attacks of Satan, in the form of unbelief, or his more concealed stratagem in the form of wiles and deceptive promises ?—Is it no running match? We run for more knowledge of truth; our competitor is the blindness and prejudice of sin. We run for more love to Christ, and our competitor is the love of ease; for more humility, our competitor is pride; for more zeal, our competitor is selfishness; for heaven, our competitor is earth. And have we no course to finish? No faith to keep? when a sense of guilt laughs at and upbraids us? when patience is tried by delay when hope by partial disappointment ?

What a scene! the Christian saint on his dying bed! He feels that he is dying, there is no anxiety for the present time; and now his memory exerts herself. He lives over again the hours of tears for pardon; sees again the dark circle which then encompassed him-his joy at the first breaking in of light-his staggering self-debates-his self-suspicion and its gloom,-when here and there, above, below, and within, he found enemies diverting his attention, pinning him into activity, thrusting him aside these, all these pass along. They have, by the interest they excited, stolen upon him as if they were realities; but he again awakes, he finds it is a dream, he thanks God, he exclaims, "I have fought all"—he dies.

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And let us not forget the implied decision in the term he uses, a good fight." He regrets not one struggle, for the result is glorious; he has no condemning, no accusing conscience for it; it was "a wrestling with spiritual wickedness,"

This is not St. Paul's boast, as if he could claim the credit of his prowess in the field, or of his fleetness and perseverance in the course, or of his tenacious fidelity to his Master. To harmonize with his other avowals, he must attribute all this strength, and speed, and constancy, to the Divine bestowal.

"By the grace of God I am what I am;” “I can do all things through Christ strengthening me;" "We have the treasure in earthen vessels, that the excellency of the power may be of God, and not of us, will all show that with the Christian apostle's and the Christian believer's shout of conquest, there must be also the devout thanksgiving-" Thanks be to God who giveth us the victory, through our Lord Jesus Christ."

Such are the reflections suggested by my friend's death and triumph. But I would not forget that his previous life was eminently holy. He was "ever looking for and hasting unto the coming" of his Lord. Would I have such as his to be my last scene, -to have the same quiet of heart, the same submissiveness, the same exultation,-let me be "a follower of him as he was of Christ."

CONSOLATION.

BY THE REV. THOMAS DALE, A. M.

"WE SORROW NOT AS OTHERS WHICH HAVE NO HOPE."-1 Thess. iv. 13.

THE loved, but not the lost!

Oh, no! they have not ceased to be,
Nor live alone in memory;

'Tis we, who still are tossed

O'er life's wild sea, tis we who die : They only live, whose life is immortality.

The loved, but not the lost,

Why should our ceaseless tears be shed
O'er the cold turf that wraps the dead,

As if their names were crossed

From out the Book of Life? Ah no!
Tis we who scarcely live, that linger still below.

The loved, but not the lost!
In heaven's own panoply arrayed,
They met the conflict undismayed;
They counted well the cost

Of battle-now their crown is won;

Our sword is scarce unsheathed, our warfare just begun.

Have they not passed away
From all that dims the tearful eye;

From all that wakes the ceaseless sigh:

Nor all the pangs that prey

On the bereaved heart, and most

When conscience dares not say, "the loved, but not the lost?

This is the wo of woes!

The one o'er-mastering agony;

To watch the sleep of those who die,

And feel 'tis not repose,

But they, who join the heavenly host,

Why should we mourn for them, the loved, but not the lost?

The spirit was but born,

The soul unfettered, when they fled
From earth, the living, not the dead,

Then wherefore should we mourn?

WE, the wave-driven, the tempest-tossed,

When shall we be with them, the loved, but not the lost?

THE MILLENNIUM.

BY THE REV. WILLIAM SWAN,

MISSIONARY IN SIBERIA.

PHILOSOPHY, so vain elsewhere,
Has now become "divine,"

And Science wears Religion's smile,
That erst assailed her shrine.

The battle-ship is freighted now
With rich ripe fruits of peace,
"Concord" the emblem on her prow,
For wars are made to cease.

The fort and castellated tower

Are crumbled down to dust; Or changed by art's ingenious power, To dwellings of the just.

Slavery now has ceased to wave

Her whip bedewed with blood, Nor finds the African a grave Beyond the western flood.

The living raise their anthems high, And know their sins forgiven;

And death becomes to them that die

The opened gate of heaven.