Chapter I: Preface

It is a fact universally allowed, that few authors are so totally indifferent to the stamp which their writings may bear in the minds of the public, as to feel no anxiety concerning their success; and to contemplate with perfect composure, the prospect of a critical analysis of their productions, in which, each blemish is to be exposed to the most rigid censure.

No writer is entirely exempt from this doubtful solicitude--even those who have raised themselves above the quibblings of fire-side commentators, and are only read to be admired, have their moments of fear;--the opinions of the public may change; critics may condemn, and their names may be tarnished by a failure.

SINCE then, those who possess every classical requisite for poetical excellence; who are blessed with time, retirement, and an access to the writings of all nations, and ages; whose minds are cheered in their pursuits, by a solid hope of success, founded on the remembrance of former approbation, cannot altogether confide in their infallibility. It will not be doubted, that a youth, unlettered, and unlearned, who in his first essay has been debarred all those advantages which are considered almost indispensible in the pursuit of literary distinction--should appear before the public with the utmost diffidence; fearful that the pursuit which has given him employment in his midnight hours, and added a zest to his short period of leisure, should reflect discredit upon his authorship.

THE writer of HOURS OF CHILDHOOD, far from enjoying “_Poetic leisure_,” has, from the age of thirteen, filled a situation which requires “the vigorous hand of stedfast application,” and, which has left little time for studious improvement: But his work is to appear on the same stage, with the productions of the man of science; and to be judged by the same tribunal.--These are not happy auspices--yet, he ventures to present this volume to the public, conscious of the many defects which may be discovered in it,--but hoping to reap instruction from its fate. Nor would he deprecate criticism; he wishes only that the sentence bestowed upon it, should, as far as justice will allow, consider the circumstances under which it appears. It has no patron; it goes forth into the world, unprotected, and alone--to stand or fall by its own merits--as a tender parent ushers into the world a beloved child;--sensible of his faults, he cherishes a hope, that it will judge of them with charity; nor crush, by a sentence too severe, the latent seeds of virtue which may spring up to maturity and perfection. The child has been his comfort, in many an hour of sorrow; and fancy, with healing influence, has drawn his growing virtues starting forth into fragrant blossom. For whatever national feeling is expressed in this work, an apology cannot be necessary to a reasonable person, of what country soever: The warm attachment of the author to his _Native Land_, is but the natural feeling of every honest heart,--in that land, the hours of infancy were whiled away under the influence of hope, and fancy; and the delights of that innocent period, are engraven on the tablets of memory, in the lovely hues of youthful imagination. Nor does this laudable partiality cast a reflection upon the same predilection in the natives of other countries; those who feel the true _amor patriæ_ are charmed with the same sentiment in others of whatever nation.

THE smaller pieces are the effusions of the moment written at different times, and are incapable of being altered from their original crudeness.

CONTENTS.

_Page._

Hours of Childhood, 9

A Mother’s Love, 67

Addressed to a Young Lady, 72

Stanza’s, 78

“The Moon’s Pale Ray”, 80

To a Friend, 83

The Alter’d Lay, 86

POEMS.

HOURS OF CHILDHOOD.

There is a solace to the aching breast,
Long worn by care, that sighs for tranquil rest;
Midst toils of day, in slumbers of the night,
Fond memory paints each infantine delight,
Each vanish’d joy that woke the bosom’s glow,
When all look’d gay as heaven’s aerial bow,
And youth, and health, and nature’s charms combin’d,
Shed calm contentment o’er the guileless mind.
The ceaseless waves of time, that swiftly roll
Man’s feeble bark to dark oblivion’s goal,
Sweep harmless o’er the mem’ry of those days,
When childhood tuned its unambitious lays,
And soft-eyed pleasure, in her gay attire,
Woke the wild numbers of the trembling lyre.

II

Bright were the scenes that fancy drew,
And blythe the hours that gaily flew,
In life’s gay morn, when all was new;
And softly, hope her radiance shed,
In happy childhood, round my head,
Deceitful smiled; that angel smile
Was wont my sorrows to beguile,
And every transient cloud of woe,
That dim’d the visions of my eye,
Fled, as the sun’s enliv’ning glow
Chas’d the light vapour from the sky:
And nature, in that halcyon hour,
Claim’d o’er my mind a magic power,
Ope’d to my eye her boundless store,
And bade her vast delights explore,
Her solemn contemplative glades,
Her grottoes cool, her sylvan shades,
Or where she wears no gentle smile,
But frowning wastes her form despoil;--
Midst gloomy haunts and forests drear,
Where silence tires the drowsy ear,
Or where, with stunning sound, the waves
Toss boisterous, when the tempest raves.