KIRKE White, he can with truth make use of his own
expressive words :--
For me the day
Hath duties which require the vigorous hand
Of steadfast 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; they cannot steal my night!
It has been chiefly in the night season that the Au.. thor has taken from the hours allotted to repose, and amused himself with the composition of these Poemsthus "lengtbening his days by stealing a few hours from the night;" and it will be allowed, he trusts, as some palliation for any carelessness or undue haste that may le discerned in them, that to the performance he has generally not brought a mind as free from the ordinary thoughts of every-day life, as is required for that play, of fancy or of feeling, of which a candidate for Poetical honours ought always to be in possession ; this also must be tris excuse for the general sombre and melancholy, tone which pervades most of his Poetry; which, it has derived its gloomy hue from the surrounding darkness and solitude which have invariably attended these midnight musings.
The Author feels that another charge may be brought against him-namely, that in a Work written by a Demerarian, composed and published in the Colony, {bore is not one Poem which possesses the charm of
The Sun his early ray has shed
Upon the mountain's peaked head
The cloud which rested there thro' night
Receives his faint, imperfect light,
As dubious on the peak to stay,
Or yield before the new-born ray
That struggles with that misty cloud,
And longs to pierce its gloomy, shroud.
The lark begins her carol clear,
That now salutes the peasant's ear,
As early to his daily toil
He treads the dew-drop spangled soil.
The forest trees, in stately pride,
With verdant leaves, and branches wide,
That shelter yield throughout the day
To pilgrim faint, or shepherd gray,
Refuse one withered leaf to spare,
So faint the wind that fans the air,
No sound along the vale is heard
The ocean is by winds unstirred
Not even get the hunter's born
Upon the morning breeze is borne.
The gentle murmur of the stream
That glides like pleasure in a dream,
Cau scarce be said the calm to break
That reigns o'er mountain, wood, and lake.
'Tis not the silent transient calm
That brings the twilight hour's balm,
When sunlight the horizon gilds,
And palaces and castles builds
Of clouds, on which the setting rays
Pour the full splendour of their blaze
When man, his daily labour done,
His course of busy warfare run,
Feels the soft influence of the hour
Fall on his heart with holy pow'r,
And for a while his spirit knows
A transient feeling of repose.
'Tis not the silence calm and deep,
When Nature's works are hushed asleep,
When the pale moon with hazy ray
O’er mighty forests loves to play,
And pierce the darkness and the gloom
That dwell within their leafy tomb;
Or when she gives her pallid beam
To dance upon the flowing stream,
Whose infant waves still ripple on
And tremble 'neath her influence wan-
And thus in beauty sheds around
The mingled joy of light and sound;
The dew-drops sparkle in her light,
The clouds confess her reign by night,
As flitting o'er her virgin orb, Their ficecy skirts her rays absorb~ And man her still, her soft control Owns in each feeling of his soul. It is the hour when manhood deems That once again his early dreams Return in all the pomp they wore In all the loveliness of yoreEre life's dark storms, its clouds and tears, Had dimmed the glory of his years— Ere thoughts of sorrow, or of crime, Were blended with his hopes sublime. And Love, thine hour' is surely thisOh what were all the world's best bliss, Its deepest joy, its dearest thrill, Which can attract man's spirit still, (They ever have, they ever will) If Love gave not his gladsome hue To what with ardour we pursue. And what were Love's even dearest hour Without the moonlight's gentle power? Her peaceful lustre seems to bring The feelings that from true love springAffection seems to blossom best When Earth's dim sorrows are at restAnd Love seems brightest when the night Has veiled the earth from day's rich light; The lover owns the gentle sway
Cau scarce be said the calm to break
That reigns o'er mountain, wood, and lake.
'Tis not the silent transient calm
That brings the twilight hour's balm,
When sunlight the horizon gilds,
And palaces and castles builds
Of clouds, on which the setting rays
Pour the full splendour of their blaze-
When man, his daily labour done,
His course of busy warfare run,
Feels the soft influence of the hour
Fall on his heart with holy pow'r,
And for a while his spirit knows
A transient feeling of repose.
'Tis not the silence calm and deep,
When Nature's works are hushed asleep,
When the pale moon with hazy ray
O’er enighty forests loves to play,
And pierce the darkness and the gloom
That dwell within their leafy tomb;
Or when she gives her pallid beam
To dance upon the flowing stream,
Whose infant waves still ripple on
And tremble 'neath her influence wan-
And thus in beauty sheds around
The mingled joy of light and sound;
The dew-drops sparkle in her light,
The clouds confess her reign by night,
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