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 lustre 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 God. POEM ON DEATH [This poem, like that entitled "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 assumed 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.] Why should man's high aspiring mind Burn in him with so proud a breath, When all his haughty views can find In this world yields to Death? The fair, the brave, the vain, the wise, The rich, the poor, and great, and small, Are each but worm's anatomies To strew his quiet hall. Power may make many earthly gods, Where gold and bribery's guilt prevails, But Death's unwelcome, honest odds Kick o'er the unequal scales. The flatter'd great may clamours raise Of power, and their own weakness hide, But Death shall find unlooked-for ways To end the farce of pride. An arrow hurtel'd e'er so high, With e'en a giant's sinewy strength, In Time's untraced eternity Goes but a pigmy length; Nay, whirring from the tortured string, With all its pomp of hurried flight, 'T is by the skylark's little wing Outmeasured in its height.