So whene'er I turn mine eye

Back upon the days gone by,

Saddening thoughts of friends come o'er me, Friends who closed their course before me.

Yet what binds us friend to friend, But that soul with soul can blend? Soul-like were those days of yoreLet us walk in soul once more!

Take, O boatman, thrice thy fee!-
Take, I give it willingly—
For, invisible to thee,

Spirits twain have crossed with me.

John Clare.

Clare (1793-1864) was a native of Helpstone, England. | His parents were peasants-his father a helpless cripple and a pauper. John got some education by his own extra work as a ploughboy. At thirteen he hoarded up a shilling to buy a copy of Thomson's "Seasons." In 1820 he published "Poems descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery, by John Clare, a Northamptonshire Peasant." The work was kindly received, and soon he was in possession of a little fortune. But his prosperity did not last. His discretion was not equal to his fortitude. He speculated in farming, wasted his little hoard, sank into nervous despondency and despair, and was finally placed in a lunatic asylum. He remained here about four years, and then effected his escape. He was retaken, and worried out twenty years more of his unfortunate life in confinement. He was a faithful painter of rustic scenes, and keenly sensitive to the beautics of nature. The last words of poor Clare, as he closed his mortal eyes forever, were, "I want to go home!"

ON AN INFANT KILLED BY LIGHTNING.

As fearless as a cherub's rest,
Now safe above the cloud,

A babe lay on its mother's breast
When thunders roared aloud:
It started not to hear the crash,
But held its little hand
Up, at the lightning's fearful flash,
To catch the burning brand.

The tender mother stayed her breath

In more than grief awhile,

To think the thing that brought its death
Should cause her babe to smile.
Ay, it did smile a heavenly smile

To see the lightning play;

Well might she shriek when it turned pale, And yet it smiled in clay!

O woman! the dread storm was given

To be to each a friend;

It took thy infant pure to heaven,
Left thee impure, to mend.
Thus Providence will oft appear

From God's own mouth to preach: Ah! would we were as prone to hear As Mercy is to teach!

THE THRUSH'S NEST: A SONNET.' Within a thick and spreading hawthorn-bush That overhung a mole-hill, large and round, I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush Sing hymus of rapture, while I drank the sound With joy and oft, an unintruding guest, I watched her secret toils from day to day; How true she warped the moss to form her nest, · And modelled 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 witnessed, in the summer hours, A brood of nature's minstrels chirp and fly, Glad as the sunshine and the laughing sky.

SPRING FLOWERS. Bowing adorers of the gale, Ye cowslips delicately pale,

Upraise your loaded stems, Unfold your cups in splendor; speak! Who decked you with that ruddy streak, And gilt your golden gems?

Violets, sweet tenants of the shade,
In purple's richest pride arrayed,
Your errand here fulfil!

Go, bid the artist's simple stain
Your lustre imitate, in vain,

And match your Maker's skill.

1 Montgomery says of this sonnet: "Here we have in miniature the history and geography of a thrush's nest, so simply and naturally set forth, that one might think such strains

'No more difficile

Than for a blackbird 'tis to whistle.'

But let the heartless critic who despises them try his own hand either at a bird's-nest or a sonnet like this."

Daisies, ye flowers of lowly birth,
Embroiderers of the carpet earth,
That stud the velvet sod;
Open to spring's refreshing air,-
In sweetest smiling bloom declare
Your Maker and my God!

LINES IN A LUCID INTERVAL.

For twenty-two years Clare was the inmate of a lunatic asylum; and during that time not one of all his great or little friends or patrous ever visited him. He expresses his feelings at the neglect, in the following lines, written, it would seem, in a lucid interval.

I am yet what I am who cares, or knows?
My friends forsake me like a memory lost.

I am the self-consumer of my woes,

They rise and vanish, an oblivious host, Shadows of life, whose very soul is lost. And yet I am-I live-though I am tossed

Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,
Into the living sea of waking dream,
Where there is neither sense of life nor joys,
But the huge shipwreck of my own esteem
And all that's dear. Even those I loved the best
Are strange-nay, they are stranger than the rest.

I long for scenes where man has never trod,
For scenes where woman never smiled or wept;
There to abide with my creator, God,

And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept
Full of high thoughts, unborn. Se let me lie,
The grass below; above, the vaulted sky.

John Gibson Lockhart.

Lockhart (1794-1854), the son of a Glasgow minister, and the son-in-law and biographer of Sir Walter Scott, was born in the county of Lanark, Scotland, and was educated at Glasgow and Oxford. After a brief trial of the law, he devoted himself to literary pursuits; wrote "Valerius," "Reginald Dalton," "Adam Blair," and other novels; also, some very spirited versions of Spanish ballads.

He, moreover, contributed to Blackwood's Magazine, and edited the Quarterly Review from 1826 to 1853. Ill health and private calamities and bereavements darkened his latter days. His "Life of Scott" is one of the most interesting biographies in the language, hardly surpassed by Boswell's "Life of Johnson." As a poet, he was versatile, and might have excelled had he made poetry his exclusive field. His "Captain Paton's Lament," published in Blackwood's Magazine in 1819, is an admirable specimen of the humorous in elegy. Captain Paton was a well-known character in Glasgow, who died in 1807.

CAPTAIN PATON'S LAMENT.

Touch once more a sober measure,

And let punch and tears be shed, For a prince of good old fellows, That, alack-a-day! is dead; For a prince of worthy fellows, And a pretty man also, That has left the Saltmarket In sorrow, grief, and woe.

453

Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!

His waistcoat, coat, and breeches
Were all cut off the same web,
Of a beautiful snuff-color,

Of a modest geuty drab;
The blue stripe in his stocking

Found his neat, slim leg did go,
And his ruffles of the cambric fine,

They were whiter than the snow. Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!

His hair was curled in order,

At the rising of the sun,

In comely rows and buckles smart
That about his ears did run;
And before there was a toupee,

That some inches up did grow;
And behind there was a long queue,
That did o'er his shoulders flow.
Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton
no mo'e!

And whenever we foregathered,

He took off his wee three-cockit,
And he proffered you his snuff box,
Which he drew from his side-pocket;
And on Burdett or Bonaparte

He would make a remark or so,
And then along the plainstones
Like a provost he would go.

Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!

In dirty days he picked well

His footsteps with his rattan: Oh, you ne'er could see the least speck On the shoes of Captain Paton. And on entering the coffee-room About two, all men did know

James Sheridan Knowles.

Dramatist, poet, teacher, actor, and clergyman, Knowles (1794-1862) was a native of Cork, Ireland. Going to London, he made the acquaintance of Hazlitt, of whom he speaks as his "mental sire." Knowles produced the successful plays of "William Tell," "Virginius," "The Hunchback," "The Wife," etc. The success of "The Hunchback" in America led to the author's own visit; and he appeared on the stage in the principal cities of the United States in the part of Master Walter. He did not succeed either as an actor or lecturer, his Irish brogue often marring the effect of his clocution. We knew him well, having met him in Boston, Washington, and Philadelphia. From the latter city he sent us, while we were editing the Boston Atlas, the poem entitled "The Actor's Craft," which we first published, and have here quoted. Few copies of it, we believe, are in existence. How far his views in regard to the stage were modified when he returned to England and became a Baptist minister, we cannot say. His literary and dramatic merits are unquestionable. See the poem by Charles Lamb on his "Virginius," in which Macready had a great success.

Is this upon my hand? a tear, boy? Fie!
For shame! Is that the weapon you would guard
Your bride with? First assay what steel can do.
Num. Not a tear has blessed his eye since her
death! No wonder!

The fever of his brain, that now burns out,
Has drunk the source of sorrow's torrents dry.

Icil. You would not have it otherwise? "Twas fit
The bolt that struck the sole remaining branch,
And blasted it, should set the trunk on fire!
Num. If we could make him weep-
Icil. I have that will make him,

If aught will do it. 'Tis her urn. 'Twas that Which first drew tears from me. I'll fetch it. But I cannot think you wise to wake a man

The child herself. Inquire among your gossips
Which of them saw it; and, with such of them
As can avonch the fact, without delay
Repair to the Forum. Will she come or not?
I'll call myself! She will not dare-
Oh, when did my Virginia dare? Virginia!—
Is it a voice, or nothing, answers me?

I hear a voice so fine there's nothing lives
"Twixt it and silence. Such a slender one
I've heard when I have talked with her in fancy!
A phantom sound! Aha! she is not here.
They told me she was here--they have deceived me—
And Appius was not made to give her up,
But keeps her, and effects his wicked purpose,
While I stand talking here, and ask you if
My daughter is my daughter! Though a legion