tion will contract an evil repute, which may seal them from the eyes of thousands, by whom they are at present read with profit and delight. Genius, fancy, energy of sentiment and diction, are the undoubted characteristics of the author: the possession of them only aggravates his offences of bad taste, and mischievous argument. He disclaims an evil purpose-every page contradicts him. He affects to be not the open partisan of corruption of manners; but he puts on this hypocritical mantle, for the base and infamous purpose of stealing into the citadel, in order that he may the more effectually betray it.

We know not how Richmond' came to be classed with the tales we have just been reviewing. It is almost beneath contempt, It is a most lethargic and lifeless affair, differing from the common admixtures of milk and water only in the undue proportion of the latter commodity. Although the matter is very long and very various, it possesses as little of what is interesting, for its extent, as any surviving emanation of moderate talent with which we are acquainted. Indeed, there is not a passage in the three volumes, which might not have been, with the greatest facility, produced by any, the most careless amateur visitor of our police offices. Details of visits to race-courses-of inroads upon gipsy haunts of the vicissitudes of a thief-hunt-of shop-lifting-of larcenies, great and small, all those little schemes, and ingenious as well as straight forward exercises, in which juvenile depredators are known to be brought up-these form the staple of Richmond.' Each little sorry violation of a statute, such an incident of every day occurrence as even the newspapers have long forborne to reiterate-is diluted into an ample narrative, until three swollen volumes, at length, rise from under the hand of our garrulous annalist. It would have been much more pleasant to us, to have been enabled to record a different opinion upon a work of this extent; but we very much doubt the capacity of the subject itself to be made attractive in any shape.

ART. XII. The Shepherd's Calendar; with Village Stories, and other Poems. By John Clare. 12mo. pp. 238. 6s. London: Taylor. 1827. JOHN Clare first became known to the world as the author of a volume of "Poems descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery," composed during the scanty intervals of leisure which the laborious occupation of a peasant afforded, and discovered only by an accidental circumstance. These attracted much notice, and, combined with the peculiar circumstances under which they were written, and which were related in a prefatory memoir, gained for him a considerable share of popularity and patronage. The subsequent appearance of his "Village Minstrel," established his reputation as a poet; and the work now before us is likely to increase his fame. To his friends and admirers it will, we think, be a gratifying proof,

not only of his rising genius, but of the good use he has made of that liberal and judicious encouragement which has fostered ity and which he feelingly acknowledges in a modest preface. The present volume is dedicated to his noble patron, the Marquis of Exeter, to whom, we believe, he is indebted for being raised above the necessity of labour, beyond what is consistent with the cultivation of his mental powers. In its perusal we have felt a warm interest for the author, mingling with the pleasure it afforded, and we doubt not but others who read it will share this feeling.

The poems of which the volume is composed, are characterised by an unpretending simplicity of style, and a uniform excellence of quality, which, though of an humble description, evince a lively fancy, and a mind acutely susceptible of impressions from the beauties of nature. To that numerous class of readers, the lovers of descriptive poetry, these productions cannot but prove highly attractive. In poetry of this kind we do not look for lofty conceptions, profound thought, or a very creative imagination; we are satisfied with truth of delineation and accuracy of expression; and in these requisites the author is by no means deficient. If, in reading these poems, we are continually reminded of Bloomfield, not only by the similarity of the subject, but by the manner in which it is treated, yet the comparison is not at all to Clare's disadvantage. His style is less ambitious, and his thoughts more unaffected, and a deeper poetical feeling breathes through his writings. His poems do not abound with incident; but depend chiefly for their effect upon the intrinsic value of the sentiment, and the fidelity of the colouring.

In both cases, however, much perhaps of the interest experienced by the reader arises from a knowledge of the habits and circumstances of the writers; and this leads us to that passage in his preface, where Clare says, I hope my low station in life will not be set-off as a foil against my verses; and I am sure I do not wish to bring it forward as an excuse for any imperfections that may be found in them.' Now, although his verses need not be viewed in relation to the humble station of the author, in order to be fairly appreciated, yet it would be a manifest injustice to view them apart from a consideration of his rustic character and self-informed mind: it would be unfair to judge them by too high a standard. We admire the spirit of the declaration in the latter part of the sentence, and shall avail ourselves of it to point out what appear to us to be blemishes. It is but justice to say, that, in reading Clare's poems, we have less frequent occasion to revert to the origin of the individual in estimating the powers of the poet, than in reading those of Bloomfield.

The first and principal portion of the volume before us consists of a series of poetical pictures of the months, entitled 'The Shepherd's Calendar,' which, as its name imports, is a description of the various appearances of nature, and the occupations, amuse

ments, and customs of pastoral life, peculiar to the different seasons of the year. They are vivid and home-felt delineations, and lose none of their interest by our recollection of similar productions by other authors. The versification of the several months is judiciously varied; and the stanza, the octo-syllabic, and heroic couplets, are successively adopted, according as they suit the poet's train of thoughts. This arrangement gives a liveliness to the composition, while a happy selection of the characteristic features of each month, affords a contrast that prevents any appearance of sameness. The following extracts will enable the reader to form his own judgment of their merit.

JULY.

'July the month of summer's prime,
Again resumes his busy time;
Scythes tinkle in the grassy dell,
Where solitude was wont to dwell;
And meadows, they are mad with noise
Of laughing maids, and shouting boys,
Making up the withering hay,
With merry hearts as light as play.
The very insects on the ground
So nimbly bustle all around,
Among the grass, or dusty soil,
They seem partakers in the toil.
The landscape even reels with life,
While 'mid the busy stir and strife
Of industry, the shepherd still
Enjoys his summer dreams at will:
Bent o'er his hook, or listless laid
Beneath the pasture's willow shade,
Whose foliage shines so cool and gray,
Amid the sultry hues of day,
As if the morning's misty veil
Yet linger'd in its shadows pale;
Or lolling in a musing mood

On mounds where Saxon castles stood,

Upon whose deeply-buried walls
The ivy'd oak's dark shadow falls,
He oft picks up with wondering gaze
Some little thing of other days,

Saved from the wrecks of time-as beads,
Or broken pots among the weeds,
Of curious shapes-and many a stone,
From Roman pavements thickly strown,
Oft hoping, as he searches round,
That buried riches may be found,
Though, search as often as he will,
His hopes are disappointed still;
Or watching, on his mossy seat,
The insect world beneath his feet,

In busy motion here and there,

Like visitors to feast or fair.―pp. 60–62.

Loud is the summer's busy song,

The smallest breeze can find a tongue,
While insects of each tiny size
Grow teazing with their melodies,
Till noon burns with its blistering breath
Around, and day dies still as death.
The busy noise of man and brute
Is on a sudden lost and mute;
Even the brook that leaps along
Seems weary of its bubbling song,
And, so soft its waters creep,
Tired silence sinks in sounder sleep.
The cricket on its banks is dumb,
The very flies forget to hum;

And, save the waggon rocking round,
The landscape sleeps without a sound.
The breeze is stopt, the lazy bough
Hath not a leaf that dances now;
The tottergrass upon the hill,

And spider's threads, are standing still;
The feathers dropt from moor-hen's wing,
Which to the water's surface cling,
Are steadfast, and as heavy seem
As stones beneath them in the stream;
Hawkweed and groundsel's fanning downs
Unruffled keep their seedy crowns;

And in the oven-heated air,

Not one light thing is floating there,

Save that to the earnest eye,

The restless heat seems twittering by.'-pp. 64, 65.

The evening of such a summer day is thus charmingly described:
Now to the pleasant pasture dells,
Where hay from closes sweetly smells,
Adown the pathway's narrow lane
The milking maiden hies again,
With scraps of ballads never dumb,
And rosy cheeks of happy bloom.
Tann'd brown by sunimer's rude embrace,
Which adds new beauties to her face,
And red lips never pale with sighs,
And flowing hair, and laughing eyes,
That o'er full many a heart prevail'd,
And swelling bosom loosely veil'd,
White as the love it harbours there,
Unsullied with the taunts of care!
'The mower now gives labour o'er,

And on his bench beside the door

Sits down to see his children play,
Smoking a leisure hour away:

While from her cage the blackbird sings,
That on the woodbine arbour hings;
And all with soothing joys receive

The quiet of a summer's eve!'-pp. 66, 67.

These are very pleasing pictures, painted with an observant eye and a practised hand, and containing numerous beauties. As a contrast to the sultry repose of the last sketch, we must give the poet's picture of November,' whose sombre beauties are finely developed.

'The landscape sleeps in mist from morn till noon;
And, if the sun looks through, 't is with a face
Beamless and pale, and round, as if the moon,
When done the journey of her nightly race,
Had found him sleeping, and supplied his place.
For days the shepherds in the fields may be,
Nor mark a patch of sky-blindfold they trace
The plains, that seem without a bush or tree,
Whistling aloud by guess, to flocks they cannot see.
'The timid hare seems half its fears to lose,
Crouching and sleeping 'neath its grassy lair,
And scarcely startles, though the shepherd goes
Close by its home, and dogs are barking there;
The wild colt only turns around to stare
At passer by, then knaps his hide again;
And moody crows beside the road, forbear
To fly, tho' pelted by the passing swain;

Thus day seems turn'd to night, and tries to wake in vain.

The owlet leaves her hiding-place at noon,

And flaps her grey wings in the doubling light;
The hoarse jay screams to see her out so soon,
And small birds chirp and startle with affright;
Much doth it scare the superstitious wight,
Who dreams of sorry luck, and sore dismay;
While cow-boys think the day a dream of night,
And oft grow fearful on their lonely way,

Fancying that ghosts may wake, and leave their graves by day.

Yet, but awhile the slumbering weather flings

Its murky prison round-then winds wake loud;

With sudden stir the startled forest sings

Winter's returning song-cloud races cloud,
And the horizon throws away its shroud,
Sweeping a stretching circle from the eye;
Storms upon storms in quick succession crowd,
And o'er the sameness of the purple sky

Heaven paints, with hurried hand, wild hues of every dye.

Thus wears the month along, in checker'd moods,

Sunshine and shadows, tempests loud, and calms;
One hour dies silent o'er the sleepy woods,