And saw, within the moonlight in his room, The above striking little narrative poem is taken from the Bibliothèque Orientale of D'Herbelot. As a specimen of Mr Hunt's Italian translations, we subjoin his version of Petrarch's contemplations of death in the bower of Laura: The Celebrated Canzone of Petrarch- Chiare, fresche, Clear, fresh, and dulcet streams, To me sole woman, haunted at noontide; I sigh to think of it Which lent a pillar to her lovely side; O'er which her folded gown Flowed like an angel's down; And you, O holy air and hushed, Where first my heart at her sweet glances gushed; To my last words, my last, and my lamenting. If 'tis my fate below, And Heaven will have it so, That love must close these dying eyes in tears, In middle of your shade, While my soul, naked, mounts to its own spheres. When taking, out of breath, The doubtful step of death; For never could my spirit find A stiller port after the stormy wind: Nor in more calm abstracted bourne, 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 daybreak on a spring morning, he walked to the town of Stamfordsix 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. 'Most of his poems,' says the writer of a memoir prefixed to his first volume, 'were Slip from my travailed flesh, and from my bones composed under the immediate impression of his outworn. Sprinkled and blushing through an amorous shower. feelings in the fields or on the roadsides. He could not trust his memory, and therefore he wrote them down with a pencil on the spot, his hat serving him for a desk; and if it happened that he had no opportunity soon after of transcribing these imperfect memorials, he could seldom decipher them or recover his first thoughts. From this cause several of his poems are quite lost, and others exist only in fragments. Of those which he had committed to writing, especially his earlier pieces, many were destroyed from another circumstance, which shews how little he expected to please others with them: from a hole in the wall of his room where he stuffed his manuscripts, a piece of paper was often taken to hold the kettle with, or light the fire.' In 1817, Clare, while working at Bridge Casterton, in Rutlandshire, 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 well-written 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. This interesting little volume,' said The Quarterly Review, 'bears indubitable evidence of being composed altogether from the impulses of the writer's mind, as excited by external objects and internal sensations. Here are no tawdry and feeble paraphrases of former poets, no attempts at describing what the author might have become acquainted with in his limited reading. The woods, the vales, the brooks, "the crimson spots i' the bottom of a cowslip," or the loftier phenomena of the heavens, contemplated through the alternations of hope and despondency, are the principal sources whence the youth, whose adverse circumstances and resignation under them extort our sympathy, drew the faithful and vivid pictures before us. Examples of minds highly gifted by nature, struggling with, and breaking through the bondage of adversity, are not rare in this country: but privation is not destitution; and the instance before us is, perhaps, one of the most striking of patient and persevering talent existing and enduring in the most forlorn, and seemingly hopeless condition, that literature has at any time exhibited.' In a short time, Clare 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 per annum. He married his 'Patty of the Vale,' the rosebud in humble life,' the daughter of a neighbouring farmer; and in his native cottage at Helpstone, with his aged and infirm parents and his young wife by his side-all proud of his now rewarded and successful genius-Clare basked in the sunshine of a poetical felicity. The writer of this recollects with melancholy pleasure paying a visit to the poet at this genial season in company with one of his publishers. The humble dwelling wore an air of comfort and contented happiness. Shelves were fitted up, filled with books, most of which had been sent as presents. Clare read and liked them all! He took us to see his favourite scene, the haunt of his inspiration. It was a low fall of swampy ground, used as a pasture, and bounded by a dull rushy brook, overhung with willows. Clare strayed and mused delighted. Yet here Flow on, thou gently plashing stream, That makes me love thee dearly. 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 is now in a private asylum-hopeless, but not dead to passing events. This sad termination of so bright a morning 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, and his moral reflections and pathos win their way to the heart. He wrote out of the fulness of his heart; and his love of nature was so universal, that he included all, weeds as well as flowers, in his picturesque catalogues of her charms. In grouping and forming his pictures, he has recourse to new and original expressions-as, for example: Brisk winds the lightened branches shake By pattering, plashing drops confessed; Tasteful illumination of the night, Bright scattered, twinkling star of spangled earth! In these happy microscopic views of nature, Grahame, be seen from the following part of a ballad, The Fate of Amy: The flowers the sultry summer kills, The swains who loved no more admire, Lost was that sweet simplicity; Her eye's bright lustre fled; And o'er her cheeks, where roses bloomed, A sickly paleness spread. So fades the flower before its time, What is Life? And what is Life? An hour-glass on the run, A busy, bustling, still-repeated dream. 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, 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 mortal how to prize Summer Morning. 'Tis sweet to meet the morning breeze, When nature every sweet prepares Now let me tread the meadow paths, Where glittering dew the ground illumes, As sprinkled o'er the withering swaths 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, Roaming while the dewy fields 'Neath their morning burden lean, While its crop my searches shields, Sweet I scent the blossomed bean. Making oft remarking stops; 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! How sweet thy modest unaffected pride Glows on the sunny bank and wood's warm side! And where thy fairy flowers in groups are found, The school-boy roams enchantedly along, Plucking the fairest with a rude delight: While the meek shepherd stops his simple song, To gaze a moment on the pleasing sight; O'erjoyed to see the flowers that truly bring The welcome news of sweet returning spring. The Thrush's Nest-A Sonnet. Within a thick and spreading hawthorn bush That overhung a molehill, large and round, I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush Sing hymns of rapture, while I drank the sound 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 When its hopes are all gone by; As frail rose-blossoms still retain Their fragrance when they die : 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 black-bird '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.' And joy's first dreams will haunt the mind With the shades 'mid which they sprung, As summer leaves the stems behind On which spring's blossoms hung. Mary, I dare not call thee dear, But now that pride hath flown, 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, When last that gentle cheek I prest, I little thought that seeming jest Even loftier hopes than ours; Spring bids full many buds to swell, That ne'er can grow to flowers. Dawnings of Genius. In those low paths which poverty surrounds, For which his language can no utterance find; Dim burns the soul, and throbs the fluttering heart, Its painful pleasing feelings to impart; Till by successless sallies wearied quite, The memory fails, and Fancy takes her flight: The wick, confined within its socket, dies, Borne down and smothered in a thousand sighs. [Scenes and Musings of the Peasant Poet.] O! who can speak his joys when spring's young morn, Have both beheld him on his lonely way, Far, far remote from boys, and their unpleasing play. Sequestered nature was his heart's delight; Where nature's simple way the aid of art supplied. The freshened landscapes round his routes unfurled, His heart with wild sensations used to beat; Upon a molehill oft he dropt him down, To take a prospect of the circling scene, Marking how much the cottage roof's thatch brown Did add its beauty to the budding green Of sheltering trees it humbly peeped between; The stone-rocked wagon with its rumbling sound; The windmill's sweeping sails at distance seen; And every form that crowds the circling round, Where the sky, stooping, seems to kiss the meeting ground. O! who can tell the sweets of May-day's morn, While all the prospect round beams fair to view, Like a sweet opening flower with its unsullied dew. Ah! often brushing through the dripping grass, Has he been seen to catch this early charm, Listening the 'love-song' of the healthy lass Passing with milk-pail on her well-turned arm; Or meeting objects from the rousing farmThe jingling plough-teams driving down the steep, Wagon and cart; and shepherd-dogs' alarm, Raising the bleatings of unfolding sheep, As o'er the mountain-top the red sun 'gins to peep. Nor could the day's decline escape his gaze; When, hesitating like a stag at bay, The bright unwearied sun seemed loath to drop, And here the rural muse might aptly say, All by the brook the pasture-flowers among: O Poverty! thy frowns were early dealt JAMES AND HORACE SMITH. youth. Two of his latest poems are devoted to his reminiscences of Chigwell. After the completion of his education, James Smith was articled to his father, was taken into partnership in due time, and eventually succeeded to the business, as well as to the appointment of solicitor to the Ordnance. With a quick sense of the ridiculous, a strong passion for the stage and the drama, and a love of London society and manners, Smith became a town wit and humorist-delighting in parodies, theatrical colloquies, and fashionable criticism. His first pieces appear to have been contributed to the Pic-nic newspaper, established by Colonel Henry Greville, which afterwards merged into The Cabinet, both being solely calculated for the topics and feelings of the day. A selection from the Pic-nic papers, in two small volumes, was published in 1803. He next joined the writers for the London Review-a journal established by Cumberland the dramatist, on the novel principle of affixing the writer's name to his critique. The Review proved a complete failure. The system of publishing names was an unwise innovation, destroying equally the harmless curiosity of the reader, and the critical independence of the author; and Cumberland, besides, was too vain, too irritable and poor, to secure a good list of contributors. Smith then became a constant writer in The Monthly Mirror-wherein Henry Kirke White first attracted the notice of what may be termed the literary world-and in this work appeared a series of poetical imitations, entitled Horace in London, the joint production of James and Horace Smith. These JAMES SMITH (1775-1839) was a lively and amusing author both in prose and verse. His father, Mr Robert Smith, was an eminent legal practitioner in London, and solicitor to the Board of Ordnance-parodies were subsequently collected and published James Smith. a gentleman of learning and accomplishments, whose 330 in one volume in 1813, after the success of the Rejected Addresses had rendered the authors famous. Some of the pieces display a lively vein of town levity and humour, but many of them also are very trifling and tedious. In one stanza, James Smith has given a true sketch of his own tastes and character: Me toil and ease alternate share, Books, and the converse of the fair, With these, and London for my home, The Circus or the Forum! To London he seems to have been as strongly attached as Dr Johnson himself. A confirmed metropolitan in all his tastes and habits, he would often quaintly observe, that London was the best place in summer, and the only place in winter; or quote Dr Johnson's dogma: "Sir, the man that is tired of London is tired of existence." At other times he would express his perfect concurrence with Dr Mosley's assertion, that in the country one is always maddened with the noise of nothing; or laughingly quote the Duke of Queensberry's rejoinder, on being told one sultry day in September that London was exceedingly empty: "Yes, but it's fuller than the country." He would not, perhaps, have gone quite so far as his old friend Jekyll, who used to say, that "if compelled to live in the country, he would have the approach to his house paved like the streets of London, and hire a hackney-coach to drive up and down the street all day long;" but he would relate, with great glee, a story shewing the general conviction of his dislike to ruralities. He was sitting in the library at a country-house, when a gentleman, informing him that the family were all out, proposed a quiet stroll into the pleasure-grounds. "Stroll! why, don't you see my gouty shoe?" "Yes, but what then? You don't really mean to say that you have got the |