty can disclose;

Deep on thy soul, before its pow'rs

Are yet by vice enslav'd,

Be thy Creator's glorious name

And character engrav'd.

For soon the shades of grief shall cloud
The sunshine of thy days;

And cares, and toils, in endless round
Encompass all thy ways.

Soon shall thy heart the woes of age
In mournful groans deplore,

And sadly muse on former joys,
That now return no more.

THE HOUSE OF YOUR UĮ UG.

REV. WM. CAMERON,

WHILE others crowd the house of mirth,

And haunt the gaudy show,

Let such as would with Wisdom dwell,
Frequent the house of woe.

Better to weep with those who weep,
And share the afflicted's smart,
Than mix with fools in giddy joys

That cheat and wound the heart.

When virtuous sorrow clouds the face,

And tears bedim the eye,

The soul is led to solemn thought,

And wafted to the sky.

The wise in heart revisit oft
Grief's dark sequester'd cell;
And thoughtless still with levity
And mirth delight to dwell.

The noisy laughter of the fool
Is like the crackling sound

Of blazing thorns, which quickly fall
In ashes to the ground.

SHOKĮ UG SPIRITUAL I ZE D.

PART I.

THIS Indian weed, now wither'd quite,

Though green at noon, cut down at night,

Shows thy decay;

All flesh is hay.

Thus think, and smoke tobacco.