WILLIAM BENNET.
William Bennet was born on the 29th September, 1802, in the parish of Glencairn, and county of Dumfries. He first wrote verses while apprenticed to a mechanic in a neighbouring parish. In his nineteenth year he published a volume of poems, which excited some attention, and led to his connexion with the newspaper press. He became a regular contributor to the Dumfries Courier, edited by the ingenious John M'Diarmid; and in 1825 and the following year conducted the Dumfries Magazine, in which appeared many interesting articles from his pen. In December 1826, he became editor of the Glasgow Free Press, which supported the liberal cause during the whole of the Reform Bill struggle. Along with Sir Daniel Sandford, he afterwards withdrew from the Whig party, and established the Glasgow Constitutional, the editorship of which he resigned in 1836. In 1832-3, he published a periodical, entitled, "Bennet's Glasgow Magazine." Continuing to write verses, he afterwards published a poetical volume, with the title, "Songs of Solitude." His other separate works are, "Pictures of Scottish Scenes and Character," in three volumes; "Sketches of the Isle of Man;" and "The Chief of Glen-Orchay," a poem in five cantos, illustrative of Highland manners and mythology in the middle ages.
Mr Bennet, subsequent to leaving Glasgow, resided successively in Ireland, and London. He afterwards lived several years in Galloway, and has latterly fixed his abode at Greenmount, near Burntisland. He is understood to be engaged in a new translation of the Scriptures.
BLEST BE THE HOUR OF NIGHT.
Blest be the hour of night,
When, his toils over,
The swain, with a heart so light,
Meets with his lover!
Sweet the moon gilds their path,
Arm in arm straying;
Clouds never rise in wrath,
Chiding their staying.
Gently they whisper low:
Unseen beside them,
Good angels watch, that no
Ill may betide them.
Silence is everywhere,
Save when the sighing
Is heard, of the breeze's fall,
Fitfully dying.
How the maid's bosom glows,
While her swain 's telling
The love, that 's been long, she knows,
In his heart swelling!
How, when his arms are thrown
Tenderly round her,
Fears she, in words to own
What he hath found her!
When the first peep of dawn
Warns them of parting,
And from each dewy lawn
Blythe birds are starting,
Fondly she hears her swain
Vow, though they sever,
Soon they shall meet again,
Mated for ever.