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III.

Come from my First, ay, come!

The battle dawn is nigh;

And the screaming trump and the thundering drum

Are calling thee to die!

Fight as thy father fought;

Fall as thy father fell;

Thy task is taught; thy shroud is wrought;

So; forward and farewell!

Toll ye my Second! toll!

Fling high the flambeau's light;

And sing the hymn for a parted soul

Beneath the silent night!

The wreath upon his head,

The cross upon his breast,

Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed
So, take him to his rest!

Call ye my Whole, ay, call

The lord of lute and lay;

And let him greet the sable pall

With a noble song to-day:

Go, call him by his name!

No fitter hand may crave

To light the flame of a soldier's fame
On the turf of a soldier's grave.

I add a few more of these graceful pleasantries :

IV.

He talked of daggers and of darts,

Of passions and of pains,

Of weeping eyes and wounded hearts,
Of kisses and of chains;

He said, though love was kin to grief,
He was not born to grieve;

He said, though many rued belief,
She safely might believe.

But still the lady shook her head,
And swore by yea and nay,
My Whole was all that he had said,
And all that he could say.

He said my First whose silent car
Was slowly wandering by,

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VI.

My First was dark o'er earth and air,
As dark as she could be!

The stars that gemmed her ebon hair
Were only two or three:

King Cole saw thrice as many there
As you or I could see.

"Away, King Cole," mine hostess said,
"Flagon and flask are dry;

Your steed is neighing in the shed,
For he knows a storm is nigh."
She set my Second on his head,
And she set it all awry.

VII.

Sir Hilary charged at Agincourt,—
Sooth 'twas an awful day!

And though in that old age of sport
The rufflers of the camp and court
Had little time to pray,

'Tis said Sir Hilary muttered there
Two syllables by way of prayer.

My First to all the brave and proud
Who see to-morrow's sun;

My Next with her cold and quiet cloud
To those who find their dewy shroud
Before to-day's be done;

And both together to all blue eyes
That weep when a warrior nobly dies.

This charade is still a mystery to me. Solve it, fair readers

X.

PEASANT POETS.

JOHN CLARE.

NEARLY at the same period when Macaulay and Praed sprang into public life, the world of letters was startled by the announcement of a new poet, a Northamptonshire peasant, whose claims to distinction were vouched for by judges of no ordinary sagacity, little given to mistake, and by no means addicted to enthusiasm. His character was blameless and amiable. Although of a frame little suited to severity of toil, he had for many years supported his aged parents by manual labor, and in bringing his powers into the light of day, he had undergone more than the ordinary amount of delay, of suspense, of disappointment, and of "the hope deferred that maketh the heart sick."

From the prefaces to his three publications, the "Poems, Descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery," "The Village Minstrel," and "The Rural Muse," his early history may be collected. At the age of thirteen, when he could read tolerably, and knew something of writing and arithmetic, he met, accidentally, with "Thomson's Seasons," a book which not only awakened in his mind the love of poetry, but led him at once to the kind of poetry in which, from situation and from natural aptitude, he was most likely to succeed. For another sixteen years his brief leisure was filled with attempts, more or less successful, to clothe, in the language of verse, his own feelings and observations. His chief trial, during this long probation, must have been his entire loneliness of mind—the absence of all companionship or sympathy. At this time he met with the "Patty" whom he afterward married, and, in the hope of improving his circumstances, began to consider seriously about publishing a small volume by subscription; and, having ascertained that the expense of three hundred copies of a prospectus would not be more than a pound, he set himself

resolutely to work, and by hard labor, day and night, at length succeeded in accumulating the required sum.

"I distributed my papers," said the poor author, "but as I could get no way of pushing them into higher circles than those with whom I was acquainted, they consequently passed off ag quietly as if they had still been in my possession, unprinted and not seen." For a long while the number of subscribers stood at seven. At length, however, a copy of the proposals won their way to London. Messrs. Taylor and Hessey gave twenty pounds for the Poems; and, what was far better for the author, contrived to obtain for them immediate publicity.

The little volume was striking in what it had and in what it wanted. The very struggle between original thought and imperfect expression sometimes resulted in happiness and beauty. One thing was certain: John Clare was no imitator. Persons of taste and generosity in the higher classes took him by the hand. Lord Exeter sent for him to Burleigh, and hearing that he earned thirty pounds per annum by field labor, settled an annuity of fifteen pounds upon him, with a view to his devoting half his time to agricultural occupations, and half to literary pursuits. This benevolent proposal, which sounds so hopefully, proved a notable failure, chiefly in consequence of our national failing of running after every thing and every body that has attained a sufficient portion of notoriety. Poor Clare became as great a lion as if he had committed two or three murders. He was frequently interrupted, as often as three times a day, during his labors in the harvest-field, to gratify the curiosity of admiring visitors; and a plan, excellent in its principle, was abandoned perforce. Other wealthy and liberal noblemen joined in the good work. Lord Spencer gave ten pounds per annum. A subscription was set on foot by Lord Radstock, to which the present King of the Belgians, Lord Fitzwilliam, and Lord John Russell contributed generously, and which, together with the profits of his works—for “The Village Minstrel" had now been published—realized for him altogether an annual income of five-and-forty pounds. This appeared affluence to our poet, and he married.

Praised by the "Quarterly," and befriended by noble patrons and generous booksellers, his prospects seemed more than commonly smiling. His third publication, too, "The Rural Muse," in spite of its unpromising title, more than justified all that had

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