waited for the publication of my new poems, 'The Shepherd's Calendar,' which was in the press then, where it has been ever since, as I wish, at its coming, to beg your acceptance of a copy, with the other volumes already published, as I am emboldened now to think they will be kindly received, and not be deemed intrusive, as one commonly fears while offering such trifles to strangers. I shall also be very glad of the opportunity in proving myself ready to serve you in your present undertaking; and could I light on an old poem that would be worth your attention, 300 or even 1,000 lines, would be no objection against my writing it out; but I do assure you I would not make a forgery for such a thing, though I suppose now you would suspect me; for I consider in such company it would be a crime, where blossoms are collected to decorate the 'Fountain of Truth.' But I will end, for I get very sleepy and very unintelligible. I am, my dear Sir, Yours very sincerely and affectionately, JOHN CLARE." PUBLICATION OF "THE SHEPHERD'S CALENDAR" 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.