Then grant me, O GOD-'tis a mother's last prayer,
The solace of death with her infant to share ;
No pause of affliction 'tis mine to enjoy,
Till I rest in the grave with my poor idiot boy.

THE CONSOLATION.

POOR child of affliction! I heard thee repine,
And my heart beats in sorrow responsive to thine;
And one who has long been a stranger to joy,
Has a tear yet remaining for thee and thy boy.

Yet say, can reflection no comfort bestow?

Is no blessing mixed up in thy chalice of woe?
Has Justice unerring the balance resigned,
And the FATHER of mercies forgot to be kind?

Perhaps when you offered a mother's first prayer,
Omnipotence listened, and Mercy was near.
You asked for contentment, religion, and truth;
For reason to temper the passions of youth.

But think of the storms that must break o'er his head;
Of the snares that encompass the path he must tread;
Of the joys that seduce, the wrongs that assail:
Thy guidance is feeble; thy efforts might fail.

D

Oh! think, had the reason by heaven denied
Been the parent of error, rebellion, and pride:
Would an infidel's wisdom have cost thee no sigh,
More bitter than that thou hast breathed o'er thy boy?

And look on that visage, that forehead of snow,
Those eyes whence no beams of intelligence flow:
Contemplate those lips never severed to speak,
The varying line of that colourless cheek.

Has wrath or revenge e'er contracted that brow?
Can guilt or remorse teach that forehead to glow?
Those sweet lips can never be taught to complain;
No oath can pollute them, no falsehood can stain.

No rose in that cheek can be withered by care;
Those soft eyes can never grow wild with despair;
No restless desire can break his repose;

No hope disappointed his lids can unclose.

Ah! think of the day when we're summoned to rise, To meet our great Judge when He comes from the skies, When surrounded by saints and by angels we stand, To give up the account at His sovereign command.

While errors unnumbered we cast at His feet,
While each head shall be bowed, and each bosom shall

beat;

Unabashed, unconfounded, thy poor idiot boy

Shall ask of his SAVIOUR his portion of joy.

Thy child needs no pardon for talents mis-used;
For reason perverted, or blessings abused;

No duty neglected, no service unpaid,
No precept unheeded, no law disobeyed.

What page in the heavenly record is soiled
With the folly or vice of thy poor idiot child?
Though free to accuse him, what voice in the throng
Can say that thy infant has offered him wrong?

Oh! rather be this, then, a mother's last prayer,
Her infant's blest portion hereafter to share;
And recognize, Oh! with what rapture of joy!
In an angel of heaven thy poor idiot boy!

NIGHTS OF DARKNESS.

SAY, watchman, what of the night?
Do the dews of the morning fall?
Have the orient hues a border of light,
Like the fringe of a funeral pall?

"The night is fast waning on high,

And soon shall the darkness flee;

And the morn shall spread o'er the blushing sky, And bright shall its glories be."

But, watchman, what of the night,

When sorrow and pain are mine;

And the pleasures of life, so sweet and bright,
No longer around me shine?

"That night of sorrow thy soul

May surely prepare to meet;

But away shall the clouds of thy heaviness roll, And the morning of joy be sweet.”

But, watchman, what of the night,

When the arrow of death is sped;

And the grave which no glimmering star can light, Shall be my sleeping bed?

"That night is near; and the cheerless tomb

Shall keep thy body in store,

Till the morn of eternity rise on the gloom,

And night shall be no more."

T. PAGE.

TIMES GO BY TURNS.

THE lopped tree in time may grow again,
Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower ;
The sorriest wight may find release of pain,

The driest soil suck in some moistening shower. Times go by turns, and chances change by course, From foul to fair, from better hap to worse.

The sea of fortune doth not ever flow;

She draws her favours to the lowest ebb; Her tides have equal times to come and go;

Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web.

No joy so great, but runneth to an end;

No hap so hard, but may in fine amend.

Not always fall of leaf, nor ever spring;
No endless night, nor yet eternal day.
The saddest birds a season find to sing;

The roughest storm a calm may soon allay.
Thus with succeeding turns GOD tempereth all,
That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall.

A chance may win that by mischance was lost; That net, that holds no great, takes little fish. In some things all, in all things none are crossed; Few all they need, but none have all they wish. Unmingled joys to no man here befall;

Who least, hath some; who most, hath never all. R. SOUTHWELL, 1560.

THE COMPLAINT.

Он, ever thus, from childhood's hour
I've seen my fondest hopes decay;

I never loved a tree or flower,
But 'twas the first to fade away.