"The pastoral, 'William and Robin,' one of Clare's earliest efforts, exhibits a degree of refinement and elegant sensibility which many persons can hardly believe a poor uneducated clown could have possessed: the delicacy of one of the lover towards the object of his attachment is as perfectly inborn and unaffected as if he were a Philip Sidney." Among the minor pieces of the "Village Minstrel" are the following, which are given as additional illustrations, the first of Clare's descriptive and the latter of his amatory manner:-- THE EVENING HOURS. The sultry day it wears away, And o'er the distant leas The mist again, in purple stain, Falls moist on flower and trees: His home to find, the weary hind Glad leaves his carts and ploughs; While maidens fair, with bosoms bare, Go coolly to their cows. The red round sun his work has done, And dropp'd into his bed; And sweetly shin'd the oaks behind His curtains fringed with red: And step by step the night has crept, And day, as loth, retires; But clouds, more dark, night's entrance mark. Till day's last spark expires. Pride of the vales, the nightingales Now charm the oaken grove; And loud and long, with amorous tongue, They try to please their love: And where the rose reviving blows Upon the swelter'd bower, I'll take my seat, my love to meet, And wait th' appointed hour. And like the bird, whose joy is heard Now he his love can join, Who hails so loud the even's shroud, I'll wait as glad for mine: As weary bees o'er parched leas Now meet reviving flowers, So on her breast I'll sink to rest, And bless the evening hours. I LOVE THEE, SWEET MARY. I love thee, sweet Mary, but love thee in fear; Were I but the morning breeze, healthful and airy, As thou goest a-walking I'd breathe in thine ear, And whisper and sigh, how I love thee, my Mary! I wish but to touch thee, but wish it in vain; Wert thou but a streamlet, a-winding so clearly, And I little globules of soft dropping rain, How fond would I press thy white bosom, my Mary! I would steal a kiss, but I dare not presume; Wert thou but a rose in thy garden, sweet fairy, And I a bold bee for to rifle its bloom, A whole Summer's day would I kiss thee, my Mary! I long to be with thee, but cannot tell how; Wert thou but the elder that grows by thy dairy, And I the blest woodbine to twine on the bough, I'd embrace thee and cling to thee ever, my Mary! A MODEST AMBITION THWARTED