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Title: Hours of childhood and other poems Author: Anonymous Release Date: January 28, 2021 [eBook #64408] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 Produced by: Charlene Taylor, Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HOURS OF CHILDHOOD AND OTHER POEMS *** Hours OF Childhood AND OTHER POEMS Montreal PUBLISHED BY A. BOWMAN AUGUST 1820. A. Bourne, Lc. {i} HOURS OF CHILDHOOD, AND OTHER POEMS. For me the day Hath duties which require the vigorous hand Of stedfast application, but which leave No deep improving trace upon the mind. But be the day another’s;—let it pass! The night’s my own!— Kirke White. MONTREAL: PUBLISHED BY A. BOWMAN. ........ 1820. {ii} {iii} 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. {iv} {v} {vi} {vii} 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 {viii} {9} 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. III {10} {11} {12} And fancy, oft, would guide my feet To glooms, where sleepless spirits wander’d, Or lonely vales, retirement sweet, Where some lorn stream its course meander’d. Oft, in some deep untrodden dell, Where Eremite might build his cell, Remote from all the ills that wait The pompous equipage of state; To human steps so much unknown, Ev’n thought might find herself alone; Nought on her silence to intrude, Or break her much lov’d solitude.— Imagination’s forceful power, Would charm away the passing hour; And fondly picture scenes of old, By hoary matron’s legend told, In number’s mystic, strange, and wild, To soothe me, when a froward child; Of ravening giant of the wold, Of ladie fair, and gallant bold; And grey hair’d minstrel, blythe and old; Of martial lists, of daring deeds, Of nodding plumes, and prancing steeds; Of knight caparison’d in arms, To combat for a damsel’s charms: Or still, the more replete with fear, The story whisper’d in the ear, Lest angry fiend, perchance, might hear, Of wither’d hag, or wandring sprite, Who roam the unhallow’d hour of night, Or form more gay, of Fairy light, Who, when the moon’s soft ray is glancing On the flowery green, is dancing In many an airy roundelay;— Vanishing ere dawn of day. IV {13} {14} Ah! in life’s morn, the trusting soul Is calm;—the hours unheeded roll; No passions urge their fierce controul. Then, not a wish was unsupplied, For scarce a boon had I to crave, Save those, which in the heart abide, And those indulgent nature gave. Upon the blossom of my cheek, The rose bud’s hue was wont to speak The calmest sunshine of the heart, That health and happiness impart: Free, as the mountain breeze, was I! That sweeps the light cloud o’er the sky; Unknown a foretaste of the woes,— Companions of man’s ripening years,— That bar the eyelids from repose, And wash them with untimely tears. I knew not, then, the brow o’ercast By gloomy thought, or sullen care, I brooded o’er no pleasures past; The future, all look’d bright and fair: An undefined, elysian dream, Illum’d by hope’s deceitful beam. That hope has past!—its early ray No more irradiates my way.— V How wildly swells the craggy height! Whence the rough torrent, rushing bright, In morning’s gay reflected beams, A sheet of burnished silver seems; With bickering wave, and foaming spray In columns rising to the day; While, midst the far resounding roar The dark plumed eagles proudly soar; Commingling, with the discord rude That wakes the mountain solitude, Their rustling pinion’s heavy sound; Their bodeing, and terrific scream;— Re-echoing o’er the cliff profound; Startling the owlet from his dream, Where, in the darkest wood, supreme In sullen loneliness, he sits, Mutt’ring his moody tones by fits; Till evening spreads her shadow dun, And, ’neath the western hill, the sun Has sunk, his daily circle run. Then, to some distant turret’s height, He speeds his melancholy flight, To mope, unseen, the livelong night. VI {15} {16} {17} Where every sense, in tumult drown’d, Yields to the mighty torrent’s sound, I loved in thoughtfulness to roam;— Where the swift cataract, white with foam, Rush’d down the steep, in tumult rude, To muse in contemplative mood; To dwell, upon the mountain’s brow, O’er the soft scenes that spread below. Ah! there are those, who senseless, scorn Each joy of lovely nature born! Nor listen to her angel voice. Too sadly erring in their choice, They fly the unfrequented shade, The bower, for contemplation made; And seek in concourse, noise, and strife, Those calmer joys of human life Which only in retirement dwell, Remote from folly’s wild’ring spell. There is a music in the sound, That swells the eddying stream around; A boldness in the torrent’s flood; A calmness in the waving wood; A softness in the verdant vale Where fragrant flowers their balm exhale; That fills the bosom with delight, And charms the child of nature’s sight. VII I loved to stand upon the rock, Sear’d many an age by thunder’s shock, And mark the boiling flood beneath Toss its wild foam, in many a wreath; And count each bubble, as it rose, Like joy’s bright gem, midst seas of woes; Whelm’d, instant, in the rushing tide;— Too vain and empty to abide. So rise, upon life’s flowing stream, The gay, who shine in folly’s beam:— They glitter bright their little hour, The shallow tools of transient power. Then, like the bubble on the wave, They sink beneath the pow’r that gave Their fleeting splendour; by the frown Of tyrants hurl’d from grandeur down. VIII {18} {19} {20} Oft, on the mountain’s highest peak, Round which rude peals of thunder break,— When tempests from on high are hurl’d,— I’ve stood, and mark’d, beneath unfurl’d, The varied charms of nature’s face; Where, undisturb’d, my eye could trace Each winding brook, each rushing stream, Each charm that wakes in fancy’s dream; The ocean’s measureless expanse, On whose calm breast bright shadows glance; Unruffled, pure, and peaceful, save Where zephyrs fan its sleeping wave. There, breaking thro’ its endless blue, Soft rise the isles of verdant hue, Where heavenly habitants might rest, And sanctify earth’s lovely breast. And fancy oft would paint, (among Their verdant bowers, where wild bird’s song Enliven’d, with its melody, The tranquil scene; which well might vie With nature’s fairest, loveliest spot,) The blest, and undisturbed lot, With some congenial, tender breast, To seek retirement, peace, and rest, And bid to folly’s train adieu, For verdant isle, in ocean blue. IX Or stretched, in undulating maze, To tire with charms the wandering gaze, The landscape bright before me lays:— The valley, hill abrupt, and steep, Sequester’d dell, remote and deep; The rustling fields of golden corn, Emblazon’d by the beams of morn; The hamlet’s cluster’d form, where rest, With health, and peace, the simply blest; Where reigns, (by heaven auspicious lent,) Joy’s purest spirit, calm content; Enlivening every rustic eye, That beams with self-taught sympathy. Blest with each joy these scenes impart, Which soothe, yet not corrupt the heart; Unversed in manners of the crowd, The falsly gay, the meanly proud, Who scoff at peasant joys aloud; Unversed in fashion’s mystic lore; Untaught to crave another’s store; They peaceful live, and calmly die, Embosom’d in tranquillity. X {21} {22} {23} The waving forest’s wide domain, Beyond the lawn, my vision greets. There, every verdure softly meets;— The towering pine’s deep em’rald stain; The willow’s light and cheerful green; The beach, in yellow foilage drest; The poplar’s dark and shining vest, Its leaves, in every breath that quiver, And in the cool air seem to shiver; Each bright variety of hue There strikes upon th’ admiring view. Through its dark groves’ refreshing shade, The wild breeze hollow murmurs made; Its bosom heav’d with gentle motion, Like the softly troubled ocean; Beneath that forest’s sombre shade, Oft have my vagrant footsteps stray’d, Oft have I paus’d, its depths among, To breathe a light and artless song; Oft paus’d amidst its gloomy haunts, Where nature’s wildest livery flaunts, To heave the sigh that childhood grants, When crowds of wishes, undefined, Steal on the uninstructed mind.— XI Why did I sigh? I knew not, yet, A semblance even of regret; Why did I sigh? was it, because Nature’s fair bloom would soon decay? The fountain’s stream would know a pause, The forest’s foilage fade away, Each fairy vale, each verdant meadow, Would pass, like morning’s fleeting shadow? Ah no! that gloomy hour was fraught With all the luxury of thought;— A willing gloom, a painful pleasure, Play’d o’er my heart in rapt’rous measure; ’Twas poesy’s spirit swell’d my soul, And bade, on fancy’s golden pinions, Airy thoughts, extatic, roll O’er the mind’s unchain’d dominions. XII {24} {25} {26} ’Twas meditation’s hallowed ground! And soft she shed her influence round: O’er many a forest flower I stray’d, That bloom’d beneath the dark oak’s shade, And yielded sweet its wild perfume, Shrouded in uncongenial gloom,— And birds, from soft melodious throats, To gentle echo sung their notes. XIII Upon the wild stream’s shadowy brink, ’Tis sweet, alone to stand, and think;— In riper years it claims a sigh, A sigh, the bosom cannot stifle, That as the current rushes by, Rending each flower that blossoms nigh, So time our early joys will rifle. Delights, that gild our dawn of day, Like the swift stream, will pass away; Each image, in life’s early dream, Dissolves, ere manhood’s stronger beam Lights the true pathway of our fate, Or shows how vain, (but ah too late!) Was the fair future fancy gave; Vain as the streamlet’s gliding wave, That sparkles but a moment’s space, Then fades, nor leaves one single trace Of where, or what it was before,— Lost in the billow’s ceaseless roar! We gaze, and as the river flows, Life’s varying course its passage shows; Now, swell’d by headlong mountain streams; “Now, softly murmuring calm and slow, Far off its waveless mirror gleams, “(And heaven’s own shadow spreads below) Amid the ever blooming grove, “Like future joy thro’ hope’s false beams: They fickle, frail, and worthless prove! Each hour that owns bright pleasure’s sway; The fire of genius; fancy’s ray; Love’s cheating power, and ardent flame, All! all! save friendship’s sacred name, Upon the torrent wave of time, Flee, with our manhood’s fleeting prime; And leave, alone, the sullen gloom Of spirits, journeying to the tomb; Save, that, tho’ faint her light is beaming, Hope still upon the soul is gleaming! Points, thro’ misfortune’s darkest shade, To brighter joys, that never fade;— Not vivid, as in life’s gay morning “She danc’d in nature’s lovely bowers; Not falsely, as in youth adorning {27} {28} {29} With promis’d ecstacy the hours! But calm, unclouded, firm, and pure; Tho’ dim her beams, their guidance sure.— So on the last resounding wave, That speeds to an unfathom’d grave, The sunbeam sheds its brilliant ray; On each bright drop its glimm’rings play; It fades in radiant beams of day: Whelm’d in the ocean’s bosom deep, The silent waves unconscious sleep;— Unconscious, that they once had swept Along the soil, where genius slept; Or bounded o’er the rocky height, Swell’d into rage by tempest’s might; Or, that their waters once had laved A land that ne’er might be enslaved; By patriot arm in peril sav’d, Ev’n as unconscious as the clay, That wraps our remnants of decay, When to the joyless sea of age Recedes the stream of youthful rage.— XIV Hark! from the village, distant far Re-echoed, varied discords jar; The busy hum, the social din, That welcome gentle twilight in, Come swelling, from the vale below, Up the lone mountain’s craggy side; Sweeping “in solemn tones and slow,” Round the broad summit’s crested pride: Gently o’er the water dashing, Where the silver waves are flashing Beneath the rays of yellow light, That mark the near approach of night. How lovely is the placid hour! How soft and tranquil is its power, Ere the sun’s last faint tints have faded, While yet the tender radiance lingers, In heaven’s softest colours shaded, By gentle twilight’s fairy fingers.— The swain from healthful labour turns His lingering steps, as, dimly burns, Upon yon western summit’s height, Sol’s latest beams of golden light, To the dear cot where labors cease, And kind endearments whisper peace. Around their smiling father’s knee, In unassum’d and heartfelt glee, The troop of little urchins press, And clamour for his fond caress. Nor slighted is the dame’s embrace, Proud of her simple, virtuous race.— {30} {31} {32} {33} XV Soft smiling, in the burnish’d west, Where Phoebus’ orb has sunk to rest, Shines heavenly Venus’s goddess light, (Propitious beam to lovers sight:) Thick starry throngs pervade the skies, And, on the gentle water lies The semblance of the lovely heaven, Drest in the hues of comeing even’; And, as the Zephyr stirs the breast On which the starry myriads rest, The mighty band, in tumult tost, Now glimmer, now they fade away; In seeming, wild confusion lost, Like glitt’ring spears in mortal fray. Then, as the semblance struck my eye. Came the long tale across my mind, Of conq’ring hosts, and victory, That proud ambition’s votries blind To evils reason can descry. XVI Or upland, from the ocean’s surge, I turn’d my eye, the landscape’s verge (As twilight’s lovely hour come on, And faint along the horizon, Bland nature’s soft, and tender dye, Seemed mingling with the hues of sky,) “Was drest in softest livery. When all around was sweet and still, Its distant note the Whip-poor-will Sigh’d on the zephyr’s airy sail, That softly swept along the vale, And o’er the stream, in magic swell, The echo fondly loved to dwell; As if, beneath its chrystal wave, It sought a calm and tranquil grave; ’Till wak’d, the softly solemn strain Renew’d its music wild again, And echo, still, the note repeated, And vale, and hill, its numbers greeted. XVII {33} {34} {35}