The poet subsequently altered Rimini' considerably, but without improving it. He set up a small weekly paper, The Indicator,' on a plan of the periodical essayists, which was well received. He also gave to the world two small volumes of poetry, '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:

Nor the lace that wraps thy chin,

No, nor for thy rank a pin.
E'en thy father's loving hand
Nowise dost thou understand,
When he makes thee feebly grasp
His finger with a tiny clasp;

Nor dost thou know thy very mother's
Balmy bosom from another's,

Though thy small blind eyes pursue it;
Nor the arms that draw thee to it;
Nor the eyes that, while they fold thee,
Never can enough behold thee!

In the same year Hunt brought out a drama, '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 aud 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,

Round old Ravenna's clear-shewn towers and bay,'
A morn, the loveliest which the year has seen,
Last of the spring, yet fresh with all its green;
For a warm eve, and gentle rains at night,
Have left a sparkling welcome for the light,
And there's a crystal clearness all about;
The leaves are sharp, the distant hills look out;
A balmy briskness comes upon the breeze;
The smoke goes dancing from the cottage trees;
And when you listen, you may hear a coil
Of bubbling springs about the grassy soil;

And all the scene, in short-sky, earth, and sea,
Breathes like a bright-eyed face, that laughs out openly.
'Tis nature, full of spirits, waked and springing:

The birds to the delicious time are singing,

Darting with freaks and snatches up and down,
Where the light woods go seaward from the town;
While happy faces, striking through the green

Of leafy roads, at every turn are seen;

And the far ships, lifting their sails of white

Like joyful hands, come up with scattered light,
Come gleaming up, true to the wished-for day,

And chase the whistling brine, and swirl into the bay.
Already in the streets the stir grows loud,

Of expectation and a bustling crowd.

With feet and voice the gathering hum contends,
The deep talk heaves, the ready laugh ascends;
Callings, and clapping doors, and curs unite,
And shouts from mere exuberance of delight;
And armed bands, making important way,
Gallant and grave, the lords of holiday,
And nodding neighbors, greeting as they run,
And pilgrims, chanting in the morning sun.

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,
1t shakes its loosening silver in the sun.

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 and 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 day-
Had 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,
He clasped his hands, and looking round the room,
Lost his old wits for ever. From the morrow
None saw him after. But no more of sorrow.
On that same night, those lovers silently
Were buried in one grave, under a tree;
There, side by side, and hand in hand, they lay
In the green ground; and on fine nights in May
Young hearts betrothed used to go there to pray.

To T. L. H., Six Years Old, during a Sickness.

Sleep breathes at last from out thee,
My little patient boy;

And balmy rest about thee
Smooths off the day's annoy.

I sit me down, and think
Of all thy winning ways;

Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink,
That I had less to praise.

Thy sidelong pillowed meekness,
Thy thanks to all that aid,

Thy heart, in pain and weakness,
Of fancied faults afraid;

The little trembling hand
That wipes thy quiet tears,

These, these are things that may deand
Dread memories for years.

Sorrows I've had, severe ones,
I will not think of now;

And calmly 'midst my dear ones
Have wasted with dry brow;

But when thy fingers press
And pat my stooping head,
I cannot bear the gentleness-
The tears are in their bed.

Ah! first-born of thy mother,

When life and hope were new,
Kind playmate of thy brother,
Thy sister, father, too;
go,

My light, where'er I
My bird, when prison-bound,

My hand-in-hand companion-no,

My prayers shall hold thee round.

To say 'He has departed '

'His voice his face is gone;'-
To feel impatient-hearted,
Yet feel we must bear on;

Ah, I could not endure
To whisper of such woe,
Unless I felt this sleep insure
That it will not be so.

Yes, still he's fixed, and sleeping!
This silence too the while
Its very hush and creeping
Seem whispering us a smile:

Dirge.

B'est is the turf, serenely biest,
Where throbbing hearts may sink to rest,
Where life's long journey turns to sleep,
Nor ever pilgrim wakes to weep.
A little sod, a few sad flowers,
A tear for long-departed hours,
Is all that feeling hearts request
To hush their weary thoughts to rest.

Something divine and dim
Seems going by one's ear,
Like parting wings of seraphim,
Who say,
We've finished here.'

There shall no vain ambition come
To lure them from their quiet home;
Nor sorrow lift, with heart-strings riven,
The meek imploring eye to heaven:
Nor sad remembrance stoop to shed
His wrinkles on the slumberer's head;
And never, never love repair

To breathe his idle whispers there!

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 song-
Indoors and out, summer and winter, Mirth.

Abou Ben Adhem and the Angel.

Abou Ben Adhem-may his tribe increase!-
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold.

Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said:

'What writest thou?' The vision raised its head,

And with a look made of all sweet accord,

Answered: The names of those who love the Lord.'
'And is mine one?' said Abou. Nay not so,'

Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,

But cheerily still; and said: 'I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men."

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night

It came again with a great wakening light,

And shewed the names whom love of God had blest,

And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

The above striking little narrative poem is taken from the 'Bibliothe que Orientale' of D'Herbelot.

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, 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 ploughboy; 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 offto 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 ɛaved, 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 still been 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 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 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