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 : Behold where thou dost lie, As if heaven had rained them wine; Nor dost thou know thy very mother's 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, 'Tis nature, full of spirits, waked and springing: Of expectation and a bustling crowd. And nodding neighbours, greeting as they run, 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. 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, To T. L. H., Six Years Old, during a Sickness. And balmy rest about thee I sit me down, and think Thy sidelong pillowed meekness, The little trembling hand Sorrows I've had, severe ones, demand Blest is the turf, serenely blest, 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! 'And is mine one?' said Abou. Nay, not so,' 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 Flow on, thou gently plashing stream, 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 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! In thy still hour how dearly I delight To rest my weary bones, from labour free; To sigh day's smothered pains; and pause on thee, 'Bedecking dangling brier and ivied tree. Or diamonds tipping on the grassy spear; 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, Blooms once, and blooms no more. Lost was that sweet simplicity; Her eye's bright lustre fled; And o'er her cheeks, where roses bloomed So fades the flower before its time, So droops the bud upon its stem What is Life? And what is Life? An hour-glass on the run, 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, To teach unthankful mortals how to prize Summer Morning. 'Tis sweet to meet the morning breeze, When nature every sweet prepares The wakening charms of early day! Their moisture shrinks in sweet perfumes. And hear the beetle sound his horn, 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 'Neath their morning burden lean, While its crop my searches shields, Sweet I scent the blossomed bean. Making oft remarking stops; 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! Plucking the fairest with a rude delight: The Thrush's Nest-A Sonnet. Within a thick and spreading hawthorn bush 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 Their fragrance when they die : On which spring's blossoms hung. Mary, I dare not call thee dear, I felt a pride to name thy name, How loath to part, how fond to meet, At sunset, with what eager feet Scarce nine days passed us ere we met Thy face was so familiar grown, A moment's memory when alone, When last that gentle cheek I prest, I little thought that seeming jest Dawnings of Genius. In those low paths which poverty surrounds, 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.' |