Page:The English Peasant.djvu/326

 something more than bodily weakness. But after the fit was over he conversed rationally enough. There was a rift in the clouds for the last time.

Alas, poor Clare! He was straining his eyes once more into the beautiful unknown. Doubtless he was feeling after God, if haply he might find Him. He had loved to call on all Nature to join with him in praising its glorious Creator. There are few religious lyrics, indeed, in the English language finer than his "Song of Praise," and "Nature's Hymn to Deity;" but it does not appear from his works or his life that he had up to this time ever felt his need of God as a Saviour. Now, he was eagerly stretching out his hands; there was something in the Bible—something deeper, more glorious than ever he had thought of before. It was the true light glimmering on the far-off horizon, but the clouds were fast coming. A long night of darkness was about to settle on his soul.

For months his wife watched and waited, hiding the dread secret as long as she could. But a sudden visit of Clare to the vicar of Helpstone revealed the extent of the calamity. He burst out in a manner which left no doubt of his insanity. Medical advice was at once taken, and he was removed to an asylum in Epping Forest.

By outdoor employment and exercise they sought to restore the tone of his mind. He was allowed to roam about the Forest at will, but strictly forbidden to write poetry. But even this restriction was relaxed, and now and then he presented the doctor with a composition.

These bits were more touchingly beautiful than ever, but they betrayed the fact that even now, when chaos reigned in his mind, his soul was again straining after a beautiful vision; that, even in his deep despondency, the horizon was flashing with another illusive joy.

Long before he was sent away to Epping Fore,st he had fancied that he had again seen his "Mary"—that Mary whose fair form seated on a stile, weaving a garland, struck the first note of love in his heart. The apparition had awakened the old fount of feeling, and Clare sang in touching accents—