Hours of childhood, and other poems

A. Bourne, Lc.

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.


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 influ ence, 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.