There are voices in the wind,
Wondrous sweet and strange;
Whispering "Hasten on and find
"What can never change.
"Soon thy present shall be past,
"Soon thy new year, old,
"And its worn-out hours and days,
"Be only memory's hold."

There are voices like to these,
Singing from on high;
Listen while 'tis called to-day,

Ponder how to die!

That old year was sent from heaven,
Thy reprieve to be-

This new year may be thy call
To eternity,

WHY FEAR?

"Why art thou cast down, O my soul? and why art thou disquieted within me?" Psalm xlii. 11.

My soul, O why dismayed?

With sadness why cast down?
Are not thy sorrows to thy God
Entirely known?

Though earth be not thy home,
Ere long thine eyes shall see
Eternal mansions in the skies,
Prepared for thee.

What though thy deadly foes

Be numberless and strong?

Through grace, thou more than conqueror,

Shalt be ere long.

Thy triumph is secur'd,

By everlasting love;

The victor's palm thine hand shalt bear

In heaven above.

What though thy heavenward path,
Lie through a weary land;
Before the throne of God on high
Thou soon shalt stand:

There, all thy sorrows past,

And all thy wanderings o'er;
A crown of glory shall be thine
For evermore.

Soon shalt thou join the throng,
Of saints arrayed in white;
And sing the everlasting song
In realms of light.

A little while, and thou

Shalt know the boundless grace Of Him who gave himself for thee,

And see his face!

Till then rejoice in hope,

Of glory soon to come;

Faint not, but onward urge thy way

To heaven thy home; Through the dark vale of death My destined path may be ;

But death shall soon be swallowed up

In Victory.

TATTLERS.

(From the Mothers' Friend.)

Он, could there in this world be found
Some little spot of happy ground,
Where village preachers might go round,
Without the village tattling!

How doubly blest that place would be,
Where all might dwell in liberty,
Free from the bitter misery

Of gossips' endless prattling.

If such a spot were really known,
Dame Peace might claim it as her own,
And in it she might fix her throne

For ever and for ever;

G.

There like a queen might reign and live,
While every one would soon forgive
The little slights they might receive-
And be offended never.

"Tis mischief-makers that remove

Far from our hearts the warmth of love,
And lead us all to disapprove

What gives another pleasure;

They seemed to take one's part-but when
They've heard our cares, unkindly then
They soon retail them all again,

Mixed with their poisonous measure.
And then they've such a cunning way
Of telling ill-meant tales;-they say,
"Don't mention what I've said, I pray,
I would not tell another."

Straight to your neighbour's house they go,
Narrating everything they know,
And break the peace of high and low,
Wife, husband, friend, and brother.

Oh! that the mischief-making crew
Were all reduced to one or two,
And they were painted red or blue,

That every one might know them!
Then would our villagers forget
To rage and quarrel, fume and fret,
And fall into an angry pet,

With things so much below them.
For 'tis a sad degrading part
To make another's bosom smart,
And plant a dagger in the heart
We ought to love and cherish;
Then let us evermore be found
In quietness with all around,

While friendship, joy, and peace abound,

And angry feelings perish!

F. C. G.

"I WANT TO GO HOME."

(From the Mothers' Friend.)

"I want to go home," saith a weary child,
That has lost its way in straying;

Ye may try in vain to calm its fears,
Or wipe from its eyes the blinding tears,
It looks in your face, still saying,
"I want to go home."

"I want to go home," saith the weary soul,
Ever earnest thus 'tis praying,

It weepeth a tear, heaveth a sigh,
And upward glanceth with streaming eye
To its promised rest, still saying,
"I want to go home."

ENIGMA.*

THE Roman pontiff swelling high
In his imperial pride,

Boasts that upon my second rests,
His power and empire wide.

But we have slaked in crystal streams,

Of Holy Writ our thirst;

And well we know that all his claims,

In truth, are but my first.

My whole, poor abject land! how bright,

Viewed as thy type would be,

If that proud pontiff's withering hand,

Were but withdrawn from thee.

Answers in verse are requested.

R. C.

* Our correspondent informs us that she met with this enigma many years ago in an old book, and ventures to offer it as applicable to the present time.