THE LAST OF MARCH. Written at Lotham Brigs. Adown the arches bleak and blea, Yet when from clouds the sun is free And warms the learning bird to sing, 'Neath sloping bank and sheltering tree "Tis sweet to watch the creeping Spring. Though still so early, one may spy And track her footsteps every hour; And primrose bursting into flower; The snows that round their blossoms fall: Again the bulrush sprouting tall As spring's warm herald April comes, And, as skies clear when overcast, Scream joyous whirring over-head, In stripp'd defiance to the storms, The young grass cropping to their fill; Then weary, 'neath a sheltering hill At distance from the water's edge, On hanging sallow's farthest stretch, Safe from destroying school-boy's reach. And, by the sunny side the ditch, Thick clouds are darkening deep behind; Till sunbeams broken clouds can find, All brighten all to life again. Ere yet a hailstone pattering comes, Or dimps the pool the rainy squall, And as the hailstones round me fall Tradition gives these brigs renown, On paths that age has trampled o'er. The builders' names are known no more; No spot on earth their memory bears; And crowds, reflecting thus before, The ague-shivering season dries; From Lolham Brigs we turned towards the village of Helpstone, and at a distance I saw "Langley Bush," which Clare regretted was fast hastening to utter decay; and could he have the ear of the noble proprietor, he said, he would beg that it might be fenced round to preserve it from unintentional as well as wanton injury. There is a melancholy cadence, in the construction of the little poem which he addressed to this Bush, that chimes on my ear whenever its name is mentioned, and seems to attach me to it as to a rational object, though I know nothing further of its history than is contained in the fol- words is indifferent, because Clare is an lowing lines. What truth the story of the swain allows, That tells of honours which thy young days knew unpretending man, and he speaks in the idiom of his neighbours, who would ridicule and despise him for using more or Of" Langley Court" being kept beneath thy boughs better terms than they are familiar with. I cannot tell-thus much I know is true, That thou art reverenc'd : even the rude clan Of lawless gipsies, driven from stage to stage, Pilfering the hedges of the husbandmen, Spare thee, as sacred, in thy withering age. Both swains and gipsies seem to love thy name, Thy spot's a favourite with the sooty crew And soon thou must depend on gipsy-fame, Tby mouldering trunk is nearly rotten through. My last doubts murmur on the zephyr's swell, My last look lingers on thy boughs with pain; To thy declining age I bid farewel, Like old companions, ne'er to meet again. po The discretion which makes Clare hesitate to receive as canonical all the accounts he has heard of the former honours of Langley Bush, is in singular contrast with the enthusiasm of his etical faith. As a man, he cannot bear to be imposed upon,-his good sense revolts at the least attempt to abuse it; -but as a poet he surrenders his imagination with most happy ease to the illusions which crowd upon it from stories of fairies and ghosts. The effect of this distinction is soon felt in a conversation with him. From not consider ing it, many persons express their surprise that Clare should be so weak on some topics and so wise on others. But a willing indulgence of what they deem weakness is the evidence of a strong mind. He feels safe there, and luxuriates in the abandonment of his sober sense for a time, to be the sport of all the tricks and fantasies that have been attributed to preternatural agency. Let them address him on other subjects, and unless they entrench themselves in forms of language to which he is unaccustomed, or take no pains to understand him according to the sense rather than the letter of his speech, they will confess, that to keep fairly on a level with him in the depth and tenour of their remarks, is an exercise requiring more than common effort. He may not have read the books which they are familiar with, but let them try him on such as he has read, (and the number is not few, especially of the modern poets,) and they will find no reason to undervalue his judgment. His language, it pu, orovincial, and his choice of 2 But the philosophic mind will strive to read his thoughts, rather than catch at the manner of their utterance; and will delight to trace the native nobleness, strength, and beauty of his conceptions, under the tattered garb of what may, perhaps, be deemed uncouth and scanty expressions. But why do I plead for his language? We have nothing in our poetry more energetic or appropriate than the affecting little poem of CHILDISH RECOLLECTIONS. Each scene of youth to me's a pleasing toy, And mix'd with them I am again a boy, The scenes of childhood meet my moistening eye, And with the very weakness of a child game, I feel the raptures of delight gone by. With young companions where we oft have met : Tho' since we play'd 'tis bleach'd with many a year” The sports as warmly thrill my bosom yet. Where we in see-saw ridings took delight. And every thing shines round me just as then, Mole-hills, and trees, and bushes speckled wild, That freshen all these pastimes up agen— O grievous day that chang'd me from a child! To seek the play-thing and the pleasing toy, The painted pooty-shell* and summer-flowers, How blest was I when I was here a boy; What joys were mine in those delightful hours! On this same bank I bound my posies up, And cull'd the sweetest blossoms one by one; The cowslips still entice me down to stoop, But all the feelings they inspired are gone. Though in the midst of each endear'd delight, Where still the cowslips to the breezes bow, Though all my childish scenes are in my sight, Sad manhood marks me an intruder now. Here runs the brook which I have damm'd and stopt With choking sods, and water-weeds, and stones, And watch'd with joy till bursting off its plopt, In rushing gushes of wild murmuring groans. *-Snail shell. Here stands the tree with clasping ivy bound, When here I sat and mutter'd nameless songs, I pil'd my fancied cots and walled rings, To build as yet snug cots to cheer despair, Now e'en the thistles quaking in the wind, The very rushes nodding o'er the green, Hold each expressive language to my mind, And, like old comrades, tell of what has been. O"sweet of sweets" from infancy that flow, When can we witness bliss so sweet as then? Might I but have my choice of joy below, I'd only ask to be a boy agen. Life owns no joys so pleasant as the past, If elegance and tenderness of expression are required, from what author in our language can we adduce more delightful instances than are found in the following BALLAD. Winter's gone, the summer breezes Pleasures meet upon the plain; And tend the sheep with me. Careless here shall pleasures lull thee, In the shade thy seat shall be ; Charmer, leave thy spinning-wheel, And tend the sheep with me. Cast away thy "twilly willy," Winter's warm protecting gown, Storms no longer blow to chill thee; Come with mantle loosely thrown, Garments, light as gale's embraces, That thy lovely shape reveal; Put thou on thy airy dresses :Charmer, leave thy spinning-wheel, And tend the sheep with me. Sweet to sit where brooks are flowing, Pleasant spreads the gentle heat, And tend the sheep with me. In the following little poem, the art of the composition, admirable as it is, and yielding to no other in this respect, is yet exceeded and kept properly under by the easy grace and delicate fancy with which the lover urges his passion. BALLAD. I love thee, sweet Mary, but love thee in fear; I would steal a kiss, but I dare not presume; I A whole summer's day would I kiss thee, my Mary! long to be with thee, but cannot tell how, Wert thou but the elder that grows by thy dairy, And I the blest woodbine to twine on the bough, I'd embrace thee and cling to thee ever, my Mary! One more quotation, and I return to my companion. Is it possible, that any mode of education, or any rank in life, could have taught Clare to express, in better language than he has chosen, the lovely images under which he com memorates PLEASURES PAST. Spring's sweets they are not fled, though Summer's blossom Has met its blight of sadness, drooping low; Still flowers gone by find beds in memory`s bosom, Life's nursling buds among the weeds of wee. Each pleasing token of Spring's early morning Warms with the pleasures which we once did know; Each little stem the leafy bank adorning, I have dwelt more at length than may be necessary in a letter to yorther แ the subject of Clare's power of language, but some of his friends object, in my opinion, most unreasonably, to his choice of words: one wishes he would thresh and not thump the corn, another does not like his eliding the first syllable of some of his words, as "'proaching, &c." Every one seems to think that the words or phrases which are in common use in his native place, or where he happened to pass the greater part of his life, ought to be reckoned the true and entire "world of words" for all Englishmen and so each disallows by turns almost every expression which has not received the sanction of the court. At this rate, Spenser and Shakspeare ought to be proscribed, and Clare may be well content to endure their fate. But in reality, Clare is highly commendable for not affecting a language, and it is a proof of the originality of his genius. Style at second-hand is unfelt, unnatural, and common place, a parrot like repetition of words, whose individual weight is never esteemed,—a clusterlanguage framed and cast into set forms, in the most approved models, and adapted for all occasions,-an expedient, in fact, to give an appearance of thinking, without "the insupportable fatigue of thought." It suits the age, for we abound with machinery, invented to supersede man's labour; and it is in repute, for it "is adapted to the the meanest capacities;" but there never was a great poet, or grand original thinker in prose, who did not compose his phraseology for himself; words must be placed in order with great care, and put into combinations which have been unknown before, if the things which he is solicitous to express, have not been discovered and expressed before. In poetry, especially, you may estimate the originality of the thoughts by that of the language; but this is a canon to which our approved critics will not subscribe: they allow of no phrase which has not received the sanction of authority, no expression for which, in the sense used, you cannot plead a precedent. They would fetter the English poet as much as they cireumscribe the maker of Latin verses, 20 ATHENEUM VOL. 10. and yet they complain that our modern poets want originality! Helpstone consists of two streets, intersecting each other at right angles. In the middle stand the church and a cross, both rather picturesque objects, but neither of them very ancient. Clare lives in the right hand street. I knew the cottage by the elm trees which overhang it : The witchen branches nigh, and was glad to hear that they are not now likely to be cut down. On a projecting wall in the inside of the cottage, which is white-washed, are hung some well engraved portraits, in gilt frames, with a neat drawing of Helpstone Church, and a sketch of Clare's Head which Hilton copied in water colours, from the large painting, and sent as a present to Clare's father. I think that no act of kindness ever touched him more than this; and I have remarked, on several oscasions, that the thought, of what would be his father's feelings on any fortunate circumstance occurring, has given him more visible satisfaction, than all the commendations which have been, bestowed on his genius. I believe we must go into low life to know how very much parents can be beloved by their children. Perhaps it may be that they do more for them, or that the affection of the child is concentrated on them the more, from having no other friend on whom it can fall. I saw Clare's father in the garden: it was a fine day, and his rheumatism allowed him just to move about, but with the aid of two sticks, he could scarcely drag his feet along: he can neither kneel nor stoop. I thought of Clare's lines: I'll be thy crutch, my father, lean on me ; Weakness knits stubborn while it's bearing thee; The father, though so infirm, is only fifty-six years of age; the mother is about seven years older. While I was talking to the old man, Clare had prepared some refreshment within, and with the appetite of a thresher we went to our luncheon of bread and cheese, and capital beer from the Bell. In the midst of our operations, his little girl awoke, a fine lively pretty creature, with a forehead like her father's, of ample promise. She tottered along the floor, and as her father looked after her with the fondest affection, and with a careful twitch of his eyebrow when she seemed in danger, the last verse of his Address to her came into my mind: Lord knows my heart, it loves thee much; The pains I meet in folly's clutch Be never thine: Child, it's a tender string to touch, A few more years, and we shall probably see him advanced to that state of patriarchal felicity, which is so beautifully pourtrayed in his Sunday Walks: With love's sweet pledges poddling at his heels, That oft divert him with their childish glee In fruitless chases after bird and bee; And, eager gathering every Sower they pass, Of yellow lambtoe and the totter-grass, Oft whimper round him disappointment's sigh Our meal ended, Clare opened an old oak bookcase, and showed me his library. It contains a very good collection of modern poems, chiefly presents made him since the publication of his first volume. Among the works of Burns, Cowper, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Keats, Crabbe, and about twenty volumes of Cooke's Poets, I was pleased to see the Nithsdale and Galloway Sang of our friend Allan Cunningham, to whom Clare expresses a great desire to be introduced; he thought as I did, that only " Auld Lang Syne" could have produced such poems as the Lord's Marie, Bonnie Lady Anne, and the Mermaid of Gallowa'. The Lady of the Bishop of Peterborough had just made him a present of Miss Aikin's Court of Queen Elizabeth. From Sir W. Scott, he received (I think the Lady of the Lake, and Chatterton's 66 Poems of Rowley, in lieu of two guineas which were offered him; he had requested to have the value of the gift enhanced by the autograph of Sir Walter, in one or both the volumes, but his wish was refused. Crabbe's Works were sent him, by Lord Milton, on the day I called at Helpstone. To see so many books handsomely bound, and " flash'd about with golden letters," as he describes it, in so poor a place as Clare's cottage, gave it almost a romantic air, for, except in cleanliness, it is no whit superior to the habitations of the poorest of the peasantry. The hearth has no fire-place on it, which to one accustomed to coal fires looked comfortless, but Clare found it otherwise; and I could readily picture him enjoying, as he describes himself in one of his early Sonnets, -The happy winter-night, When the storm pelted down with all his might, Having directed my man to set off in an hour's time, and wait for me at the top of Barnack Hill, I walked with Clare to the lower end of the street, to see the place where "Jenny" drowned herself It is a large pond, partly overhung with trees; a deep wood backs the field; and in front is an ancient building, which looks like an old manor-house, but it is now in ruins: the scene is, perhaps, the most picturesque of any in the neighbourhood. Here let me refer you at once to the poem of Cross-Roads, or the Haymaker's Story. It is so true to nature, so full of minute incidents, all telling the story in the most dramatic way, that any attempt to glance at it otherwise than in the words of the original, would be to destroy some portion of its interest; and altogether it is a most affecting narrative! The following lines are beautifully characteristic of those numberless recollections which rush upon the memory af ter an irreparable deed is done, and seem to have been so strikingly prophetic |