O breather of unbreathable, sword sharp air,
How canst exist? How bear thyself, thou dry
And dreary sloth? What particle canst share
Of the only blessed life, the watery?

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;
For difference must itself by difference prove,
And, with sweet clang, the spheres with music fill.
One of the spirits am I, that at their will

Live in whate'er has life-fish, eagle, dove-
No hate, no pride, beneath nought, nor above,
A visiter of the rounds of God's sweet skill.

Man's life is warm, glad, sad, 'twixt loves and graves,
Boundless in hope, honour'd with pangs austere,
Heaven-gazing; and his angel-wings he craves :—
The fish is swift, small-needing, vague yet clear,
A cold sweet silver life, wrapp'd in round waves,
Quicken'd with touches of transporting fear.

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 rais'd its head,

And with a look made of all sweet accord,

Answer'd, "The names of those who love the Lord."
"And is mine one?" said Abou. 66
Nay, not so;"
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men."

The angel wrote and vanish'd. The next night
It came again, with a great wakening light,

And shew'd the names whom love of God had bless'd,
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

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,
He lightens annual toil, while merry ale

Goes round, and glads some old man's heart to praise
The threadbare customs of his early days:
How the high bowl was in the middle set
At breakfast time, when clippers yearly met,
Fill'd full of furmety, where dainty swum
The streaking sugar and the spotting plum.
The maids could never to the table bring
The bowl, without one rising from the ring
To lend a hand; who, if 'twere ta'en amiss,
Would sell his kindness for a stolen kiss.
The large stone pitcher in its homely trim,
And clouded pint-horn with its copper rim,

Were there; from which were drunk, with spirits high,
Healths of the best the cellar could supply;

While sung the ancient swains, in uncouth rhymes,
Songs that were pictures of the good old times.

Thus ale, and song, and healths, and merry ways,
Keep up a shadow still of former days;
But the old beechen bowl, that once supplied
The feast of furmety, is thrown aside;
And the old freedom that was living then,
When masters made them merry with their men ;
When all their coats alike were russet brown,
And his rude speech was vulgar as their own--
All this is past, and soon will pass away,
The time-torn remnant of the holiday.

THE QUIET MIND.

THOUGH low my lot, my wish is won,
My hopes are few and staid;
All I thought life would do is done,
The last request is made.

If I have foes, no foes I fear,
To fate I have resigned;
I have a friend I value here,
And that's a quiet mind.

I wish not it was mine to wear
Flush'd honour's sunny crown;
I wish not I were Fortune's heir,-
She frowns, and let her frown.
I have no taste for pomp and strife,
Which others love to find:

I only wish the bliss of life-
A poor and quiet mind.

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 wish no higher state;

I sigh not that Fate made me so,
Nor tease her to be great.

I am content-for well I see,
What all at last shall find,-
That life's worst lot the best may be,
If that's a quiet mind.

I see the world pass heedless by,
And pride above me tower;
It costs me not a single sigh
For either wealth or power:
They are but men, and I'm a man
Of quite as great a kind,—

Proud, too, that life gives all she can,
A calm and quiet mind.

I never mocked at beauty's shrine,
To stain her lips with lies;

No knighthood's fame or luck was mine,
To win love's richest prize :

And yet I've found in russet weed,
What all will wish to find,

True love and comfort's prize indeed,
A glad and quiet mind.

And come what will of care or woe,
As some must come to all;
I'll wish not that they were not so,
Nor mourn that they befal :
If tears for sorrows start at will,

They're comforts in their kind;
And I am blest, if with me still
Remains a quiet mind.

When friends depart, as part they must,
And love's true joys decay,

That leave us like the summer dust,
Which whirlwinds puff away:
While life's allotted time I brave,
Though left the last behind;

A prop and friend I still shall have,
Îf I've a quiet mind.