For short-lived green, a russet brown As close and suffocating quite; The November Fog of London. Then deepening with a sordid stain Of every carriage dreads the pole. HENRY GALLY KNIGHT. author turned to the study of our mediæval architecture. His Architectural Tour in Normandy, and Ecclesiastical Architecture of Italy from the Time of Constantine to the Fifteenth Century—the latter a splendidly illustrated work-are valuable additions to this branch of our historical literature. SAYERS-HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS. Several other minor poets of considerable merit at the beginning of this period, were read and admired by poetical students and critics, who have affectionately preserved their names, though the works they praised are now forgotten. DR FRANK SAYERS of Norwich (1763-1817) has been specially commemorated by Southey, though even in 1826 the laureate admitted that Sayers was 'out of date.' The works of this amiable physician consisted of Dramatic Sketches of the Ancient Northern Mythology, 1790; Disquisitions, Metaphysical and Literary, 1793; Nuga Poetica, 1803; Miscellanies, 1805; &c. The works of Sayers were collected and republished, with an account of his life, by William Taylor of Norwich, in 1823. HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS (1762-1827) was very early in life introduced to public notice by Dr Kippis, who recommended her first work, Edwin and Elfrida (1782). She went to reside in France, imbibed republican opinions, and was near suffering with the Girondists during the tyranny of Robespierre. She was a voluminous writer both in prose and verse, author of Letters from France, Travels in Switzerland, Narrative of Events in France, Correspondence of Louis XVI., with Observations, &c. In 1823 she collected and republished her poems. To one of the pieces in this edition she subjoins the following note: 'I commence the sonnets with that to Hope, from a predilection in its favour, for which I have a proud reason it is that of Mr Wordsworth, who lately honoured me with his visits while at Paris, having repeated it to me from memory, after a lapse of many years.' Sonnet to Hope. Oh, ever skilled to wear the form we love! Say that for me some pleasures yet shall bloom, That Fancy's radiance, Friendship's precious tear, Shall soften, or shall chase, misfortune's gloom. But come not glowing in the dazzling ray, Which once with dear illusions charmed my eye, Oh, strew no more, sweet flatterer! on my way The flowers I fondly thought too bright to die; Visions less fair will soothe my pensive breast, That asks not happiness, but longs for rest! LEIGH HUNT. Some Eastern tales in the manner and measure of Byron were written by an accomplished man of fortune, MR HENRY GALLY Knight (1786–1846). JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT, a poet and essayThe first of these, Ilderim, a Syrian Tale, was ist of the lively and descriptive, not the intense published in 1816. This was followed by Phrosyne, school, was born at Southgate, in Middlesex, a Grecian Tale, and Alashtar, an Arabian Tale, October 19, 1784. His father was a West Indian; 1817. Mr Knight also wrote a dramatic poem, but being in Pennsylvania at the time of the Hannibal in Bithynia. Though evincing poeti- American war, he espoused the British interest cal taste and correctness in the delineation of with so much warmth, that he had to leave the Eastern manners-for Mr Knight had travelled-new world and seek a subsistence in the old. He these poems failed in exciting attention; and their took orders in the Church of England, and was flowery investment. I used to shut my eyes in my arm-chair, and affect to think myself hundreds of miles off. But my triumph was in issuing forth of a morning. A wicket out of the garden led into the large one belonging to the prison. The latter was only for vegetables, but it contained a cherrytree, which I twice saw in blossom.'* some time tutor to the nephew of Lord Chandos, near Southgate. His son-who was named after his father's pupil, Mr Leigh-was educated at Christ's Hospital, where he continued till his fifteenth year. 'I was then,' he says, ' first deputy Grecian; and had the honour of going out of the school in the same rank, at the same age, and for the same reason as my friend Charles Lamb. The reason was, that I hesitated in my speech. | It was understood that a Grecian was bound to deliver a public speech before he left school, and to go into the church afterwards; and as I could do neither of these things, a Grecian I could not be.' Leigh was then a poet, and his father collected his verses, and published them with a large list of subscribers. He has himself described this volume as a heap of imitations, some of them clever enough for a youth of sixteen, but absolutely worthless in every other respect. In 1805, Mr Hunt's brother set up a paper called The News, and the poet went to live with him, and write the theatrical criticisms in it. Three years afterwards, they established, in joint-partnership, The Ex-gave to the world two small volumes of poetry, aminer, a weekly journal conducted with distinguished ability. The poet was more literary than political in his tastes and lucubrations; but unfortunately, he ventured some strictures on the prince-regent, terming him 'a fat Adonis of fifty,' with other personalities, and he was sentenced to two years' imprisonment. The poet's captivity was not without its bright side. He had much of the public sympathy, and his friends-Byron and Moore being of the number-were attentive in their visits. One of his two rooms on the 'ground-floor' he converted into a picturesque and poetical study: I papered the walls with a trellis of roses; I had the ceiling coloured with clouds and sky; the barred windows were screened with Venetian blinds; and when my bookcases were set up, with their busts and flowers, and a pianoforte made its appearance, perhaps there was not a handsomer room on that side the water. I took a pleasure, when a stranger knocked at the door, to see him come in and stare about him. The surprise on issuing from the Borough, and passing through the avenues of a jail, was dramatic. Charles Lamb declared there was no other such room except in a fairy tale. But I had another surprise, which was a garden. There was a little There was yard outside railed off from another belonging to This is so interesting a little picture, and so fine an example of making the most of adverse circumstances, that it should not be omitted in any life of Hunt. The poet, however, was not so well fitted to battle with the world, and apply himself steadily to worldly business, as he was to dress his garden and nurse his poetical fancies. He fell into difficulties, from which he was never afterwards wholly free. On leaving prison, he published his Story of Rimini, an Italian tale in verse, containing some exquisite lines and passages. The poet subsequently altered Rimini considerably, but without improving it. He set up a small weekly paper, The Indicator, on the plan of the periodical essayists, which was well received. He also 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: Behold where thou dost lie, As if heaven had rained them wine; Nor the eyes that, while they fold thee, In the same year Hunt brought out a drama, Lord Byron and Some of his Contemporaries. 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 and 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, 'Tis nature, full of spirits, waked and springing: And chase the whistling brine, and swirl into the bay. Of expectation and a bustling crowd. And nodding neighbours, greeting as they run, 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, It shakes its loosening silver in the sun. Funeral of the Lovers in Rimini. The last few leaves came fluttering from the trees, They say that when Duke Guido saw them come, To T. L. H., Six Years Old, during a Sickness. I sit me down, and think Thy sidelong pillowed meekness, The little trembling hand These, these are things that may demand Sorrows I've had, severe ones, Ah! first-born of thy mother, When life and hope were new, Kind playmate of thy brother, Thy sister, father, too; My light, where'er I go, To say 'He has departed' 'His voice'-' his face'-' is gone;' Yes, still he's fixed, and sleeping! Its very hush and creeping Who say, 'We've finished here.' Dirge. Blest is the turf, serenely blest, To the Grasshopper and the Cricket. Green little vaulter in the sunny grass, Sole voice that 's heard amidst the lazy noon, 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 !— 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,' The above striking little narrative poem is taken from the Bibliothèque 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, 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 day-break on a spring morning, he walked to the town of Stamford -six 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. 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 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_wellwritten 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 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 was placed an inmate in Dr Allen's private lunatic asylum in the centre of Epping Forest, where he remained for about four years. He then effected his escape, but shortly afterwards was taken to the Northampton lunatic asylum, where he had to drag on a miserable existence of twenty more years. He died May 20, 1864. So sad a termination of his poetical career 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. In grouping and forming his pictures, he has recourse to new and original expressions-as for example : Brisk winds the lightened branches shake One of his sonnets is singularly rich in this vivid word-painting: Sonnet to the Glow-worm. Tasteful illumination of the night, Bright scattered, twinkling star of spangled earth! In thy still hour how dearly I delight To rest my weary bones, from labour free; To sigh day's smothered pains; and pause on thee, The delicacy of some of his sentimental verses, mixed up in careless profusion with others less correct or pleasing, may be seen from the following part of a ballad, The Fate of Amy: The flowers the sultry summer kills, Blooms once, and blooms no more. Lost was that sweet simplicity; Her eye's bright lustre fled; So fades the flower before its time, So droops the bud upon its stem What is Life? And what is Life? An hour-glass on the run, 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, That robs each floweret of its gem-and dies; A cobweb, hiding disappointment's thorn, 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. |