The shadow by thy side Will be thy ape, and mock.

Dost think that power's disguise Can make thee mighty seem?

It may in folly's eyes, But not in worth's esteem, When all that thou canst ask, And all that she can give, Is but a paltry mask Which tyrants wear and live.

Go, let thy fancies range And ramble where they may; View power in every change, And what is the display?

--The county magistrate, The lowest shade in power, To rulers of the state, The meteors of an hour:--

View all, and mark the end Of every proud extreme, Where flattery turns a friend, And counterfeits esteem; Where worth is aped in show, That doth her name purloin, Like toys of golden glow Oft sold for copper coin.

Ambition's haughty nod With fancies may deceive, Nay, tell thee thou'rt a G.o.d, And wilt thou such believe?

Go, bid the seas be dry; Go, hold earth like a ball, Or throw her fancies by, For G.o.d can do it all.

Dost thou possess the dower Of laws to spare or kill?

Call it not heavenly power When but a tyrant's will, Think what thy G.o.d would do, And know thyself a fool, Nor, tyrant-like, pursue Where He alone can rule.

Dost think, when wealth is won, Thy heart has its desire?

Hold ice up to the sun, And wax before the fire; Nor triumph o'er the reign Which they so soon resign: Of this world weigh the gain, Insurance safe is thine.

Dost think life's peace secure In houses and in land?

Go, read the fairy lure, And twist a cord in sand; Lodge stones upon the sky, Hold water in a sieve, Nor give such tales the lie, And still thine own believe.

Whoso with riches deals, And thinks peace bought and sold, Will find them slipping eels, That slide the firmest hold: Though sweet as sleep with health Thy lulling luck may be, Pride may o'erstride thy wealth, And check prosperity.

Dost think that beauty's power Life sweetest pleasure gives?

Go, pluck the summer flower, And see how long it lives: Behold, the rays glide on Along the summer plain Ere thou canst say they're gone: Know such is beauty's reign.

Look on the brightest eye, Nor teach it to be proud; View next the clearest sky, And thou shalt find a cloud; Nor call each face ye meet An angel's, 'cause it's fair, But look beneath your feet, And think of what ye are.

Who thinks that love doth live In beauty's tempting show, Shall find his hopes ungive, And melt in reason's thaw.

Who thinks that pleasure lies In every fairy bower, Shall oft, to his surprise, Find poison in the flower.

Dost lawless pleasures grasp?

Judge not they'll bring thee joy: Their flowers but hide the asp, Whose poison will destroy.

Who trusts a harlot's smile, And by her wiles is led, Plays, with a sword the while Hung dropping o'er his head.

Dost doubt my warning song?

Then doubt the sun gives light, Doubt truth to teach thee wrong, Think wrong alone is right; And live as lives the knave, Intrigue's deceiving guest; Be tyrant, or be slave, As suits thy ends the best.

Or pause amid thy toils For visions won and lost, And count the fancied spoils, If e'er they quit the cost: And if they still possess Thy mind, as worthy things, Pick straws with Bedlam Bess, And call them diamond rings.

Thy folly's past advice, Thy heart's already won, Thy fall's above all price, So go, and be undone; For all who thus prefer The seeming great for small Shall make wine vinegar, And sweetest honey gall.

Would'st heed the truths I sing, To profit wherewithal, Clip folly's wanton wing, And keep her within call.

I've little else to give, But thou canst easy try; The lesson how to live Is but to learn to die.

MARCH

[From HONE'S "Year Book"]

The insect world, now sunbeams higher climb, Oft dream of Spring, and wake before their time: Bees stroke their little legs across their wings, And venture short flights where the snow-drop hings Its silver bell, and winter aconite Its b.u.t.tercup-like flowers that shut at night, With green leaf furling round its cup of gold, Like tender maiden m.u.f.fled from the cold: They sip and find their honey-dreams are vain, Then feebly hasten to their hives again.

The b.u.t.terflies, by eager hopes undone, Glad as a child come out to greet the sun, Beneath the shadows of a sunny shower Are lost, nor see to-morrow's April flower.

THE OLD MAN'S LAMENT

Youth has no fear of ill, by no cloudy days annoyed, But the old man's all hath fled, and his hopes have met their doom: The bud hath burst to flower, and the flower been long destroyed, The root also is withered; I no more can look for bloom.

So I have said my say, and I have had my day, And sorrow, like a young storm, creeps dark upon my brow; Hopes, like to summer clouds, have all blown far away, And the world's sunny side is turned over with me now, And I am left a lame bird upon a withered bough.

I look upon the past: 't is as black as winter days, But the worst is not yet over; there are blacker, days to come.

O, I would I had but known of the wide world's many ways, But youth is ever blind, so I e'en must meet my doom.

Joy once gave brightest forecasts of prospects that are past, But now, like a looking gla.s.s that's turned to the wall, Life is nothing but a blank, and the sunny shining past Is overcast in glooms that my every hope enthrall, While troubles daily thicken in the wind ere they fall.

Life smiled upon me once, as the sun upon the rose; My heart, so free and open, guessed in every face a friend: Though the sweetest flower must fade, and the sweetest season close, Yet I never gave it thought that my happiness would end, Till the warmest-seeming friends grew the coldest at the close, As the sun from lonely night hides its haughty shining face, Yet I could not think them gone, for they turned not open foes, While memory fondly mused, former favours to retrace, So I turned, but only found that my shadow kept its place.

And this is nought but common life, which everybody finds As well as I, or more's the luck of those that better speed.

I'll mete my lot to bear with the lot of kindred minds, And grudge not those who say they for sorrow have no need.

Why should I, when I know that it will not aid a nay?

For Summer is the season; even then the little fly Finds friends enow, indeed, both for leisure and for play; But on the winter window it must crawl alone to die: Such is life, and such am I--a wounded, stricken fly.

SPRING FLOWERS

Bowing adorers of the gale, Ye cowslips delicately pale, Upraise your loaded stems; Unfold your cups in splendour; speak!

Who decked you with that ruddy streak And gilt your golden gems?

Violets, sweet tenants of the shade, In purple's richest pride arrayed, Your errand here fulfil; Go, bid the artist's simple stain Your l.u.s.tre imitate--in vain-- And match your Maker's skill.

Daisies, ye flowers of lowly birth, Embroiderers of the carpet earth, That stud the velvet sod, Open to Spring's refreshing air, In sweetest smiling bloom declare Your Maker and your G.o.d.

POEM ON DEATH

[This poem, like that ent.i.tled "The Vanities of Life," is an imitation. In his Diary, Clare says--

"Wednesday, July 27, 1825.

Received the 28th No. (June the 28th) of the 'Every-Day Book,' in which is inserted a poem of mine which I sent under the a.s.sumed name of James Gilderoy, from Sunfleet, as being the production of Andrew Marvell, and printed in the 'Miscellanies' of the Spalding Antiquaries (the members of the Spalding Club). I shall venture again under another name after a while."

Hone accepted the contribution without detecting the disguise, but Clare's next venture of the same description, "A Farewell and Defiance to Love," which he says in his Diary, he "fathered on Sir John Harrington," was unsuccessful.]