O breather of unbreathable, sword sharp air, I sometimes see of ye an actual pair Go by! link'd fin by fin! most odiously. THE FISH TURNS INTO A MAN, AND THEN INTO A SPIRIT, AND AGAIN SPEAKS. Indulge thy smiling scorn, if smiling still, O man! and loathe, but with a sort of love; Live in whate'er has life-fish, eagle, dove- Man's life is warm, glad, sad, 'twixt loves and graves, ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL. ABOU Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold: "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." The angel wrote and vanish'd. The next night And shew'd the names whom love of God had bless'd, JOHN CLARE was born at Helpstone, near Peterborough, Northamptonshire, in 1793. His father was a day-labourer, and the Poet was acquainted with Poverty long before he associated with the Muse. 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 woe, 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 wi.hout 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; 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. Clare subsequently made an unsuccessful, indeed a ruinous, attempt to improve his condition, by farming the ground he tilled; and for some years existed in a state of poverty, as utter and hopeless as that in which he passed his youth. His appearance, when, in 1828, 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 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. The life of John Clare has been written and published by Mr. Frederick Martin. It is a work of great industry and of much ability. Every minute detail of the Poet's life has been “searched out," from the commencement of his career to its melancholy close. In 1820, when there was a dawn of fame over his career, he married a young woman of his own station; toiled on through many dismal vicissitudes; writing and earning a little for annuals and magazines; and trying hard, but in vain, to gather money to buy the land he tilled. At length his health gave way. He had a wife and children to maintain day-labour could not do it; and small was the help that came from his pen. "He sunk into poverty and wretchedness;" and so his brain gave way. In 1837 he was placed in a private lunatic establishment. He was, however, perfectly harmless, and occasionally produced poetic trifles, but never completely recovered his reason; and "under restraint" he passed more than twenty years of a wretched life, dying at length, in 1864, not in the private "institution," but in the public asylum at Northampton, where however he was treated with considerate kindness; and he was buried in the graveyard of his native village, his last words having been, “I want to go home!" 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. THERE with the scraps of songs, and laugh, and tale, 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, THE QUIET MIND. THOUGH low my lot, my wish is won, If I have foes, no foes I fear, I wish not it was mine to wear 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 A still and quiet mind? I mourn not that my lot is low, I sigh not that Fate made me so, I am content-for well I see, I see the world pass heedless by, Proud, too, that life gives all she can, I never mocked at beauty's shrine, No knighthood's fame or luck was mine, 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, A prop and friend I still shall have, |