Was brought, was gazed upon. The mutes began

To bind his arms. 66 cried he; "From bonds far worse Jaffar deliver'd me; From wants, from shames, from loveless household fears;

Welcome, brave cords!"

Made a man's eyes friends with delicious tears;

Restor'd me, loved me, put me on a par
With his great self. How can I pay Jaffar?"

Haroun, who felt that on a soul like this
The mightiest vengeance could but fall amiss,
Now deign'd to smile, as one great lord of
fate

Might smile upon another half as great.
He said,
"Let worth grow frenzied if it will;
The caliph's judgment shall be master still.
Go, and since gifts so move thee, take this
gem,

The richest in the Tartar's diadem,
And hold the giver as thou deemest fit."

The house when I did, of my wits bereft ; And laugh'd me down the street because I vow'd

I'd bring the prince himself to lay him in his shroud.

I'm mad with want, I'm mad with misery, And Oh, thou Sultan Mahmoud, God cries out for thee!"

The Sultan comforted the man and said, "Go home, and I will send thee wine and bread

(For he was poor), and other comforts. Go; And should the wretch return let Sultan Mahmoud know."

In two days' time, with haggard eyes and beard,

And shaken voice, the suitor re-appeared, And said, "He's come."-Mahmoud said not a word,

But rose and took four slaves each with a sword,

And went with the vext man. They reach the place,

And hear a voice and see a female face, That to the window flutter'd in affright. "Go in," said Mahmoud, "and put out the light;

But tell the females first to leave the room; And when the drunkard follows them, we come."

The man went in. There was a cry, and hark!

A table falls, the window is struck dark; Forth rush the breathless women, and behind With curses comes the fiend in desperate mind.

In vain the sabres soon cut short the strife, And chop the shrieking wretch, and drink his bloody life.

"Now light the light," the Sultan cried aloud. 'Twas done; he took it in his hand and bow'd Over the corpse, and look'd upon the face; Then turn'd and knelt beside it in the place, And said a prayer, and from his lips there crept

Some gentle words of pleasure, and he wept.
In reverent silence the spectators wait,
Then bring him at his call both wine and

meat;

And when he had refresh'd his noble heart, He bade his host be blest, and rose up to depart.

The man amaz'd, all mildness now and tears, Fell at the Sultan's feet with many prayers, And begg'd him to vouchsafe to tell his slave, The reason first of that command he gave About the light: then when he saw the face, Why he knelt down; and lastly, how it was That fare so poor as his detain'd him in the place.

The Sultan said, with much humanity,
"Since first I heard thee come, and heard thy
cry,

I could not rid me of a dread that one
By whom such daring villanies were done,
Must be some lord of mine, perhaps a lawless

son.

Whoe'er he was, I knew my task, but fear'd
A father's heart, in case the worst appear'd.
For this I had the light put out. But when
I saw the face and found a stranger slain,
I knelt and thank'd the sovereign arbiter,
Whose work I had perform'd through pain
and fear.

And then I rose and was refresh'd with food, The first time since thou cam'st and marr'd'st my solitude.”

Leigh Hunt.-Born 1784, Died 1859.

1405. TO THE GLOWWORM. Tasteful illumination of the night, Bright scatter'd, twinkling star of spangled earth!

Hail to the nameless colour'd dark and light,
The witching nurse of thy illumined birth.
In thy still hour how dearly I delight
To rest my weary bones, from labour free ;
In lone spots, out of hearing, out of sight,
To sigh day's smother'd pains; and pause on
thee,

Bedecking dangling brier and ivied tree,

Or diamonds tipping on the grassy spear; Thy pale-faced glimmering light I love to see, Gilding and glistering in the dewdrop near: O still-hour's mate! my easing heart sobs free,

While tiny bents low bend with many an added tear.

John Clare.-Born 1793, Died 1864.

1407.-WHAT IS LIFE?

And what is Life? An hour-glass on the run,
A mist retreating from the morning sun,
A busy, bustling, still-repeated dream.

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 flowret 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 nnfound?

That dark mysterious name of horrid sound? A long and lingering sleep the weary crave. And Peace ? Where can its happiness

abound?

No where at all, save heaven and the grave.

Then what is Life? When stripp'd of its disguise,

A thing to be desired it cannot be; Since everything that meets our foolish eyes Gives proof sufficient of its vanity. "Tis but a trial all must undergo,

To teach unthankful mortal how to prize That happiness vain man's denied to know, Until he's call'd to claim it in the skies.

John Clare.-Born 1793, Died 1864.

1408.-SUMMER MORNING.

'Tis sweet to meet the morning breeze,
Or list the giggling of the brook ;
Or, stretch'd beneath the shade of trees,
Peruse and pause on nature's book.

When nature every sweet prepares
To entertain our wish'd delay-
The images which morning wears,

The wakening charms of early day!
Now let me tread the meadow paths,
Where glittering dew the ground illumes,
As sprinkled o'er the withering swaths
Their moisture shrinks in sweet perfumes.
And hear the beetle sound his horn,
And hear the skylark whistling nigh,
Sprung from his bed of tufted corn,
A hailing minstrel in the sky.

First sunbeam, calling night away

To see how sweet thy summons seems;

Split by the willow's wavy gray,

And sweetly dancing on the streams.

Welcome, pale primrose! starting up between Dead matted leaves of ash and oak that strew

The every lawn, the wood, and spinney through,

'Mid creeping moss and ivy's darker green; How much thy presence beautifies the ground!

How sweet thy modest unaffected pride Glows on the sunny bank and wood's warm side!

And where thy fairy flowers in groups are found,

The schoolboy roams enchantedly along,

Plucking the fairest with a rude delight: While the meek shepherd stops his simple song,

To gaze a moment on the pleasing sight; O'erjoy'd to see the flowers that truly bring The welcome news of sweet returning spring. John Clare.-Born 1793, Died 1864.

1410.-THE THRUSH'S NEST.

A SONNET.

Within a thick and spreading hawthorn bush That overhung a molehill large and round, I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush Sing hymns of rapture, while I drank the sound

With joy-and oft an unintruding guest,

I watch'd her secret toils from day to day; How true she warp'd the moss to form her nest,

And modell'd it within with wood and clay.

And by and by, like heath-bells gilt with dew, There lay her shining eggs as bright as flowers,

Ink-spotted over, shells of green and blue : And there I witness'd, in the summer hours,

A brood of nature's minstrels chirp and fly, Glad as the sunshine and the laughing sky.

John Clare.-Born 1793, Died 1864.

1411.-FIRST-LOVE'S RECOLLECTIONS.

First-love will with the heart remain
When its hopes are all gone by;
As frail rose-blossoms still retain

Their fragrance when they die :
And joy's first dreams will haunt the mind
With the shades 'mid which they sprung,
As summer leaves the stems behind

On which spring's blossoms hung. Mary, I dare not call thee dear,

I've lost that right so long;
Yet once again I vex thine ear
With memory's idle song.

I felt a pride to name thy name,
But now that pride hath flown,
And burning blushes speak my shame,
That thus I love thee on.

How loth to part, how fond to meet,
Had we two used to be;

At sunset, with what eager feet
I hasten'd unto thee!
Scarce nine days pass'd us ere we met
In spring, nay, wintry weather;
Now nine years' suns have risen and set,
Nor found us once together.
Thy face was so familiar grown,
Thyself so often nigh,
A moment's memory when alone,
Would bring thee in mine eye;
But now my very dreams forget
That witching look to trace;
Though there thy beauty lingers yet,
It wears a stranger's face.
When last that gentle cheek I prest,
And heard thee feign adieu,

I little thought that seeming jest
Would prove a word so true!
A fate like this hath oft befell

Even loftier hopes than ours;
Spring bids full many buds to swell,
That ne'er can grow to flowers.

John Clare.-Born 1793, Died 1864.

1412.-DAWNINGS OF GENIUS.

In those low paths which poverty surrounds, The rough rude ploughman, off his fallow grounds

(That necessary tool of wealth and pride), While moil'd and sweating, by some pasture's side,

Will often stoop, inquisitive to trace
The opening beauties of a daisy's face;
Oft will he witness, with admiring eyes,

The brook's sweet dimples o'er the pebbles rise ;

And often bent, as o'er some magic spell, He'll pause and pick his shaped stone and shell:

Raptures the while his inward powers inflame, And joys delight him which he cannot name; Ideas picture pleasing views to mind,

For which his language can no utterance find;

Increasing beauties, freshening on his sight, Unfold new charms, and witness more delight;

So while the present please, the past decay,
And in each other, losing, melt away.
Thus pausing wild on all he saunters by,
He feels enraptured, though he knows not
why;

And hums and mutters o'er his joys in vain, And dwells on something which he can't explain.

The bursts of thought with which his soul's perplex'd

Are bred one moment, and are gone the next;

Yet still the heart will kindling sparks retain,

And thoughts will rise, and Fancy strive again.

So have I mark'd the dying ember's light, When on the hearth it fainted from my sight,

With glimmering glow oft redden up again, And sparks crack brightening into life in vain ;

Still lingering out its kindling hope to rise,
Till faint, and fainting, the last twinkle dies.
Dim burns the soul, and throbs the flutter-
ing heart,

Its painful pleasing feelings to impart;
Till by successless sallies wearied quite,
The memory fails, and Fancy takes her

flight:

The wick, confined within its socket, dies, Borne down and smother'd in a thousand sighs.

John Clare.-Born 1793, Died 1864.

1413.-SCENES AND MUSINGS OF THE PEASANT POET.

Each opening season, and each opening

scene,

On his wild view still teem'd with fresh delight;

E'en winter's storms to him have welcome been,

Soft would he step lest they his tread should hear,

And creep and creep till past his wild affright;

Then on wind's wings would rally, as it

were,

So swift the wild retreat of childhood's fancied fear.

And when fear left him, on his corner-seat Much would he chatter o'er each dreadful tale;

Tell how he heard the sound of 'proaching feet,

And warriors jingling in their coats of mail;

And lumping knocks as one would thump a flail;

Of spirits conjured in the charnel floor; And many a mournful shriek and hapless wail,

Where maids, self-murder'd, their false loves deplore;

And from that time would vow to tramp on nights no more.

O! who can speak his joys when spring's

young morn,

From wood and pasture, open'd on his view!

When tender green buds blush upon the thorn,

And the first primrose dips its leaves in dew:

Each varied charm how joy'd would he

pursue,

Tempted to trace their beauties through the day;

Grey-girdled eve and morn of rosy hue Have both beheld him on his lonely way, Far, far remote from boys, and their unpleasing play.

Sequester'd nature was his heart's delight; Him would she lead through wood and lonely plain,

Searching the pooty from the rushy dike; And while the thrush sang her long-silenced strain,

He thought it sweet, and mock'd it o'er again;

And while he pluck'd the primrose in its pride,

He ponder'd o'er its bloom 'tween joy and pain;

And a rude sonnet in its praise he tried, Where nature's simple way the aid of art supplied.

The freshen'd landscapes round his routes unfurl'd,

The fine-tinged clouds above, the woods below,

Each met his eye a new-revealing world, Delighting more as more he learn'd to

know;

Each journey sweeter, musing to and fro.

'Twas his-his pastimes lonely to pursueWild blossoms creeping in the grass to view,

Scarce peeping up the tiny bent as high, Betinged with glossy yellow, red or blue, Unnamed, unnoticed but by Lubin's eye, That like low genius sprang, to bloom their day and die.

O! who can tell the sweets of May-day's morn,

To waken rapture in a feeling mind; When the gilt east unveils her dappled dawn,

And the gay woodlark has its nest resign'd,

As slow the sun creeps up the hill behind; Morn reddening round, and daylight's spotless hue,

As seemingly with rose and lily lined; While all the prospect round beams fair to view,

Like a sweet opening flower with its unsullied dow.