At intervals during the years 1825-26 Clare was occupied in supplying his publishers with poems for his next volume—"The Shepherd's Calendar," which was brought out in May, 1827, with a frontispiece by De Wint. The descriptive poem which gives the title to the volume consists of twelve cantos, of various measures, and is followed by "Village Stories" and other compositions. Of the stories, that entitled "Jockey and Jenny or, the Progress of Love," appears to have made the most favourable impression upon Clare's contemporaries. In this poem will be found the following bold and original apostrophe to Night:—
Ah, powerful Night! Were but thy chances mine!
Had I but ways to come at joys like thine!
Spite of thy wizard look and sable skin,
The ready road to bliss 't is thine to win.
All nature owns of beautiful and sweet
In thy embraces now unconscious meet:
Young Jenny, ripening into womanhood,
That hides from day, like lilies while in bud,
To thy grim visage blooms in all her charms,
And comes, like Eve, unblushing to thy arms.
Of thy black mantle could I be possest,
How would I pillow on her panting breast,
And try those lips where trial rude beseems.
Breathing my spirit in her very dreams,
That ne'er a thought might wander from her heart,
But I possessed it, or ensured a part!
Of all the blessings that belong to thee,
Had I this one how happy should I be!
In "The Dream," which appeared in the same volume, Clare's muse took a still more ambitious flight—with what success the reader has here an opportunity to judge for himself. The obscurities in the composition must find their excuse in the nature of the subject:—
THE DREAM
Thou scarest me with dreams.—JOB.
When Night's last hours, like haunting spirits, creep
With listening terrors round the couch of sleep,
And Midnight, brooding in its deepest dye,
Seizes on Fear with dismal sympathy,
"I dreamed a dream" something akin to fate,
Which Superstition's blackest thoughts create—
Something half natural to the grave that seems,
Which Death's long trance of slumber haply dreams;
A dream of staggering horrors and of dread,
Whose shadows fled not when the vision fled,
But clung to Memory with their gloomy view,
Till Doubt and Fancy half believed it true.
That time was come, or seem'd as it was come,
When Death no longer makes the grave his home;
When waking spirits leave their earthly rest
To mix for ever with the damn'd or blest;
When years, in drowsy thousands counted by,
Are hung on minutes with their destiny:
When Time in terror drops his draining glass,
And all things mortal, like to shadows, pass,
As 'neath approaching tempests sinks the sun—
When Time shall leave Eternity begun.
Life swoon'd in terror at that hour's dread birth;
As in an ague, shook the fearful Earth;
And shuddering Nature seemed herself to shun,
Whilst trembling Conscience felt the deed was done.
A gloomy sadness round the sky was cast,
Where clouds seem'd hurrying with unusual haste;
Winds urged them onward, like to restless ships;
And light dim faded in its last eclipse;
And Agitation turn'd a straining eye;
And Hope stood watching like a bird to fly,
While suppliant Nature, like a child in dread,
Clung to her fading garments till she fled.
Then awful sights began to be reveal'd,
Which Death's dark dungeons had so long conceal'd,
Each grave its doomsday prisoner resign'd,
Bursting in noises like a hollow wind;
And spirits, mingling with the living then,
Thrill'd fearful voices with the cries of men.
All flying furious, grinning deep despair,
Shaped dismal shadows on the troubled air:
Red lightning shot its flashes as they came,
And passing clouds seem'd kindling into flame;
And strong and stronger came the sulphury smell,
With demons following in the breath of hell,
Laughing in mockery as the doom'd complain'd,
Losing their pains in seeing others pain'd.