Yet notwithstanding the visible and increasing derangement of his mental faculties, Clare's poetical powers seemed to be nearly as great and as brilliant as ever. Rare as were the opportunities when he was allowed to indulge in the luxury of writing verses, whenever they offered, the stream of poetry came flowing on swiftly and sweetly. Some accidental visitors to Fair Mead House one day offered him a pencil and sheet of paper, when he sat down on a bench in the garden, and without further musing wrote the following lines:—
'By a cottage near the wood
Where lark and thrushes sing,
In dreaming hours I stood,
Through summer and through spring:
There dwells a lovely maiden
Whose name I sought in vain—
Some call her pretty Lucy,
And others honest Jane.
By that cottage near a wood
I often stood alone
In sad or happy mood,
And wished she was my own.
The birds kept sweetly singing,
But nature pleased in vain;
For the dark and lovely maiden
I never saw again.
By the cottage near the wood
I wished in peace to be:
The blossoms where she stood
Were more than gems to me.
More fair or sweeter blossoms
My rambles sought in vain;
But the dark and lovely maiden
I never found again.
By that cottage near a wood
The children held her gown,
And on the turf before her
Ran laughing up and down.
They played around her beauty,
While I sought joys in vain;
She fled—the lovely maiden
I could not find again.
By that cottage near the wood,
Where children used to play,
Spring often burst the bud,
And as often passed away.
And with them passed my visions
Of her whom I adore;
For the dark and lovely maiden,
I love her evermore.'
When Clare had been above a year at the asylum, and it was found that he was perfectly harmless and inoffensive, he was allowed to roam at his will all over the neighbourhood and through the whole of the forest. This freedom he greatly enjoyed, and not a day passed without his taking long excursions in all directions. In these wanderings he was mostly accompanied by T. Campbell, the only son of the author of 'The Pleasures of Hope,' with whom he had come to form an intimate acquaintance. Clare wrote a sketch of his forest promenades in a sonnet which he handed to Dr. Allen. It ran:—
'I love the forest and its airy hounds,
Where friendly Campbell takes his daily rounds;
I love the break-neck hills, that headlong go,
And leave me high, and half the world below.
I love to see the Beech Hill mounting high,
The brook without a bridge, and nearly dry.
There's Bucket's Hill, a place of furze and clouds,
Which evening in a golden blaze enshrouds:
I hear the cows go home with tinkling bell,
And see the woodman in the forest dwell,
Whose dog runs eager where the rabbit's gone;
He eats the grass, then kicks and hurries on;
Then scrapes for hoarded bone, and tries to play,
And barks at larger dogs and runs away.