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She dropp'd her glove, to prove his love, then look'd at him and smiled;

He bow'd, and in a moment leap'd among the lions wild: The leap was quick, return was quick, he has regain'd the place,

Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face.


By God!" cried Francis, “rightly done!" and he rose from where he sat;

"No love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like that!"



You strange, astonish'd-looking, angle-faced,
Dreary-mouth'd, gaping wretches of the sea,
Gulping salt water everlastingly,
Cold-blooded, though with red your blood be graced,
And mute though dwellers in the roaring waste;
And you, all shapes beside, that fishy be,—
Some round, some flat, some long, all devilry,
Legless, unloving, in famously chaste;

O scaly, slippery, wet, swift, staring wights,

What is't ye do? What life lead? eh, dull goggles? How do ye vary your vile days and nights?

How pass your Sundays? Are ye still but joggles In ceaseless wash? Still nought but gapes, and bites, And drinks, and stares, diversified with boggles ?


Amazing monster! that, for aught I know,

With the first sight of thee didst make our race
For ever stare! O flat and shocking face,
Grimly divided from the breast below!
Thou, that on dry land horribly dost go

With a split body, and most ridiculous pace
Prong after prong, disgracer of all grace,
Long-useless-finn'd, hair'd, upright, unwet, slow!

O breather of unbreathable, sword-sharp air,
How canst exist! How bear thyself, thou dry
And dreary sloth? What particle canst share
Of the only blessed life, the watery?
I sometimes see of ye an actual pair

Go by! link'd fin by fin! most odiously.


Indulge thy smiling scorn, if smiling still,

O man! and loathe, but with a sort of love;
For difference must itself by difference prove,
And, with sweet clang, the spheres with music fill.
One of the spirits am I, that at their will

Live in whate'er has life—fish, eagle, dove—
No hate, no pride, beneath nought, nor above,
A visiter of the rounds of God's sweet skill.

Man's life is warm, glad, sad, 'twixt loves and graves,
Boundless in hope, honour'd with pangs austere,
Heaven-gazing; and his angel-wings he craves :-
The fish is swift, small-needing, vague yet clear,
A cold sweet silver life, wrapp'd in round waves,
Quicken'd with touches o. transporting fear.


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 rais'd its head,
And, with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answer'd, "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 cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men."

The angel wrote and vanish'd. The next night It came again, with a great wakening light, And show'd the names whom love of God had bless'd, And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

JOHN CLARE was born at Helpstone, near Peterborough, Northamp. tonshire, in 1793. His father was a day labourer; and the Poet was acquainted with Poverty long before he associated with the Muse. His manhood has been doomed to a lot as severe, and it would seem that want is his only prospect in old age; for modern legislation has deprived him even of the "hope" on which he reckons, in one of his early poems, as a "last resource,"


"To claim the humble pittance once a week,
Which justice forces from disdainful pride."

The story of his life presents, perhaps, one of the most striking and affecting examples that the history of unhappy genius has ever recorded; illustrating in a sad and grievous manner the misery produced by the gift of mind in a humble station,-by great thoughts nourished in unfitting places. If ever the adage which tells us that a Poet is born a Poet, has been practically realized, it is in the case of the peasant of Northamptonshire. If ever the pursuit of knowledge under difficulties has been made clear beyond a doubt, it is in his case. It is our melancholy task to add-if ever the oft-denied assertion, that genius is but the heritage of wo, may be placed beyond controversy, it is in this instance also. By working "over-hours," he contrived to earn enough to pay for learning to read; the savings of eight weeks sufficed to obtain a month's "schooling ;" and his first object having been achieved, his next was to procure books. A shilling made him the master of Thomson's "Seasons ;" and he immediately began to compose poetry: but for some time afterwards, being unable to master funds to procure paper, he was compelled to entrust to his memory the preservation of his verses. He lived in the presence of Nature, and worshipped her with a genuine and natural passion: "the common air, the sun, the skies;" the "old familiar faces" of the green fields, with their treasures of blade and wild flower, were the sources of his inspiration: and the people—their customs, their loves, their griefs, and their amusements-were the themes of his verse. Thus he went on, making and writing poetry, for thirteen years, "without having received a single word of encouragement, and without the most distant prospect of reward." Perhaps his destiny would have been happier had he never encountered either. Accident, however, led to the publication of a volume of


his Poems it passed through several editions, and brought money to the writer; a few "noble" patrons doled out some guineas; and we believe that something like an annuity was purchased for the Poet; several other volumes followed; but the public no longer sympathized when they ceased to be astonished,—and latterly we imagine, not only has the writer received nothing for his productions, but the sale of them has not sufficed to pay the expenses of their publication.

Clare has, we understand, made an unsuccessful, indeed a ruinous attempt to improve his condition, by farming the ground he tilled; and has for some years existed in a state of poverty, as utter and hopeless as that in which he passed his youth. He has a wife and a very large family; and it is stated to us, that at times his mind gives way under the sickness of hope deferred. His appearance, when some years ago it was our lot to know him, was that of a simple rustic; and his manners were remarkably gentle and unassuming. He was short and thick, yet not ungraceful, in person. His countenance was plain but agreeable; he had a look and manner so dreamy, as to have appeared sullen-but for a peculiarly winning smile; and his forehead was so broad and high as to have bordered on deformity. Further, we believe that in his unknown and uncherished youth, and in his after-days when some portion of fame and honour fell to his share, he maintained a fair character, and has subjected himself to no charge more unanswerable than that of indiscretion in applying the very limited funds with which he was furnished after the world heard of his name, and was loud in applause of his genius. It is not yet too late for a hand to reach him; a very envied celebrity may be obtained by some wealthy and good "Samaritan ;"-Strawberry Hill might be gladly sacrificed for the fame of having saved Chatterton.

We do not place him too high when we rank John Clare at the head of the Poets who were, and continued to be, "uneducated," according to the stricter meaning of the term. The most accomplished of British Poets will not complain at finding him introduced into their society :-setting aside all consideration of the peculiar circumstances under which he wrote, he is worthy to take his place among them.

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