hand. Lord Exeter sent for him to Burleigh, and hearing that he earned thirty pounds per annum by field labour, 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 everything and everybody 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 labours 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--realised 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 been done for him. The improvement was most remarkable. That he should gain a greater command over language, a choicer selection of words, and the knowledge of grammatical construction, which he had wanted before, was to be expected; but the habit of observation seemed to have increased in fineness and accuracy in proportion as he gained the power of expression, and the delicacy of his sentiment kept pace with the music of his versification. What can be closer to nature than his description of the nightingale's nest? Up this green woodland ride let's softly rove, Creeping on hands and knees through matted thorn, And where those crumpling fern-leaves ramp among Lost in a wilderness of listening leaves, Those hazel branches in a gentle way, And stoop right cautious 'neath the rustling boughs, For we will have another search to-day, And hunt this fern-strewn thorn-clump round and round, And where this reeded wood-grass idly bows We'll wade right through; it is a likely nook. In such like spots, and often on the ground They'll build where rude boys never think to look ; Aye, as I live! her secret nest is here Upon this white-thorn stump! I've searched about How subtle is the bird! She started out, And raised a plaintive note of danger nigh Ere we were past the brambles; and now, near Her nest, she sudden stops, as choking fear That might betray her home. So even now We will not plunder music of its dower, For melody seems hid in every flower That blossoms near thy home. These bluebells all And gaping cuckoo-flower, with spotted leaves, How curious is the nest! No other bird Its dwelling in such spots! Dead oaken leaves Snug lie her curious eggs, in number five, Of deadened green, or rather olive-brown, * And the old prickly thorn-bush guards them well. As the old woodland's legacy of song. Is not this nature itself! And again another nest, as true every whit in its difference. THE PETTICHAP'S NEST. Well! in my many walks I've rarely found 'Tis lined with feathers, warm as silken stole, And they are left to many dangerous ways. THE YELLOWHAMMER'S NEST. Just by the wooden bridge a bird flew up, And seek its nest. The brook we need not dread,— As it sings harmless o'er its pebbly bed. -Aye, here it is! Stuck close beside the bank, I question if the great bird-painter, Wilson, or our own Australian ornithologist, Mr. Gould (he is a Berkshire man, I am proud to say), or Audubon, or White of Selborne, or Mr. Waterton himself-and all those careful inquirers into nature are more or less poets, seldom as they have used the conventional language |