John Clare often reminds us of James Grahame. They are two of our most artless poets. Their versification is mostly very sweet, though rather flowing forth according to a certain fine natural sense of melody, than constructed on any principles of music. So, too, with their imagery, which seems seldom selected with much care; so that, while it is always true to nature, and often possesses a charm from its appearing to rise up of itself, and with little or no effort on the poet's part to form a picture, it is not unfrequently chargeable with repetition — sometimes, perhaps, with a sameness which, but for the inherent interest in the objects themselves, might be felt a little wearisome — there is so much still life. They are both most affectionately disposed towards all manner of birds. Grahame's Birds of Scotland is a delightful poem; yet its best passages are not superior to some of Clare's about the same charming creatures — and they are both ornithologists after Audubon's and our own heart.