line to the point of sight.
Our third figure is a row of square pillars, rece from us at a right angle. From the horizontal side we draw visual rays as usual, and from the front co the diagonal (b): the crossing of this line with the v ray gives a point from which the horizontal (c) and perpendicular (d) are determined.
Whatever proportion the distance between the p bears to their size, must be set off on the dotted lin and diagonals drawn thence to the point of dist Meeting the lower visual ray, they give the perpend (f); a horizontal line at the top, to the last visua gives the size of the second pillar, which may th completed in the same manner as the first, and w ceed similarly with whatever number more we m sketch.
He scarcely floats upon the troubled tide;
And up and down, and up, and down again,
Rising as oft, and rising still in vain,
Each effort brings him nearer to the shore,
But each becomes more feeble than before-
Will he not reach it? Will not one kind wave
Bear him to land and snatch him from a grave!
He would have reach'd it, had not some rash hand
Cast forth an idle pebble from the land—
With aim too sure the fatal missile sped,
And sank the victim in the ocean's bed.
Blame you the hand that did the wanton deed,
And struck the spent bird in his hour of need?
Pause then-for wounded oft and hard bestead,
On path more troubled than the ocean's bed,
Constrain'd to voyage on too rough a day,
Bound for the skies but wounded by the way,
Far from its aim by sin and sorrow borne,
With strength subdued and courage overworn,
Each growing hope by some new sorrow riven,
From each advance to harder efforts driven,
Full many a spirit, struggling with its doom,
Is toiling hard for shelter and a home-
Vainly essaying to put forth his wings,
And rise superior to earth's feeble stings.
Pause then and think, or ere ye idly wound
What sorrow bears already to the ground.
Think, lest the whisper'd wrong, the heartless jest,
The ill-tim'd censure on a heart depress'd,
The hard construction and the trust betrayed,
Cast over sorrow's night a deeper shade.
Too often smitten to resist the shock,
One stroke too much will cleave the solid rock-
And hearts surcharg'd with bitterness before,
Need but a drop to make the cup run o’er.
Spare e'en the rigid and unfeeling word-
'Twas but a pebble sunk the wounded bird.
O YOU who at lighter afflictions repine,
Arrest your complainings and list you to mine-
And you who can sorrow for every toy,
Hear a mother's lament for her poor idiot boy.
Still memory tells of that moment of bliss,
When I press'd on his forehead a mother's first kiss,
When committing the gift to the hand that had given,
A mother's first prayer sought acceptancé in heaven.
I ask'd not for beauty, I ask'd not for wealth-
The prayer was for reason, contentment, and health-
That reflection might temper the fervour of youth,
And his heart be the seat of religion and truth.
My babe he was lovely in infantine charms,
And often, as sweetly he slept on my arms;
O God! I exclaim'd, what delight it will be
To rear him to virtue, to truth, and to thee!
And fondly I waited the moment so dear,
When my baby should part from my arms with a tear,
When his sweet voice should greet me with accents of joy,-
But none were reserved for my poor idiot boy.
When the glittering trinket was held in his sight,
My infant would utter no scream of delight;
When gently compell'd from my bosom to part,
No scream of unwillingness gladden'd my heart.
No look of intelligence lightens his eye-
A wild, vacant stare is his only reply.
Then grant me, O God! 'tis a mother's last prayer,
The solace of death with my infant to share,
No pause of affliction is mine to enjoy,
Till I sleep in the grave of my poor idiot boy.
POOR child of affliction! I heard thee repine,
And my heart beat with 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 mix'd in thy chalice of woe? Has justice unerring the balance resign'd, Or the Father of Mercy forgot to be kind?
Perhaps when you offer'd a mother's first prayer, Omnipotence listen'd and mercy was near— You ask'd 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, of the wrongs that assail,
Thy guidance is feeble, thy efforts might fail.
Ah 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 breath'd o'er thy boy?
And look on that visage, that forehead of snow—
Those eyes where no beams of intelligence glow-
Contemplate those lips, never sever'd to speak,
The unvarying hue of that colourless cheek.
Has wrath or revenge e'er contracted that brow,
Can guilt and 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 on that cheek will be wither'd by care-----
Those soft eyes will 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 at heaven's high nod,
We tremblingly fall at the feet of our God-
Where surrounded by saints and by angels he stands,
And with justice omniscient the reck'ning demands.
While errors unnumber'd we cast at his feet,
While each head shall be bow'd and each bosom shall beat;
Unabash'd, unconfounded, thy poor idiot boy
Shall ask of his Saviour his portion of joy.
Thy child needs no pardon for talents misus'd,
For reason perverted or blessings abus'd-
No duty neglected, no service unpaid,
No precept unheeded, no law disobey'd.
What page in the heavenly record is soil'd
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 offer'd him wrong?
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