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.
What are vain hopes?--The puffing gale of morn,
That of its charms divests the dewy lawn,
And robs each flow'ret 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?
No where at all, save heaven, and the grave.
Then what is Life?--When stripp'd of its disguise,
A thing to be desir'd it cannot be,
Since everything that meets our foolish eyes
Gives proof sufficient of its vanity.
'T is but a trial all must undergo,
To teach unthankful mortals how to prize
That happiness vain man's denied to know
Until he's called to claim it in the skies.
The following lines in the "Address to Plenty" have always been
admired for their Doric strength and simplicity, and the vivid
realism of the scene which they depict:--
Toiling in the naked fields,
Where no bush a shelter yields,
Needy Labour dithering stands,
Beats and blows his numbing hands,
And upon the crumping snows
Stamps, in vain, to warm his toes.
Leaves are fled, that once had power
To resist a summer shower;
And the wind so piercing blows,
Winnowing small the drifting snows;
Clare used at first, without hesitation, the provincialisms of his
native county, but afterwards, as his mind matured, he saw the
propriety of adopting the suggestions which Charles Lamb and other
friends made to him on this subject, and his style gradually became
more polished, until in the "Rural Muse" scarcely any provincialisms
were employed, and the glossary of the earlier volumes was therefore
unnecessary.
The article in the "Quarterly" was, with the exception, perhaps, of
the concluding paragraph just quoted, from the pen of Clare's friend
and neighbour, Mr. Gilchrist, who wrote to Clare on the subject in
the following jocular strain:--
"What's to be done now, Maester? Here's a letter from William Gifford
saying I promised him an article on one John Clare, for the
'Quarterly Review.' Did I do any such thing? Moreover, he says he has
promised Lord Radstock, and if I know him, as he thinks I do, I know
that the Lord will persecute him to the end. This does not move me
much. But he adds, 'Do not fail me, dear Gil, for I count upon you.
Tell your simple tale, and it may do the young bard good.' Think you
so? Then it must be set about. But how to weave the old web anew--how
to hoist the same rope again and again--how to continue the interest
to a twice-told tale? Have you committed any arsons or murders that
you have not yet revealed to me? If you have, out with 'em straight,
that I may turn 'em to account before you are hanged; and as you will
not come here to confess, I must hunt you up at Helpstone; so look to
it, John Clare, for ere it be long, and before you expect me, I shall
be about your eggs and bacon. I have had my critical cap on these two
days, and the cat-o'-nine-tails in my hands, and soundly I'll flog
you for your sundry sins, John Clare, John Clare!