Life and Remains of John Clare, The "Northamptonshire Peasant Poet"

by John Clare

'T is done, o'erpowering Vision! And no more
My simple numbers chronicle thy fame;
'T is gone: the spirit of my voice is o'er,
Adventuring praises to thy mighty name.
To thee an atom am I, and in shame
I shrink from these aspirings to my doom;
For all the world contains to praise or blame
Is but a garden hastening out of bloom
To fill up Nature's wreck-mere rubbish for the tomb.

Imperial Moralist! Thy every page,
Like grand prophetic visions, doth instal
Truth for all creeds. The savage, saint, and sage
In unison may answer to thy call.
Thy voice as universal, speaks to all;
It tells us what all were and are to be;
That evil deeds will evil hearts enthral,
And God the just maintain the grand decree,
That whoso righteous lives shall win eternity.

TO JOHN MILTON

"From his honoured Friend, William Davenant."

[This poem appeared in the "Sheffield Iris" of May the 16th, 1826, with this introductory note:—

"The following stanzas are supposed to have been addressed to Milton by his friend and contemporary, Sir William Davenant. We cannot vouch for their authenticity, but for their excellency we can. They have been communicated to us by the late editor of the 'Iris,' who received them from Mr. John Clare, the ingenious poet of Northamptonshire.">[

Poet of mighty power, I fain
Would court the muse that honoured thee,
And, like Elisha's spirit, gain
A part of thy intensity;
And share the mantle which she flung
Around thee, when thy lyre was strung.

Though faction's scorn at first did shun,
With coldness, thy inspired song,
Though clouds of malice pass'd thy sun,
They could not hide it long;
Its brightness soon exhaled away
Dark night, and gained eternal day.

The critics' wrath did darkly frown
Upon thy muse's mighty lay;
But blasts that break the blossom down
Do only stir the bay;
And thine shall flourish, green and long,
In the eternity of song.

Thy genius saw, in quiet mood,
Gilt fashion's follies pass thee by,
And, like the monarch of the wood,
Tower'd o'er it to the sky;
Where thou could'st sing of other spheres,
And feel the fame of future years.