vy vow to 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 ale Goes round, and glads some old man's heart to praise Were there; from which were drunk, with spirits high, While sung the ancient swains, in uncouth rhymes, Thus ale, and song, and healths, and merry ways, But the old beechen bowl, that once supplied The feast of furmety, is thrown aside; And the old freedom that was living then, When masters made them merry with their men ; THE QUIET MIND. THOUGH low my lot, my wish is won, If I have foes, no foes I fear, I have a friend I value here, I wish not it was mine to wear Flushed honour's sunny crown ; I only wish the bliss of life- The trumpet's taunt in battle-field, The great man's pedigree,— What peace can all their honours yield? And what are they to me? Though praise and pomp, to eke the strife, Rave like a mighty wind; What are they to the calm of life I mourn not that my lot is low, I sigh not that Fate made me so, I am content-for well I see What all at last shall find,- I see the world pass heedless by, For either wealth or power: I never mocked at beauty's shrine, And yet I've found in russet weed, True love and comfort's prize indeed, And come what will of care or woe, They're comforts in their kind; When friends depart, as part they must, That leave us like the summer dust, While life's allotted time I brave, A prop and friend I still shall have, MARY LEE. I HAVE traced the valleys fair Wilt thou deign the wreath to wear, They are not flowers of pride, Can they fear thy frowns the while, Here's the lily of the vale, That perfumed the morning gale, My fairy Mary Lee! Like thine own purity. My esteem for thee. Surely flowers can bear no blame, My bonny Mary Lee! Here's the violet's modest blue, That 'neath hawthorns hides from view, My gentle Mary Lee, Would show whose heart is true, While it thinks of thee. While they choose each lowly spot, My charming Mary Lee; So I've brought the flowers to plead, Here's a wild rose just in bud; |