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flowery investment. I used to shut my eyes in my arm-chair, and affect to think myself hundreds of miles off. But my triumph was in issuing forth of a morning. A wicket out of the garden led into the large one belonging to the prison. The latter was only for vegetables, but it contained a cherrytree, which I twice saw in blossom.'*

This is so interesting a little picture, and so fine an example of making the most of adverse circumstances, that it should not be omitted in any life of Hunt. The poet, however, was not so well fitted to battle with the world, and apply himself steadily to worldly business, as he was to dress his garden and nurse his poetical fancies. He fell into difficulties, from which he was never afterwards wholly free. On leaving prison, he published his Story of Rimini, an Italian tale in verse, containing some exquisite lines and passages. The poet subsequently altered Rimini considerably, but without improving it. He set up a small weekly paper, The Indicator, on the plan of the periodical essayists, which was well received. He also Foliage, and The Feast of the Poets. In 1822, Mr Hunt went to Italy to reside with Lord Byron, and to establish The Liberal, a crude and violent melange of poetry and politics, both in the extreme of liberalism. This connection was productive of mutual disappointment and disgust. The Liberal did not sell; Byron's titled and aristocratic friends cried out against so plebeian a partnership; and Hunt found that the noble poet, to whom he was indebted in a pecuniary sense, was cold, sarcastic, and worldly-minded. Still more unfortunate was it that Hunt should afterwards have written the work, Lord Byron and Some of his Contemporaries (1828), in which his disappointed feelings found vent, and their expression was construed into ingratitude. His life was spent in struggling with influences contrary to his nature and poetical temperament. In 1835, he produced Captain Sword and Captain Pen-a poetical denunciation of war. In 1840, he greeted the birth of the Princess-royal with a copy of verses, from which we extract some pleasing lines :

some time tutor to the nephew of Lord Chandos, | near Southgate. His son-who was named after his father's pupil, Mr Leigh-was educated at Christ's Hospital, where he continued till his fifteenth year. 'I was then,' he says, ' first deputy Grecian; and had the honour of going out of the school in the same rank, at the same age, and for the same reason as my friend Charles Lamb. The reason was, that I hesitated in my speech. It was understood that a Grecian was bound to deliver a public speech before he left school, and to go into the church afterwards; and as I could | do neither of these things, a Grecian I could not be.' Leigh was then a poet, and his father collected his verses, and published them with a large list of subscribers. He has himself described this volume as a heap of imitations, some of them clever enough for a youth of sixteen, but absolutely worthless in every other respect. In 1805, Mr Hunt's brother set up a paper called The News, and the poet went to live with him, and write the theatrical criticisms in it. Three years afterwards, they established, in joint-partnership, The Ex-gave to the world two small volumes of poetry, aminer, a weekly journal conducted with distinguished ability. The poet was more literary than political in his tastes and lucubrations; but unfortunately, he ventured some strictures on the prince-regent, terming him 'a fat Adonis of fifty,' with other personalities, and he was sentenced to two years' imprisonment. The poet's captivity was not without its bright side. He had much of the public sympathy, and his friends-Byron and Moore being of the number-were attentive in their visits. One of his two rooms on the 'ground-floor' he converted into a picturesque and poetical study: 'I papered the walls with a trellis of roses; I had the ceiling coloured with clouds and sky; the barred windows were screened with Venetian blinds; and when my bookcases were set up, with their busts and flowers, and a pianoforte made its appearance, perhaps there was not a handsomer room on that side the water. I took a pleasure, when a stranger knocked at the door, to see him come in and stare about him. The surprise on issuing from the Borough, and passing through the avenues of a jail, was dramatic. Charles Lamb declared there was no other such room except in a fairy tale. But I had another surprise, which was a garden. There was a little yard outside railed off from another belonging to the neighbouring ward. This yard I shut in with green palings, adorned it with a trellis, bordered it with a thick bed of earth from a nursery, and even contrived to have a grass-plot. The earth I filled with flowers and young trees. There was an apple-tree from which we managed to get a pudding the second year. As to my flowers, they were allowed to be perfect. A poet from Derbyshire [Mr Moore] told me he had seen no such heart's-ease. I bought the Parnaso Italiano while in prison, and used often to think of a passage in it, while looking at this miniature piece of horticulture :

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Behold where thou dost lie,
Heeding nought, remote or nigh!
Nought of all the news we sing
Dost thou know, sweet ignorant thing;
Nought of planet's love nor people's;
Nor dost hear the giddy steeples
Carolling of thee and thine,

As if heaven had rained them wine;
Nor dost care for all the pains
Of ushers and of chamberlains,
Nor the doctor's learned looks,
Nor the very bishop's books,
Nor the lace that wraps thy chin,
No, nor for thy rank a pin.
E'en thy father's loving hand
Nowise dost thou understand,
When he makes thee feebly grasp
His finger with a tiny clasp ;

Nor dost thou know thy very mother's
Balmy bosom from another's,
Though thy small blind eyes pursue it ;
Nor the arms that draw thee to it ;
Nor the eyes that, while they fold thee,
Never can enough behold thee!

In the same year Hunt brought out a drama,

* Lord Byron and Some of his Contemporaries.

A Legend of Florence, and in 1842 a narrative poem, The Palfrey. His poetry, generally, is marked by a profusion of imagery, of sprightly fancy, and animated description. Some quaintness and affectation in his style and manner fixed upon him the name of a Cockney poet; but his studies had lain chiefly in the elder writers, and he imitated with success the lighter and more picturesque parts of Chaucer and Spenser. Boccaccio, and the gay Italian authors, appear also to have been among his favourites. His prose essays have been collected and published under the title of The Indicator and the Companion, a Miscellany for the Fields and the Fireside. They are deservedly popular-full of literary anecdote, poetical feeling, and fine sketches both of town and country life. Other prose works were published by Hunt, including Sir Ralph Esher, a novel (1844); The Town (1848); Autobiography and Reminiscences (1850); The Religion of the Heart (1853); Biographical and Critical Notices of Wycherley, Congreve, Vanbrugh, and Farquhar (1855); The Old Court Suburb (1855); with several volumes of selections, sketches, and critical comments. The egotism of the author is undisguised; but in all Hunt's writings, his peculiar tastes and romantic fancy, his talk of books and flowers, and his love of the domestic virtues and charities-though he had too much imagination for his judgment in the serious matters of life--impart a particular interest and pleasure to his personal disclosures. In 1847, the crown bestowed a pension of £200 a year on the veteran poet. He died August 28, 1859. His son, Thornton Hunt, published a selection from his Correspondence (1862).

May Morning at Ravenna.—From ' Rimini.’

The sun is up, and 'tis a morn of May,
Round old Ravenna's clear-shewn towers and bay,
A morn, the loveliest which the year has seen,
Last of the spring, yet fresh with all its green;
For a warm eve, and gentle rains at night,
Have left a sparkling welcome for the light,
And there's a crystal clearness all about;
The leaves are sharp, the distant hills look out;
A balmy briskness comes upon the breeze;
The smoke goes dancing from the cottage trees;
And when you listen, you may hear a coil
Of bubbling springs about the grassy soil;
And all the scene, in short-sky, earth, and sea,
Breathes like a bright-eyed face, that laughs out
openly.

'Tis nature, full of spirits, waked and springing:
The birds to the delicious time are singing,
Darting with freaks and snatches up and down,
Where the light woods go seaward from the town;
While happy faces, striking through the green
Of leafy roads, at every turn are seen;
And the far ships, lifting their sails of white
Like joyful hands, come up with scattered light,
Come gleaming up, true to the wished-for day,
And chase the whistling brine, and swirl into the bay.
Already in the streets the stir grows loud,

Of expectation and a bustling crowd.
With feet and voice the gathering hum contends,
The deep talk heaves, the ready laugh ascends;
Callings, and clapping doors, and curs unite,
And shouts from mere exuberance of delight;
And armed bands, making important way,
Gallant and grave, the lords of holiday,

And nodding neighbours, greeting as they run,
And pilgrims, chanting in the morning sun.

Description of a Fountain.-From ' Rimini. And in the midst, fresh whistling through the scene, The lightsome fountain starts from out the green, Clear and compact; till, at its height o'errun, It shakes its loosening silver in the sun.

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Funeral of the Lovers in Rimini. The days were then at close of autumn-still, A little rainy, and, towards nightfall, chill; There was a fitful moaning air abroad; And ever and anon, over the road, The last few leaves came fluttering from the trees, Whose trunks now thronged to sight, in dark varieties. The people, who, from reverence, kept at home, Listened till afternoon to hear them come; And hour on hour went by, and nought was heard But some chance horseman or the wind that stirred, Till towards the vesper-hour; and then, 'twas said, Some heard a voice, which seemed as if it read; And others said that they could hear a sound Of many horses trampling the moist ground. Still, nothing came-till on a sudden, just As the wind opened in a rising gust, A voice of chanting rose, and, as it spread, They plainly heard the anthem for the dead. It was the choristers who went to meet The train, and now were entering the first street. Then turned aside that city, young and old, And in their lifted hands the gushing sorrow rolled. But of the older people, few could bear To keep the window, when the train drew near; And all felt double tenderness to see The bier approaching, slow and steadily, On which those two in senseless coldness lay, Who but a few short months-it seemed a dayHad left their walls, lovely in form and mind, In sunny manhood he-she first of womankind.

They say that when Duke Guido saw them come,
He clasped his hands, and looking round the room,
Lost his old wits for ever. From the morrow
None saw him after. But no more of sorrow.
On that same night, those lovers silently
Were buried in one grave, under a tree;
There, side by side, and hand in hand, they lay
In the green ground; and on fine nights in May
Young hearts betrothed used to go there to pray.

To T. L. H., Six Years Old, during a Sickness.
Sleep breathes at last from out thee,
My little patient boy;

And balmy rest about thee
Smooths off the day's annoy.

I sit me down, and think
Of all thy winning ways;
Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink,
That I had less to praise.

Thy sidelong pillowed meekness,
Thy thanks to all that aid,
Thy heart, in pain and weakness,
Of fancied faults afraid;

The little trembling hand
That wipes thy quiet tears,
These, these are things that
may
Dread memories for years.

Sorrows I've had, severe ones,
I will not think of now;
And calmly 'midst my dear ones
Have wasted with dry brow;
But when thy fingers press
And pat my stooping head,
I cannot bear the gentleness-
The tears are in their bed.

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Blest is the turf, serenely blest,
Where throbbing hearts may sink to rest,
Where life's long journey turns to sleep,
Nor ever pilgrim wakes to weep.
A little sod, a few sad flowers,
A tear for long-departed hours,
Is all that feeling hearts request
To hush their weary thoughts to rest.
There shall no vain ambition come
To lure them from their quiet home;
Nor sorrow lift, with heart-strings riven,
The meek imploring eye to heaven;
Nor sad remembrance stoop to shed
His wrinkles on the slumberer's head;
And never, never love repair
To breathe his idle whispers there!

To the Grasshopper and the Cricket. Green little vaulter in the sunny grass, Catching your heart up at the feel of June,

Sole voice that 's heard amidst the lazy noon, When even the bees lag at the summoning brass; And you, warm little housekeeper, who class

With those who think the candles come too soon, Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune Nick the glad silent moments as they pass; O sweet and tiny cousins, that belong,

One to the fields, the other to the hearth, Both have your sunshine; both, though small, are strong

At your clear hearts; and both seem given to earth To ring in thoughtful ears this natural songIndoors and out, summer and winter, Mirth.

Abou Ben Adhem and the Angel.

Abou Ben Adhem-may his tribe increase!
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold.
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said:
'What writest thou?' The vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered: "The names of those who love the Lord.'

'And is mine one?' said Abou. Nay, not so,'
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerily still; and said: 'I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men.'
The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And shewed the names whom love of God had blest,
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

The above striking little narrative poem is taken from the Bibliothèque Orientale of D'Her

belot.

JOHN CLARE.

JOHN CLARE, one of the most truly uneducated of English poets, and one of the best of our rural describers, was born at Helpstone, a village near Peterborough, in 1793. His parents were peasants. -his father a helpless cripple and a pauper. John obtained some education by his own extra work as a plough-boy; from the labour of eight weeks he generally acquired as many pence as paid for a month's schooling. At thirteen years of age he met with Thomson's Seasons, and hoarded up a shilling to purchase a copy. At day-break on a spring morning, he walked to the town of Stamford -six or seven miles off-to make the purchase, and had to wait some time till the shops were opened. This is a fine trait of boyish enthusiasm, and of the struggles of youthful genius. Returning to his native village with the precious purchase, as he walked through the beautiful scenery of Burghley Park, he composed his first piece of poetry, which he called the Morning Walk. This was soon followed by the Evening Walk, and some other pieces. A benevolent exciseman instructed the young poet in writing and arithmetic, and he continued his obscure but ardent devotion to his rural muse. In 1817, while working at Bridge Casterton, in Rutlandshire, he resolved on risking the publication of a volume. By hard working day and night, he got a pound saved, that he might have a prospectus printed. This was accordingly done, and a Collection of Original Trifles was announced to subscribers, the price not to exceed 3s. 6d. I distributed my papers,' he says; but as I could get at no way of pushing them into higher circles than those with whom I was acquainted, they consequently passed off as quietly as if they had been still in my possession, unprinted and unseen.' Only seven subscribers came forward! One of these prospectuses, however, led to an acquaintance with Mr Edward Drury, bookseller, Stamford, and through this gentleman the poems were published by Messrs Taylor and Hessey, London, who purchased them from Clare for £20. The volume was brought out in January 1820, with an interesting wellwritten introduction, and bearing the title, Poems descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery, by John Clare, a Northamptonshire Peasant. The attention of the public was instantly awakened to the circumstances and the merits of Clare. The magazines and reviews were unanimous in his favour. In a short time he was in possession of a little fortune. The late Earl Fitzwilliam sent £100 to his publishers, which, with the like sum advanced by them, was laid out in the purchase of stock; the Marquis of Exeter allowed him an annuity of fifteen guineas for life; the Earl of Spencer a further annuity of £10, and various contributions were received from other noblemen and gentlemen,

so that the poet had a permanent allowance of £30
per annum.
He married his 'Patty of the Vale,'
the rosebud in humble life,' the daughter of a
neighbouring farmer; and in his native cottage at
Helpstone, with his aged and infirm parents and
his young wife by his side-all proud of his now
rewarded and successful genius-Clare basked in
the sunshine of a poetical felicity. The writer of
this recollects with melancholy pleasure paying
a visit to the poet at this genial season in company
with one of his publishers. The humble dwelling
wore an air of comfort and contented happiness.
Shelves were fitted up filled with books, most of
which had been sent as presents. Clare read and
liked them all! He took us to see his favourite
scene, the haunt of his inspiration. It was a low
fall of swampy ground, used as a pasture, and
bounded by a dull rushy brook, overhung with
willows. Yet here Clare strayed and mused de-
lighted.

Flow on, thou gently plashing stream,
O'er weed-beds wild and rank;
Delighted I've enjoyed my dream
Upon thy mossy bank :
Bemoistening many a weedy stem,
I've watched thee wind so clearly,
And on thy bank I found the gem
That makes me love thee dearly.

In 1821 Clare came forward again as a poet. His second publication_was entitled The Village Minstrel and other Poems, in two volumes. The first of these pieces is in the Spenserian stanza, and describes the scenes, sports, and feelings of rural life—the author himself sitting for the portrait of Lubin, the humble rustic who 'hummed his lowly dreams

Far in the shade where poverty retires.'

The descriptions of scenery, as well as the expression of natural emotion and generous sentiment in this poem, exalted the reputation of Clare as a true poet. He afterwards contributed short pieces to the annuals and other periodicals, marked by a more choice and refined diction. The poet's prosperity was, alas! soon over. His discretion was not equal to his fortitude: he speculated in farming, wasted his little hoard, and amidst accumulating difficulties, sank into nervous despondency and despair. He was placed an inmate in Dr Allen's private lunatic asylum in the centre of Epping Forest, where he remained for about four years. He then effected his escape, but shortly afterwards was taken to the Northampton lunatic asylum, where he had to drag on a miserable existence of twenty more years. He died May 20, 1864. So sad a termination of his poetical career it is painful to contemplate. Amidst the native wild-flowers of his song we looked not for the deadly nightshade'-and, though the examples of Burns, of Chatterton, and Bloomfield, were better fitted to inspire fear than hope, there was in Clare a naturally lively and cheerful temperament, and an apparent absence of strong and dangerous passions, that promised, as in the case of Allan Ramsay, a life of humble yet prosperous contentment and happiness. Poor Clare's muse was the true offspring of English country-life. He was a faithful painter of rustic scenes and occupations, and he noted every light and shade of his brooks, meadows, and green lanes. His fancy was

buoyant in the midst of labour and hardship; and his imagery, drawn directly from nature, is various and original. Careful finishing could not be expected from the rustic poet, yet there is often a fine delicacy and beauty in his pieces. In grouping and forming his pictures, he has recourse to new and original expressions-as for example :

Brisk winds the lightened branches shake
By pattering, plashing drops confessed;
And, where oaks dripping shade the lake,
Paint crimping dimples on its breast.

One of his sonnets is singularly rich in this vivid word-painting :

Sonnet to the Glow-worm.

Tasteful illumination of the night,

Bright scattered, twinkling star of spangled earth!
Hail to the nameless coloured dark and light,
The witching nurse of thy illumined birth.

In thy still hour how dearly I delight

To rest my weary bones, from labour free;
In lone spots, out of hearing, out of sight,

To sigh day's smothered pains; and pause on thee, 'Bedecking dangling brier and ivied tree.

Or diamonds tipping on the grassy spear;
Thy pale-faced glimmering light I love to see,
Gilding and glistering in the dew-drop near:
O still-hour's mate! my easing heart sobs free,
While tiny bents low bend with many an added tear.

The delicacy of some of his sentimental verses, mixed up in careless profusion with others less correct or pleasing, may be seen from the following part of a ballad, The Fate of Amy:

The flowers the sultry summer kills,
Spring's milder suns restore ;
But innocence, that fickle charm,

Blooms once, and blooms no more.
The swains who loved no more admire,
Their hearts no beauty warms;
And maidens triumph in her fall
That envied once her charms.

Lost was that sweet simplicity;

Her eye's bright lustre fled;

And o'er her cheeks, where roses bloomed
A sickly paleness spread.

So fades the flower before its time,
Where canker-worms assail;

So droops the bud upon its stem
Beneath the sickly gale.

What is Life?

And what is Life? An hour-glass on the run,
A mist retreating from the morning sun,
A busy, bustling, still-repeated dream.

Its length? A minute's pause, a moment's thought. And Happiness? A bubble on the stream,

That in the act of seizing shrinks to nought. And what is Hope? The puffing gale of morn, That robs each floweret of its gem-and dies; A cobweb, hiding disappointment's thorn, Which stings more keenly through the thin disguise. And what is Death? Is still the cause unfound? That dark mysterious name of horrid sound?

A long and lingering sleep the weary crave. And Peace? Where can its happiness abound? Nowhere at all, save heaven and the grave.

Then what is Life? When stripped of its disguise,
A thing to be desired it cannot be ;
Since everything that meets our foolish eyes
Gives proof sufficient of its vanity.
'Tis but a trial all must undergo,

To teach unthankful mortals how to prize
That happiness vain man 's denied to know,
Until he's called to claim it in the skies.

Summer Morning.

'Tis sweet to meet the morning breeze,
Or list the giggling of the brook;
Or, stretched beneath the shade of trees,
Peruse and pause on nature's book;

When nature every sweet prepares
To entertain our wished delay-
The images which morning wears,

The wakening charms of early day!
Now let me tread the meadow paths,
Where glittering dew the ground illumes,
As sprinkled o'er the withering swaths

Their moisture shrinks in sweet perfumes.

And hear the beetle sound his horn,
And hear the skylark whistling nigh,
Sprung from his bed of tufted corn,
A hailing minstrel in the sky.

First sunbeam, calling night away

To see how sweet thy summons seems; Split by the willow's wavy gray,

And sweetly dancing on the streams.

How fine the spider's web is spun,

Unnoticed to vulgar eyes;

Its silk thread glittering in the sun
Art's bungling vanity defies.
Roaming while the dewy fields

'Neath their morning burden lean, While its crop my searches shields,

Sweet I scent the blossomed bean.

Making oft remarking stops;
Watching tiny nameless things
Climb the grass's spiry tops

Ere they try their gauzy wings.

So emerging into light,

From the ignorant and vain Fearful genius takes her flight, Skimming o'er the lowly plain.

The Primrose-A Sonnet.

Welcome, pale primrose! starting

up

between

Dead matted leaves of ash and oak that strew The every lawn, the wood, and spinney through, 'Mid creeping moss and ivy's darker green;

How much thy presence beautifies the ground!
How sweet thy modest unaffected pride
Glows on the sunny bank and wood's warm side!
And where thy fairy flowers in groups are found,
The school-boy roams enchantedly along,

Plucking the fairest with a rude delight:
While the meek shepherd stops his simple song,
To gaze a moment on the pleasing sight;
O'erjoyed to see the flowers that truly bring
The welcome news of sweet returning spring.

The Thrush's Nest-A Sonnet.

Within a thick and spreading hawthorn bush
That overhung a molehill, large and round,
I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush
Sing hymns of rapture, while I drank the sound

With joy-and oft an unintruding guest,

I watched her secret toils from day to day; How true she warped the moss to form her nest, And modelled it within with wood and clay. And by and by, like heath-bells gilt with dew, There lay her shining eggs as bright as flowers, Ink-spotted over, shells of green and blue :

And there I witnessed, in the summer hours, A brood of nature's minstrels chirp and fly, Glad as the sunshine and the laughing sky.*

First-love's Recollections.

First-love will with the heart remain
When its hopes are all gone by;
As frail rose-blossoms still retain

Their fragrance when they die :
And joy's first dreams will haunt the mind
With the shades 'mid which they sprung,
As summer leaves the stems behind

On which spring's blossoms hung.

Mary, I dare not call thee dear,
I've lost that right so long;
Yet once again I vex thine ear
With memory's idle song.

I felt a pride to name thy name,
But now that pride hath flown,
And burning blushes speak my shame,
That thus I love thee on.

How loath to part, how fond to meet,
Had we two used to be;

At sunset, with what eager feet
I hastened unto thee!

Scarce nine days passed us ere we met
In spring, nay, wintry weather;
Now nine years' suns have risen and set,
Nor found us once together.

Thy face was so familiar grown,
Thyself so often nigh,

A moment's memory when alone,
Would bring thee in mine eye;
But now my very dreams forget
That witching look to trace;
Though there thy beauty lingers yet,
It wears a stranger's face.

When last that gentle cheek I prest,
And heard thee feign adieu,

I little thought that seeming jest
Would prove a word so true!
A fate like this hath oft befell
Even loftier hopes than ours;
Spring bids full many buds to swell,
That ne'er can grow to flowers.

Dawnings of Genius.

In those low paths which poverty surrounds,
The rough rude ploughman, off his fallow grounds-
That necessary tool of wealth and pride—
While moiled and sweating, by some pasture's side,
Will often stoop, inquisitive to trace
The opening beauties of a daisy's face;
Oft will he witness, with admiring eyes,

The brook's sweet dimples o'er the pebbles rise;

*Montgomery says quaintly but truly of this sonnet: 'Here we have in miniature the history and geography of a thrush's nest, so simply and naturally set forth, that one might think such strains

No more difficile

Than for a blackbird 'tis to whistle.

But let the heartless critic who despises them try his own hand either at a bird's nest or a sonnet like this; and when he has succeeded in making the one, he may have some hope of being able to make the other.'

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