Veuve ve vastonmained, -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 nocharge 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 THERE with the scraps of songs, and laugh, and tale, 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 And the old freedom that was living then, THE QUIET MIND. THOUGH low my lot, my wish is won, The last request is made. 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, 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 see the world pass heedless by, I never mocked at beauty's shrine, No knighthood's fame or luck was mine, To win love's richest prize : And come what will of care or woe, When friends depart, as part they must, MARY LEE. I HAVE traced the valleys fair Wilt thou deign the wreath to wear, They are not flowers of pride, Here's the lily of the vale, Here's the violet's modest blue, My gentle Mary Lee, My charming Mary Lee; Here's a wild rose just in bud ; |