Does Agnus (1) fling his crotchets wild—
"In wit a man," in heart a child?
Has Lepus (2) sense thine ear beguiled
With easy strain?
Or hast thou nodded blithe, and smiled
At Janus' (3) vein?
Does Nalla, (4) that mild giant, bow
His dark and melancholy brow?
Or are his lips distending now
With roaring glee
That tells the heart is in a glow—
The spirit free?
Or does the Opium-eater (5) quell
Thy wondering sprite with witching spell?
Read'st thou the dreams of murkiest hell
In that mild mien?
Or dost thou doubt yet fear to tell
Such e'er have been?
And while around thy board the wine
Lights up the glancing eyeballs' shine,
Seest thou in elbow'd thought recline
The Poet true (6)
Who in "Colonna" seems divine
To me and you?
But, Clare, the birds will soon be flown:
Our Cambridge wit resumes his gown:
Our English Petrarch trundles down
To Devon's valley:
Why, when our Maga's out of town,
Stand shilly-shally?
The table-talk of London still
Shall serve for chat by rock and rill,
And you again may have your fill
Of season'd mirth,
But not if spade your chamber drill
Six feet in earth.
Come, then! Thou never saw'st an oak
Much bigger than a wagon spoke:
Thou only could'st the Muse invoke
On treeless fen:
Then come and aim a higher stroke,
My man of men.
The wheel and oar, by gurgling steam,
Shall waft thee down the wood-brow'd stream,
And the red channel's broadening gleam
Dilate thy gaze,
And thou shalt conjure up a theme
For future lays.
And thou shalt have a jocund cup
To wind thy spirits gently up—
A stoup of hock or claret cup
Once in a way,
And we'll take notes from Mistress Gupp (8)
That same glad day.
And Rip Van Winkle (9) shall awake
From his loved idlesse for thy sake,
In earnest stretch himself, and take
Pallet on thumb,
Nor now his brains for subjects rake—
John Clare is come!
His touch will, hue by hue, combine
Thy thoughtful eyes, that steady shine,
The temples of Shakesperian line,
The quiet smile,
The sense and shrewdness which are thine,
Withouten guile.