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I) E C E M HER.

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I) E C E M HER. The dark and drear December days are come, I w I With melancholy whispers of the wind The bees have ceas'd o'er scentless fields to roam, Where honey-bearing flow'rs no more they find E'en when the sun outshines with golden glow, His slanting beams no genial warmth bestow. The feat her'd songsters twitter on the trees, Their musically warbled notes are flown, With leaf and blossom chas'd by wintry breeze, With the bright things that for awhile are gonc- The old and waning year will soon lie low, Wrapp'd in a shroud of newly-fallen snow. And as we wander 'mid the growing gloom, All sorrowfully mourning o'er the change, That chills the heart like looking on a tomb, And the light wings of thought to sadness chains Joy from the soul would vanish with a sigh, Did Hope not gently breathe of new life nigh. Bristol. MARIE, THE COMING BATTLE BETWEEN TRUTH AND ANTICHRIST.—THE ALARM SOUNDED (Suggested by Popish doings in Protestant England and on tlte Continent.) Watchmen, Watchmen, what of the night ? Cometh the clear, the broad day-light; Or is it still the midnight hour ? Still are we in the foemen's power; 0 If so ? Gird up your loins to fight. Although lie should come as an angel of lióht Stand to your arms—true valour show, To meet unnerved the insidious foe. L'lok how his flag flaunteth 'neath the sky, Insulting the majesty 011 high Mark how his speech detracteth the just, Though his, is an arm of flesh-hut dust. Go through the camp—mark every man Willing to fight for the gospel plan And sure as the Great I AM hath said, To victory ye shall be led. Though in battle array is all his strength, Ready in phalanx, breadth and length Pointed his barbs, his bow well strung His missiles many, a syreu's tongue. Take up your shield-your helmet bright, Sharpen your sword,—the sword to fight. Rush on the foe-exterminate, Give no quarter —'tis now too late Babylon falls !—its legions ny List to the groans that pierce the sky Gnashing their teeth, amid the foam Of seas of blood-that sink foul Rome No more shall martyrs' cries be heard Amidst the flames, or by the sword, For God hath heard their long complaints And now avengeth all His saints Canton, Nov. 21, 1857. G. J. HUTCHIXGS.

LITERARY VARIETIES.

-------PONTYPRIDD.