And I saw the white smoke of their altars ascending, But at times there were gentler processions of peace I stole near the city, but stole covert-wise Like a wild beast of love, and perchance to be smitten Its eyelids in kisses, and then in its sleep Sang dreams in its ear of its manhood, while deep In a thicket of willows I gazed o'er the brooks That murmur'd between us and kiss'd them with looks; I return'd to a spot I had startled for ever, Though I oft long'd to know, but could ask it of none, For the haunters of fields they all shunn'd me by flight, The men in their horror, the women in fright; None ever remain'd save a child once that sported Tight strangled, because it had hiss'd him away From the flower at his finger; he rose and drew near Like a Son of Immortals, one born to no fear, But with strength of black locks and with eyes azure bright To grow to large manhood of merciful might. He came, with his face of bold wonder, to feel, The hair of my side, and to lift up my heel, And question'd my face with wide eyes; but when under * In past sorrow, no kindness e'er came like a kiss And I yearn'd at his cheeks in my love, and down bent, To kiss him, but he cruel-kindly, alas! Thus I wander'd companion'd of grief and forlorn Of my hands? Then I turn'd me self-banish'd, and came Although "Lycus" has never met with very warm admirers, owing, perhaps, to its classical origin and style (indeed, in a letter I have of his, simple John Clare confesses he does not understand a word of it), I incline to hold with the following opinion from a letter written to my father by Hartley Coleridge, in 1831. "I wish you would write a little more in the style of 'Lycus the Centaur,' or "Eugene Aram's Dream.' In whatever you attempt you excel. Then why not exert your best and noblest talent, as well as that wit, which I would never wish to be dormant? I am not a graduate in the Academy of Compliment, but I think 'Lycus' a work absolutely unique in its lirre, such as no man has written, or could have written, but yourself." JOHN HUGGINS was as bold a man A warehouse good he had, that stood There people bought Dutch cheeses round And single Glos'ter flat; And English butter in a lump, And Irish-in a pat. Six days a week beheld him stand, The seventh, in a Sluice-house box He took his pipe and pot; On Sundays, for eel-piety, A very noted spot. Ah, blest if he had never gone One Easter-tide, some evil guide Epping, for butter justly famed, But famous more as annals tell, There every year, 'twixt dog and deer, With Monday's sun John Huggins rose, And slapped his leather thigh, And sang the burden of the song, "This day a stag must die." For all the live-long day before, And all the night in bed, Like Beckford, he had nourished "Thoughts On Hunting" in his head. Of horn and morn, and hark and bark, And echo's answering sounds, All poets' wit hath every writ In dog-rel verse of hounds. Alas! there was no warning voice Thou art a fool in leaving Cheap No thought he had of twisted spine, Not chicken-hearted he, although 'Twas whispered of his eggs! Ride out he would, and hunt he would, So he drew on his Sunday boots, The liquid black they wore that day His yellow buckskins fitted close, As erst upon a stag; Thus well equipped he gayly skipped, At once upon his nag. But first to him that held the rein To say the horse was Huggins' own His neighbour Fig and he went halves, Like Centaurs, in a nag. And he that day had got the gray, Unknown to brother cit; The horse he knew would never tell, Although it was a tit. A well-bred horse he was, wis, As he began to show, But Huggins, like a wary man, |