If we have words which can be told His troubled heart to calm. For kind words are as honeyed streams, A messenger from God." A gentleman in the north of England was one day riding by rail from Newcastle to Carlisle. While the train stayed at an intermediate station, a little, nicely dressed, very good looking woman got into the same compartment of the carriage. She was followed by a little boy, and also a man who was the worse for drink. The man turned unruly and endeavoured to light his pipe at the flickering taper in the carriage, but finding the glass cover prevented him, he cursed and made himself obnoxiously disagreeable to the other passengers. The little woman blushed every now and again when he said or did wrong. The gentleman talked to him, not thinking to do him any good, but to engage his attention to keep him from doing others harm. He listened becomingly to the friendly appeals of the stranger, and sighed and wept. The train again stopped, and the little woman, boy, and man, all got out. The gentleman wished them an affectionate good bye, with God's blessing, and they parted. But the seed sown by the way side did not fruitlessly fall. It proved as "bread cast upon the waters, to be seen after many days. They met again on life's ocean. They exchanged friendly sentiments, having recognised each other, and talked over their former meeting, and its joyful results. The drunken man on leaving the train had pondered the seasonable words in his heart, had signed the pledge, become a Christian, gladdened the heart of his wife, and redeemed his position. The little boy, who would probably have been trained up to be a drunkard, had been sent to school, and God was blessing them in their basket and in their store, in body and in soul, in the world and in the church. That boy was afterwards apprenticed to the shoe making. He became a Christian and a preacher. Afterwards he became as a minister, much beloved, and very popular. He received a unanimous invitation to a pulpit in one of the largest chapels in Manchester where he is now settled and sways all but an omnipotent influence over his large church. The poor boy that cried bitterly because his father drank, and swore, and ill-used his mother, is now a D. D., and speaks against the drink, and drink traffic, in words of burning power-and in favour of abstinence in sentiments of angel sweetness. Many of his literary works will live right on through the cycles of time till the consummation of all things. This proves what a mighty power a word has for good or evil, directly or indirectly, on millions. History, experience, and revelation, teach how careful we ought to be in using words. There are millions perishing daily for want of a word. Write the solemn truth on your memories, on the tablets of your hearts, in your daily life-walk, at home and abroad-write it on your watch-dial, on your bed-posts, in your lockets, in your loves, in your letters, in your bibles, in your generous deeds and benevolent gifts;Many are lost for want of a word." Lost for want of a word, fallen among thieves, and dying: Priests and Levites passing the place where he is lying. He too faint to call, too far off to be heard ; There are those beside life's highway lost for want of a word. Lost for want of a word, all in the dark night straying, Among the mazes of thought false lights ever betray ing; Oh! that a human voice the murky darkness had stirred, Lost and benighted for ever, lost for want of a word. Lost for want of a word, too high he may be and noble, To be ever checked in his sin, or led to Christ in his trouble : No one boldly and truly to tell him where he has erred, Poor handful of dust and ashes, lost for want of a word. Lost for want of a word, a word that you might have spoken, Who knows what eyes may be dim, what hearts may be aching and broken? Go scatter beside all waters, nor sicken at hope deferred, Let never a soul by your dumbness be lost for want of a word! "KNOWING THEREFORE THE TERRORS OF THE LORD, WE PERSUADE MEN. THE POETS OF POVERTY. No study affords more real enjoyment than that of poets and poetry. In that how richly and luxuriously we can revel. They clothe the sublimest thoughts in the sweetest words. In the poet's car we can soar and ride high above the clouds of difficulty and trouble of this wilderness vale. While the angry elements are agitatedly discharging their fury, we can sit majestically and calmly above and sing-" We'll smile at the storm." When the heart is sad, and the soul troubled, song and sound can fill them with transports of joy. Cheerful melody gives them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning,-and the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness. The true poet makes every thing yield music; they can never be taken from its consecrated haunts. They sing in the midst of suffering and privation-in the palace or in the dungeonwith the spirit crushed, and the heart riven and torn-they have sung of hope, of happiness, and home. How strange that many of those who have suffered the most keenly and intensely have sung the most cheerfully and sweetly. But I shall not attempt to write an essay on poetry. I will only set a few gems for the judgment and encouragement of my readers from a few of those poets who have sung in the midst of obscurity, and in the deepest poverty. My object in this, is to inspire our young men with a love for poetry of such a nature as will inspire them with a more patriotic and sanctified genius to sing and recite for universal good. The heart wants stirring with intense burning sentiment, which will lead to self-denying action for the uplifting of the masses to a higher, social, mental, moral, political, and spiritual position. The roll-call of poets of poverty is both very brilliant and very numerous, but I can only give a few examples: WILLIAM GREEN was born in Ireland, and was brought by his parents, when two years of age, to Newcastle-on-Tyne. On their arrival the parents both fell victims to Asiatic Cholera. The infant William was brought up in the workhouse at Gateshead. He became an episcopal clergyman, and died in Africa, in the 33rd year of his age. He wrote the following lines, and presented them to the writer, when in deep distress: THE TEAR. As when at night ere sol appears Then oft methinks all nature seems The babe that's born in cottage home, |