His lovely blue eyes never wander'd around
To seek for his mother, or greet her when found;
These promis'd delights were not mine to enjoy-
All arms were alike to my poor idiot boy.

His accent was plaintive, distressful, and weak,
No tear of emotion e'er stole on his cheek-
Nor frown ever sate on his forehead of snow,
Nor flush of desire was traced on his brow.

The first year, the second, my grief was beguil'd
With the fond hope that reason would dawn on my child;
But hope is no longer-for seven sad years

He has lain on my bosom, bedew'd with my tears.

In vain I caress him and lure him to speak,

He feels not the warm tear that falls on his cheek:
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.

THE CONSOLATION.

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?

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

HYMN AT CONFIRMATION.

O THOU, whose hallow'd bosom, urg'd
By pity so divine,

Endur'd the bitterness of death

For sins that were not thine.

O thou, who now in heaven above,
By tender pity mov'd,

Still deign'st to listen to the prayers
Of them whom thou hast lov'd.

With brow abased, and tearful eye,
Thy helping grace we crave,
Thus early to devote to thee
All that we are and have.

Though all we are is stain'd with sin,
And forfeit to the grave-

And all we have is e'en no more
Than what thy bounty gave:

Unworthy e'en to pick the crumbs
That fall from off thy board,
We offer up our hearts to thee,
Our Saviour and our Lord.

Pledg'd to thy service, we renounce
The vain world's sinful joys-
As they who grow to man's estate
Forsake the childhood's toys.

Oh! deign in mercy to accept
The most unworthy boon-
And help us that we henceforth live
As thine and not our own.

SONG.

For the Tune of " When thou shalt wander,” in the National Melodies.
AH! tell me not of sunny glades,

Where stranger flowers are blooming fair-
Where the bulbul lurks in hazel shades,

Το pour his song on the midnight air.

No spot on earth to me so kind,

So dear as the scenes I left behind.

Each note of joy the breezes bear
Awakens the thought of distant home-
And if I look on the primrose pale,
Or bid the rose on my bosom bloom,
"Tis but think how fair they grew

In the home 'my happy childhood knew.

'Twas there I pass'd my morning hours,
Or ere my sun was clouded o'er-
And there I drank of hope's bright cup,
That emptied once, is fill'd no more.
Nor days for me can more be proved

Like those I pass'd in the home I lov’d.

REVIEW OF CHILDREN'S BOOKS,

AND

NOTICES OF NEW PUBLICATIONS.

Letters from Spain. By Don Leucadio Doblado. London, Henry Colburn and Co.

HAVING taken up this amusing work with the intention of making a few extracts from it, we felt inclined as we proceeded to recommend it altogether to the perusal of our young friends. It is extremely amusing for persons of any age; and if, as we have no reason to doubt, it is a just representation of the scenes and habits it so strikingly pictures, it is decidedly worth the reading.

The state of that unhappy country is now a subject of frequent conversation, and consequently of general interest.

We must own this work leaves us under a strong impression of the hopelessness of her situation, while bound with the fetters of such a religion as is here depicted. Indeed, though other habits and circumstances are occasionally introduced, the purport of the book is evidently to set before us the Roman Catholic superstitions, not in abstract doctrines, and controverted creeds, but in action upon the welfare and happiness of society, in its individual and domestic influence. Nor have we any where read such simple and heart-affecting portraits of its miseries, with the imposing splendours that conceal them. It is on this account we principally recommend it to the perusal of young people. They are apt to think a difference of religion is but a difference of opinion, in which neither our present happiness nor our future safety is materially concerned. The horrors of Popery being long since forgotten in our own country, we are less sensible than we ought to be of our happiness in the exchange, and too little anxious to preserve it. We do not believe, as Protestants, that a Papist has no possibility of happiness hereafter: and therefore we do not feel the full misery of the ignorance, superstition, and slavery of opinion, that inthrals a Catholic people; nor the perversion of feeling, the immorality and even infidelity to which it tends. What a Catholic thinks we are often told, and perhaps it may not be very essential to our young readers to know. But we have here a lively picture of what a Catholic acts and feels, that may be useful and amusing to them.

We perceive a degree of lightness in the manner in which our author speaks upon religious subjects. But while it is painful to the feelings of those who justly attach a degree of solemnity to the subject, even where the perversions of it are truly ludicrous, we can well understand it as the result of the utter disgust and contempt a man