"The Rural Muse" was published in July, and was cordially received by the "Athenaeum," "Blackwood's Magazine," the "Literary Gazette," and other leading periodicals. It was well printed and embellished with engravings of Northborough Church and the poet's cottage. It has been already intimated that the poems included within this volume, while retaining all the freshness and simplicity of Clare's earlier works, exhibit traces of the mental cultivation to which for years so large a portion of his time had been devoted. The circle of subjects is greatly expanded, the passages to which exception may be taken on the score of carelessness or obscurity are few, and the diction is often refined and elevated to a degree of which the poet had not before shown himself capable. The following extracts are made almost at random:-- AUTUMN Syren of sullen moods and fading hues, Yet haply not incapable of joy, Sweet Autumn! I thee hail With welcome all unfeigned; And oft as morning from her lattice peeps To beckon up the sun, I seek with thee To drink the dewy breath Of fields left fragrant then, In solitudes, where no frequented paths But what thine own foot makes betray thine home, Stealing obtrusive there To meditate thy end; By overshadowed ponds, in woody nooks, With ramping sallows lined, and crowding sedge, Which woo the winds to play, And with them dance for joy; And meadow pools, torn wide by lawless floods, Where waterlilies spread their oily leaves, On which, as wont, the fly Oft battens in the sun; Where leans the mossy willow half way o'er, On which the shepherd crawls astride to throw His angle, clear of weeds That crown the water's brim; Or crispy hills and hollows scant of sward, Where step by step the patient, lonely boy, Hath cut rude flights of stairs To climb their steepy sides; * * * * * Now filtering winds thin winnow through the woods With tremulous noise, that bids, at every breath, Some sickly cankered leaf Let go its hold and die. And now the bickering storm, with sudden start, In flirting fits of anger carps aloud, Thee urging to thine end, Sore wept by troubled skies. And yet, sublime in grief, thy thoughts delight To show me visions of most gorgeous dyes, Haply forgetting now They but prepare thy shroud; Thy pencil dashing its excess of shades, Improvident of wealth, till every bough Burns with thy mellow touch Disorderly divine. Soon must I view thee as a pleasant dream Droop faintly, and so reckon for thine end, As sad the winds sink low In dirges for their queen; While in the moment of their weary pause, To cheer thy bankrupt pomp, the willing lark Starts from his shielding clod, Snatching sweet scraps of song. Thy life is waning now, and Silence tries To mourn, but meets no sympathy in sounds, As stooping low she bends, Forming with leaves thy grave;