spring morning, and under the influence of the poems, the singing of birds, and the bright sunshine, he composed "The Morning Walk." This was soon followed by "The Evening Walk," and some other minor pieces. At the age of sixteen, if we may trust the account given by his early friend Mr. Octavius Gilchrist, in the "London Magazine" for January, 1820, Clare composed the following sonnet "To a Primrose":-- Welcome, pale primrose, starting up between Dead matted leaves of oak and ash, that strew The every lawn, the wood, and spinney through, 'Mid creeping moss and ivy's darker green! How much thy presence beautifies the ground! How sweet thy modest, unaffected pride Glows on the sunny bank and wood's warm side! And where thy fairy flowers in groups are found The schoolboy roams enchantedly along, Plucking the fairest with a rude delight, While the meek shepherd stops his simple song, To gaze a moment on the pleasing sight, O'erjoyed to see the flowers that truly bring The welcome news of sweet returning Spring. As we have traced the poet's history down to his sixteenth year, the next incident of importance may be anticipated: of course he fell in love, and the object of his first and purest affection was Mary Joyce, daughter of a farmer at Glinton. Little is known of this episode excepting that the maiden was very beautiful, that after a few months of blissful intercourse their frequent meetings came to the knowledge of Mary's father, who sternly forbad their continuance, and that although "Patty," Clare's future wife, was the theme of some pretty verses, Mary Joyce was always Clare's ideal of love and beauty, and when thirty years afterwards, he lost his reason, among the first indications of the approaching calamity was his declaration that Mary, who had then long been in her grave, had passed his window. While under the influence of this delusion he wrote the poem entitled "First Love's Recollections," of which the following are the first two stanzas:-- First love will with the heart remain When all its hopes are bye, As frail rose-blossoms still retain Their fragrance when they die; And joy's first dreams will haunt the mind With shades from whence they sprung, As summer leaves the stems behind On which spring's blossoms hung. Mary! I dare not call thee dear, I've lost that right so long; Yet once again I vex thine ear With memory's idle song. Had time and change not blotted out The love of former days, Thou wert the last that I should doubt Of pleasing with my praise.