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diff --git a/old/52601-0.txt b/old/52601-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 5e14330..0000000 --- a/old/52601-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,5226 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, by John Clare - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Poems - -Author: John Clare - -Contributor: C. Ernest Smith - -Editor: Norman Gale - -Release Date: July 18, 2016 [EBook #52601] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS *** - - - - -Produced by Larry B. Harrison, Chuck Greif and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - - - POEMS - - BY - - JOHN CLARE - - - - - PUBLISHER’S NOTICE. - - -The Publisher desires to express his regret that, owing to an oversight, -the proofs of the Introduction were not submitted to the Editor, who is -in no way responsible for the following - - ERRATA (corrected in this etext) - -Page xvii., line 6, for “been” read “being”; page xxii., first line, for -“Reynerdson” read “Reynardson”; page xxiv., for “tête-á-tête” read -“tête-à-tête”; page xxviii., 2nd line, for “compliments.” read -“compliments,”; page xxx., line 11, for “Dick Suivelles” read “Dick -Swiveller”; page xxxi., in the last line but two, for “to” read “of”; -page xxxix., in line 6 of second paragraph for “widey” read “widely.” - - - - - POEMS _by_ JOHN CLARE - - SELECTED AND INTRODUCED BY - NORMAN GALE (AUTHOR OF “A - COUNTRY MUSE,” &C. &C.) WITH A - BIBLIOGRAPHY BY C. ERNEST SMITH - - RUGBY: GEORGE E. OVER, 1901 - - Printed at The Rugby Press - - - - -CONTENTS - - - Page - -A Spring Morning 138 - -A World for Love 120 - -Address to Plenty 3 - -Approach of Spring, The 76 - -Autumn 99 - -Autumn Robin, The 132 - -Ballad 42 - -Crab Tree, The 139 - -Decay 125 - -December 70 - -Effusion 39 - -Gipsy Camp, The 45 - -Graves of Infants 144 - -Harvest Morning, The 18 - -Home Yearnings 145 - -I am! Yet what I am 157 - -June 65 - -Love 123 - -Love Lives beyond the Tomb 147 - -Meeting, The 37 - -Milton, To John 154 - -My Early Home 149 - -My Love, thou art a Nosegay Sweet 36 - -Nightingale’s Nest, The 114 - -Noon 14 - -Pastoral Fancies 129 - -Patty 32 - -Patty of the Vale 34 - -Old Poesy 141 - -On an Infant’s Grave 22 - -Rural Evening 55 - -Rustic Fishing 61 - -Song 44 - -Song 122 - -Summer Evening 25 - -Summer Images 89 - -Tell-Tale Flowers, The 150 - -Thoughts in a Churchyard 112 - -’Tis Spring, my Love, ’Tis Spring 142 - -To an April Daisy 23 - -To P * * * * 118 - -To the Clouds 47 - -To the Rural Muse 82 - -Universal Epitaph, The 17 - -Vanities of Life, The 105 - -What is Life? 1 - -Winter 140 - -Woodman, The 48 - - - - -BIOGRAPHY AND COMMENT - - -In tracing the origin of JOHN CLARE it is not necessary to go very far -back, reference to his grandfather and grandmother being a sufficient -acknowledgement of the claims of genealogy. Following the road at -haphazard, trusting himself entirely to the guidance of fortune, and -relying for provender upon his skill in drawing from a violin tunes of -the battle and the dance, about thirty years before Helpstone heard the -first wail of its infant poet, there arrived at the village the vagabond -and truculent Parker. Born under a wandering star, this man had footed -it through many a country of Europe, careless whether daily necessity -required from him an act of bloodshed or the scraping of a harum-scarum -reel designed to set frolic in the toes of man and maid. At the time of -his reaching Helpstone, a Northamptonshire village, destined to come -into prominence because of the lyrics of its chief son, it happened that -the children were without a schoolmaster. In his time the adventurer -had played many parts. Why should he not add to the list? Effrontery, -backed up by an uncertain amount of superficial attainment, won the day, -and this fiddling Odysseus obtained the vacant position. Of his -boastings, his bowings, his drinkings, there is no need to make history, -but his soft tongue demands a moment of attention. We may take it for -granted that he picked out the fairest flower among the maids of -Helpstone as the target for all the darts at his disposal, each of -which, we may be sure, was polished by use. The daughter of the parish -clerk was a fortress easy to capture. Depicted by himself, the rascal -loomed as a hero; till at last the affair proceeded beyond a mere kiss, -and the poor girl pleaded for the offices of a priest in order to save -her child from the stain of illegitimacy. However, the schoolmaster -proved glib of promises, but fleet of foot, for on the day following his -sweetheart’s revelations he was nowhere to be found. In the course of -time JOHN CLARE’S father was born. In his turn, he grew into the want of -a mate, found her, married her, and begot an honour for England. - -JOHN CLARE was born at Helpstone, on the 13th day of July, 1793, and -born into a heritage of handicaps. To say nothing of the fruits of -exposure to rough weathers which were ripening in his father’s system, -the boy had the disadvantage of being one of twins, a sister -accompanying him into the world. His mother suffered from dropsy, and we -may well believe that what life the children sucked from her breast -contained elements threatening their future health. Small and frail, the -lad had the additional misfortune to open his eyes in the cottage of a -pauper, instead of in some abode where his natural weakness could have -been nourished by foods giving inward encouragement, and of a sort sure -to result in the building up of hearty fibre. Despite all these early -rebuffs, JOHN CLARE kept hold of life. When still very young he set out -full of faith to explore the junction of earth and heaven, for on the -horizon he could see the point of their meeting. In this incident, as -well as in many another of his childhood, it is easy to detect signs of -a spirit triumphantly unfitted for residence in a clay hovel at -Helpstone. As luck would have it, a kind of rough-and-ready poetry was -not altogether out of the boy’s reach, for his father’s head was stuffed -with innumerable odds-and-ends of rhyme, some of which he was in the -habit of reciting to his son. Entertainment of the same sort was -obtainable from old Granny Bains, a weather-worn cow-herd, to whom the -future poet was attracted by her store of ditties; whose especial -cronies were the wind and rain. Under such illiterate tutors little JOHN -CLARE moved closer and closer to the soul of poetry, musing while he put -a limit to the vagrancy of the geese and sheep for which he had been -appointed guardian as soon as the main part of his schooling was over. -His departure from the scholastic bench took place when his years had -reached a very unripe total, for with only seven birthdays entered in -his book of life, at an age when a child is usually at the commencement -of historical and geographical perplexities, he was turned out into the -fields as a wage-earner. Instead of feeling elated at his escape from -the scholastic coils of Dame Bullimore, as many a lad would have done, -JOHN CLARE, being aware of his budding wits, although unable to -comprehend the motive force from within, looked round his small district -in search of fresh educational territories to be conquered by his brain. -Having saved a few pence he made overtures to Mr. James Merrishaw, the -schoolmaster of Glinton, and in the duller months of the year, when days -were short, he attended certain evening classes, notwithstanding the -fact that the journeys involved taxed his boot-leather severely; for -Glinton is nearly five miles away from Helpstone. Here he learned well, -but not altogether wisely, if we may agree that the boy’s struggles with -the intricacies of algebra were conspicuous for mis-applied energy. But -something more valuable than baffling equations resulted from JOHN -CLARE’S connection with the sage of Glinton, for Mr. Merrishaw made him -free of his books, thus feeding more and more that desire for knowledge -which sprang up in him not less rapidly than a mushroom grows in a -meadow. - -Even in such a loose piece of biography as this--an essay which has no -other aim than to glance in passing at the salient features of CLARE’S -career--a little space must be spared for mention of the boy’s year of -service as factotum at the “Blue Bell” at Helpstone, where he had almost -as much leisure as work, because it was here that his hermitical notions -and moods of dream increased at an extraordinary rate. Served by -travelling pedlars, whose packs let him share in fancy the terror of Red -Riding Hood, the adventures of Valentine and Orson, to say no word of -Sinbad’s amazements, the small student entered for the first time into -the recesses of fairy land, there to lave his hands in its abundant -jewels, while making extortionate demands upon the swiftness of genies. -Little by little, algebra went to the wall, yielding as much to the -boy’s spreading passion for Nature’s feast of grass and flowers, as for -the limitless enchantments born of imagination, since at this period the -list of impulses communicated to him by wayside blossoms, by clouds, by -winds, and by the easy ballads of thrushes, daily grew longer. The boy -began to appreciate the largeness of God’s school as compared with the -limits reigned over by Dame Bullimore and the pedagogue of Glinton; and -his increasing sense of hearing enabled him to receive into his -understanding fragments of those sermons which are preached by stones. -Hunger for expansion lived and lusted in his heart. No better example of -this fury of craving could be adduced than the story of how the young -poet entered into a combat with circumstances in order that he might -obtain a copy of Thomson’s “Seasons.” Mental agony, as well as a -superlative degree of hoarding, went to the purchase of that coveted -volume, the history of which is fully set forth in Mr. Frederick -Martin’s stimulating “Life of John Clare.” During these glowing months -the boy of genius had not ceased from utilising every chance scrap of -paper for the purpose of jotting down his exercises in rhyme. By means -of a forgivable trick he secured the verbal patronage of his father and -mother, who could not see any merit in his verses till he pretended -that they were the compositions of others. As poem after poem was -written their author stored them in a cranny in the wall, a retreat at -last invaded by Mrs. Clare, with the result that she was wont to help -the boiling of the kettle by burning underneath it the early pipings of -her son. - -At this point, the youth in whose story the interest lies being sixteen -years old, Cupid, with no loss of his bright qualities after so many -centuries of exercise, comes into the recital. To JOHN CLARE, who was -moving rapidly towards the full worship of all things lovely, Mary Joyce -appeared to be nobody less bewildering and enchanting than a stray from -heaven; and though he was prevented from wearing her, the dice of -Fortune falling adverse from the box, he never ceased to regard her as -his ideal. Of the many pathetic incidents of his life not the least -touching is the fact that in his years of a broken brain he cherished as -a chief delusion the belief that Mary Joyce was indeed his wife. What -the feelings of a nature so intense were when the father of his -sweetheart intervened as the proverbial slip between the cup and the -lip, we can only conjecture, though the tracing of results is easy -enough. After leaving the tankards and the horses of the “Blue Bell,” -JOHN CLARE cast about him for some other form of employment. Escaping -the pains of stone-cutting and cobbling, he succeeded in becoming a -gardener’s apprentice at Burghley Park, the seat of the Marquis of -Exeter. Parker Clare began to think that his son was born with an -invisible silver spoon in his mouth, while to JOHN eight shillings a -week, with lodging free, smacked of the robbers’ cave in the “Arabian -Nights.” In reality, this position was altogether undesirable, for the -head gardener, not content to degrade himself alone by an excessive -swallowing of stimulants, actually devoted his best efforts to make -drunkards of his pupils. Unfortunately temptation loomed large at the -very moment when CLARE was ripe for mischief. Romance was worsted by -swipes (the indignity of the episode may be held to excuse the slang); -by means of such thin nepenthe, regret for the loss of Mary Joyce grew -less and less; and it not infrequently occurred that the new apprentice -slept off his potations by the hedge-side, with no better blanket than a -mist, and with the damp turf for sole mattress, thus unconsciously -taking in a cargo of ague and fever for future unloading. At last CLARE, -in company with another lad who was anxious to show a clean pair of -heels to the abstract and concrete brutalities of his master, fled to -Grantham, and thence to Newark-upon-Trent, where both the runaways -obtained work under a nurseryman. But CLARE was homesick; his mother’s -face was as a magnet pulling him to the familiar hovel at Helpstone; no -longer could he obey that decree of divorce from his native scenes -pronounced against him by the impalpable judge and jury of circumstance. -One day, after a terrible journey on foot, he burst into the hut of his -parents, weeping for joy to gain for his body the residence which his -spirit had occupied so long. - -No sooner had CLARE returned his muscles to the various tasks of a farm -labourer than he harked back with a love greater than ever to Thomson’s -“Seasons,” reading it as he went to and from his work. The chief part of -his leisure he used for the composition of verses, an occupation which -served to fix upon him habits of timidity and shyness, especially as he -was without a single sympathiser. Because of his strange manners, his -fits of abstraction as well as of uttered enthusiasm, his appetite for -solitude, the neighbours passed from mere mockery to whispers of a mind -diseased, and even of a nature beset by the black ministers of magic. -The fact that about this time his mother, for the purposes of fuel, made -a clean sweep of his poetic accumulations did its share to loosen his -moral control; and when his attempts at gaining encouragement from Mr. -Thomas Porter, and patronage from Lord Milton, to whom the parish clerk -of Helpstone displayed the rustic poet, failed, he betook himself, this -time of his own accord, to the drunken company of the worst livers in -the village. Much of CLARE’S future misery proceeded from this lapse. -Before bad example had done its utmost to ruin him, Providence, in the -somewhat unusual disguise of a recruiting sergeant, came to the rescue. -JOHN’S period of military service was brief, for after being instructed -at Oundle in the goose-step--that foundation of a glorious career under -arms--the corps of which he was a member was disbanded, and he was -enabled once more to assume the civilian smock at Helpstone. For all -booty he had a second-rate copy of “Paradise Lost” and “The Tempest.” A -matter of more importance, however, was the fact that he had departed -from the pernicious influence of the roysterers who were leading him to -destruction. A number of small adventures were not slow to follow his -short intimacy with the clothes and tools of war, what with his trial of -a gipsy’s life, and his courting of several girls, one of whom, -Elizabeth Newton by name, drove him into a fit of melancholy by playing -the part of a jilt. In this state of mind nothing could have suited him -better than change of scene, and his departure to Bridge Casterton, -there to learn the details of a lime-burner’s trade, happened at a -moment fortunate for heart and head alike. It was while he resided in -this neighbourhood that he confided to Mr. Henson, a bookseller of -Market Deeping, the fact of his colloquy with the Muse, following the -avowal by a display of his powers. This confession was the germ of a -wide circulation. - -And now we are arrived at a fresh, and, as far as matrimony is -concerned, a final love. CLARE being now twenty-four years of age, it -was high time for him to nurse an established affection, and he was -lucky to win the heart of Martha Turner, the “Patty” of several poems to -be found in the collected works of the poet. To him Martha was another -waif from the skies, even though she tortured her poetical admirer by -the time-honoured practice of appearing to waver between two suitors. -The conduct of this episode was made up of petty events prosaic enough -to the onlooker, but sufficiently lethal for the parties most -interested. Tiffs, sour looks from parents, despairs, showers, rainbows, -were the constituents of CLARE’S courtship. A flat and always fortunate -wooing would doubtless have been hostile to poetry. Because of his -longing to supply two mouths with the necessaries of life, and because -it was clearly proved that Cupid would not even be able to munch a -satisfactory portion of crust if the lovers founded their faith solely -on the wage of a lime-burner, CLARE conceived the idea of publishing a -volume of song, his mind appointing Mr. Henson, of Market Deeping, a -comrade for his project. A month devoted to the base uses of the -treadmill would not have cost the poet more labour than did the -composition of his prospectus, three hundred copies of which the -bookseller agreed to print, as well as a specimen sonnet, for one pound. -But this trap for subscribers was baited with too much candour. If ever -a poet met with a crushing response to his first appeal for a hearing, -surely JOHN CLARE was that man. Seven patrons came forward, more, we may -guess, in kindness than in hope of literary luxury. CLARE, of course, -experienced the superlatives of disgust; and when the printer of the -artless prospectus wrote to inform him that the adventure must drop -unless fifteen pounds appeared to back it up, he could not withhold -himself from replying in a strain to the last degree impolitic. To add -to his griefs, a rather wide gulf was at this time yawning between -Martha Turner and himself, the bridging of which was a feat of -engineering extremely hard to accomplish. Moreover, and here is an -illustration of the proverb that it never rains but it pours, the owner -of the limekilns discharged his lyrical servant on the score of his -inattention to business. The whole neighbourhood being somewhat -scandalised at what was considered presumption, for labourers of CLARE’S -type were not required to assert themselves in prose, much less in -poetry, the disappointed lime-burner, with a heart given up to aching, -returned once more to Helpstone, where he would have starved but for -parochial relief. So genius sat down to eat the parish loaf. - -However tightly twisted the rosebud may be, windy and sunny fingers will -unpack it at last. At the very moment when CLARE was reading himself as -the peculiar prey of disaster, he was destined to behold the bright back -of the cloud which had confronted him with such ominous persistence. By -strange approaches the news of _Clare’s_ devotion to and production of -poetry arrived at Mr. Drury, a bookseller who was on the point of taking -over a business at Stamford from Mr. Thompson, of that town. In company -with a friend, Mr. Drury proceeded to Helpstone, interviewed the -astonished poet, glanced through some rhymed samples, and finally -declared his intention to publish a volume at his own risk, hearing -which intelligence CLARE once more rose heavenward in the balloon of -hope, forgetting how certain it was that impediments to free flight -would make themselves manifest. Owing to the offices of Mr. Drury, CLARE -became acquainted with Mr. Gilchrist, of Stamford, a gentlemen with an -Oxford education and a grocer’s shop, who played the part of a true -friend to the poet, if we except his action in making public some verses -of CLARE’S which had more wine than inspiration in them. It has been -contended that Mr. Gilchrist filled the post of patron with a want of -reserve which made CLARE feel his position acutely; for the eating of -humble-pie has never been a really popular amusement. Be this as it may, -lovers of “Poems descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery” have a great -deal for which to thank Mr. Gilchrist. After promising CLARE to -undertake the publication of his first book, Mr. Drury experienced a few -bad hours. To begin with, the ill-spelt, rope-tied, unpunctuated mass of -manuscript entrusted to him by its author had a most unpromising aspect. -He tested it as best he could, but, as the glow of the adventure had -already faded a little, found no particular reasons for comfort. In this -strait he enlisted the acumen of an acquaintance, a clergyman, whose -name was, somewhat appropriately, Twopenny, in order to see how the -verses might strike a contemporary. The prophetic Twopenny, with brutal -candour, described CLARE’S bundle of reeds to be so much twaddle. When -Mr. Drury delivered this oracle, the grief of the poet was such that the -bookseller was shocked. Had it not been for the anguish of the singer, -it is quite possible that the bookseller of Stamford would have -departed, with decent circuity, from his bargain; as it was, he -determined to procure yet another opinion. He happened to be a relative -of Mr. John Taylor, the London publisher, to whom he despatched the -uncouth manuscript in question. Mr. Taylor’s were not as Mr. Twopenny’s -eyes. He knew diamonds when he saw them, even though a polisher had not -exerted his craft upon them. - -Before proceeding to describe the effect made on the public by the -appearance of “Poems descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery,” it will be -necessary to revert for a moment to the affairs of love. No sooner was -the first quarrel between the sweethearts swept away by the broom of -reconciliation than the flame of passion, burning to a conquering -height, made a bonfire out of the broken materials of virtue. This -disaster was followed by fresh bickerings. Martha Turner found it -impossible to be for ever displaying a cheerful front. Her tears, her -reproaches, her simple tricks to make CLARE jealous, resulted in a -serious breach. CLARE, listening far too readily to glib and evil -persuasions from within, appears to have convinced himself that he was -the injured party; whereupon he began to wound Martha by flirting -outrageously with Betty Sell, the daughter of a Southorp labourer. This -inglorious behaviour received a sudden check, just after the publication -of CLARE’S book, by reason of a letter from Martha Turner, in which she -spoke of her coming motherhood, and implored the author of her shame to -cleanse her in so far as he was able. Truth to tell, CLARE was by this -time wellnigh assured that Betty was his favourite, but he had the -manliness to follow the right star, and on the 16th of March, 1820, was -united to Martha at Great Casterton Church. A month after the wedding -Anna Maria Clare was born to him. As this marriage would hardly have -been possible but for the stir occasioned by the poems, we may now give -a short history of the events immediately following their issue. - -Although the art of preliminary puffing was as yet in swaddling clothes, -so to speak, Mr. Taylor contrived to interest a large number of his -acquaintances, some of whom had access to the columns of certain -periodicals. Moreover, Mr. Gilchrist’s magazine article had proved a -useful forerunner. The book itself was born into a golden clime. The -reading world happening to be sick of Metropolitan and modish fare, -CLARE’S birds and mayblossoms came as a tonic to all who were desirous -of a change. The triumph of the country over the town was of the -completest sort; customers poured into Mr. Taylor’s shop in their -anxiety to purchase copies of the labourer’s poems; for once the critics -and the public were agreed. Journals of fine stature joined with -insignificant prints in praising CLARE to the skies, and when this new -writer actually succeeded in carrying the defences of the “Quarterly,” -it was allowed on all sides that lion-hunters were in luck’s way. CLARE -was fortunate in some of his advertisers. Rossini and Madame Vestris -brought him into further prominence by means of a musical setting and of -recitations at Covent Garden. Genius in hobnailed boots and a -smock-frock shouldered aside the more usual figures of literary London. -While all this was taking place in Fleet Street, as well as in the -aristocratic sections of the capital, rumours of CLARE’S amazing success -reached the county residences in the neighbourhood of Helpstone. -General Birch Reynardson gave him to eat with his lackeys, and Viscount -Milton flung seventeen guineas into his lap with as much feeling as he -might have thrown seventeen crumbs to a cur. In great contrast to -blue-blooded vulgarity of this stamp was the Marquis of Exeter’s -treatment of the poet, although a more liberal display of tact upon his -part would have enabled CLARE to leave his mansion with a heart given -over completely to joy and gratitude. Friends of _Clare_ are not likely -to forget the generosity of the Marquis. An annuity of fifteen guineas -for life was indeed a handsome backing of the Muse. Because of this gift -Anna Maria Clare was born in wedlock; without it her parents would not -have been able to marry as soon as they did. Foolish folk spared the -poet none of the customary agonies. He was pestered by inquisitive -visitors; collectors of autographs bullied him for his signature, and -the owners of albums plagued him to encourage them in their whim. Some -persons of the goody-goody type improved the shining hour by sending him -an assortment of tracts, the fate of which is wrapped in impenetrable -mystery. CLARE was a simple child of nature, certainly, but we may -almost take it for granted that he left these precious effusions -undigested. - -The news that CLARE was about to trust his bones to London almost -paralysed his rustic intimates. Generations of romancers had made -strange impressions upon the provincial mind. Particularly full of -odious vaticinations was James Burridge, an old farm labourer whose head -was stuffed to the bursting point with stories horrifying enough to make -CLARE’S flesh creep. According to this authority, London thoroughly -deserved the doubtful compliment of being compared with Babylon. He -declared that there were trap-doors in the streets, down which wayfarers -flopped into cauldrons of boiling water amid the plaudits of ministering -cut-throats! CLARE quailed, his parents wept, and his wife approached -within measurable distance of hysterics. But even the prospect of being -cooked in this casual manner did not suffice to deter the poet from -visiting Mr. Taylor, of Fleet Street. That he set some value upon the -legends of James Burridge is proved by his adoption of a small device to -baffle the trapdoor operators. Believing safety to be resident in a -smock-frock and in boots the soles of which sustained grinning rows of -hobnails, he set forth upon his journey thus attired. He was not long in -regretting his precautions, for he soon perceived that his costume -evoked from onlookers merry comments and derisive glances. In the end, -Mr. Taylor supplied him with an overcoat which covered the defects of -his attire. Whatever the heat of theatre or drawing-room, whether among -lords or commoners, JOHN CLARE clung to this garment with the courage of -despair. What his agonies were, because of his raiment, when driven into -a corner by a countess for a _tête-à-tête_, we can do no more than dimly -conjecture. In the course of this visit CLARE was introduced to Admiral -Lord Radstock, who took a great fancy to him and remained a firm friend, -and to Mrs. Emmerson, a lady who, seeing that her purse and sympathies -were always ready to alleviate the mischances of young poets and -artists, might be described as a female Maecenas. To this rather gushing -and sentimental patroness of the arts CLARE from time to time addressed -letters which were not devoid of the elements of wildness and Platonic -passion. At last his emphasis became so absurd that Mrs. Emmerson -requested him to send back her portrait. Had a jug of cold water been -poured down the poet’s neck he could not have been more cooled than he -was by this piece of diplomacy. The shrine was despoiled. The picture -was despatched by the next carrier; and doubtless Martha, who must have -hated the sight of Mrs. Emmerson’s face, congratulated herself in -secret. There is no need to say more about CLARE’S first visit to -London, if we except mention of the fact that the mighty city’s chief -effect upon him was to fill his breast with yearning for the oaks and -rivulets round about his native village. A week in the Metropolis had -been more than enough for the countryman. As he rumbled homeward in the -coach, he had dreams of unsullied waters and unsmoked rainbows; and he -counted over his country joys as a miser adds up the total of his -various coins. At the top of his treasures stood his wife and baby, for, -with all his Platonic declensions from the state most comfortable to -Martha, he was an affectionate husband and father. About this time -several hearty friends strove with might and main to secure a competence -for the poet. A sum of four hundred and twenty pounds was the result of -their earnestness; but when it is remembered that Earl Fitzwilliam and -CLARE’S publishers were between them responsible for no less than two -hundred of this amount, the harvest of solicitation is not notable for -bounteousness. Dr. Bell--a friend of the right complexion--extracted an -annual ten pounds from Earl Spencer, so that, what with this gift, the -Marquis of Exeter’s donation, and the fund, the genius of Helpstone was -possessed of an income of forty-five pounds per annum. CLARE felt a -very mendicant throughout all these transactions, and even went so far -as to disavow them in letters despatched to his noble helpers. Had it -not been for the persuasions of Mr. Gilchrist and the amusing invectives -of Dr. Bell, he would have kicked with greater persistence against the -pricks of charity. - -As soon as the harvest was over, CLARE made an end of labouring in the -fields. He was under agreement to hand over another volume of poetry to -Messrs. Taylor and Hessey for publication early in 1821. It was now his -earnest endeavour to fulfil his share of the bargain, and he bared his -forehead to inspiration. CLARE always felt himself cheated and empty of -ideas when shut up within four walls. The Muse would not follow him to -his fireside, but she would frolic with him the live-long day in the -open air, filling him with buoyancy, kissing his lips, and smoothing out -his wrinkles. Seated inside an old oak, whose heart had gradually passed -into the atmosphere, CLARE was wont to pour his soul in song, and so -fruitful were the hints of his unseen companion that he soon had a great -collection of new verses. All that he approved he desired to publish, -but Mr. Taylor spoke a few strong words in favour of weeding, -suggesting to CLARE that he should play the part of Herod toward some of -the children of his imagination. A deadlock ensued. For a time the poet -was adamant, the publishers marble. In this difficulty CLARE bethought -himself of Mr. Gilchrist as an excellent agent for the casting of oil on -the troubled waters. This gentleman, however, was thick in a squabble of -his own, and when CLARE appeared unsympathetic he displayed a spirit -very much huffed. At last the tension between poet and publishers became -less, with the result that in the middle of September “The Village -Minstrel” was ready for purchasers. The two volumes were handsomely -presented; the type was beautiful, and a couple of steel engravings made -a brave show. Despite the attractions of genius, despite the various -ornaments, “The Village Minstrel” met with rather an icy greeting. Among -the several explanations of this coldness put forward by the publishers -and by certain friends, the likeliest is that the season of issue was -not wisely chosen. In this year such gods of the pen as Scott, Byron, -Shelley, Wordsworth, Keats, and Lamb distributed joy to many a reader, -so that poor JOHN CLARE naturally ran a great risk of being overlooked. -It was now proved how dangerous had been the heat of his first welcome. -Superlatives had been done to death; the lion-hunters had exhausted -their treacly compliments, and were now eagerly scanning the literary -horizon in the hope of seeing approach a fresh victim. Moreover, some -injudicious persons had descanted more upon CLARE’S poverty than upon -his remarkable powers. It was the general opinion, as Mr. Martin points -out in his biography, that a really capable poet should be able to -support himself. If he did not succeed in so doing, then he was but a -dabbler while pretending to be a priest. The logic was of the sort to -shrink from scrutiny, but it contented the shallow sufficiently well. To -my thinking, the charge of twelve shillings for these two volumes was a -factor in the neglect which overtook them. Be this as it may, a -collection of verse containing some exquisite and lovely pieces, and -marking in some respects an advance upon the forerunning book, fell upon -the stony patch of indifference, there to remain while verse of fifty -times less merit enjoyed a vogue out of proportion to its worth. In a -word, CLARE’S second luck was the exact opposite of his first. In days -saddened by the reflection that he had failed to hold by the glory which -he obtained at his first venture, it was balm to CLARE to know that -Robert Bloomfield at least warmly approved of what lukewarm triflers -failed to appreciate. - -In the summer of 1821, not long after the meteoric appearance at -Helpstone of a minor poet, who presented CLARE with a sonnet and a -one-pound note in a glorious burst of bounty and condescension, Mr. John -Taylor passed a few hours in the little Northamptonshire village. Under -the guidance of CLARE he reviewed many of the spots which the poet had -celebrated in song, and, in some cases, he was amazed to find how CLARE -had compelled dull localities to yield strains both abundant and -beautiful. But to gather roses in a desert is child’s play for a genius. -Upon taking leave, Mr. Taylor invited CLARE to spend a few weeks in -Fleet Street. Luckily the poet decided to avail himself of this offer, -for about this time he was far too frequent a visitor at the “Blue -Bell,” where he had his corner reserved, and passed for the chief of the -assembly. This meant more than sufficient exercise for the gullet. The -bad habit contracted at Burghley Hall was strengthened at these -sittings, and CLARE, deplorably unstable in some mental particulars, -approached nearer and nearer to that abyss which has engulfed so many -great wits. The winter being over, CLARE departed for London. He was -something of a bolt from the blue to Mr. Taylor, but that gentleman was -not slow in welcoming his client, though he looked askance at the gay -pocket handkerchief in which was contained the whole of his friend’s -luggage. As the publisher was very busy, he delivered CLARE into the -keeping of Thomas Hood, who, in turn, handed him over to the head porter -of the firm. The poet was not long in finding his way to the house of -Mrs. Emmerson, whose hospitality was as frank and unstinted as ever. -Here CLARE met Mr. Rippingille, a young artist with a dash of Dick -Swiveller in him, who had a strong appetite for noisy pranks. In company -with this unreflective spirit the peasant from the Midlands attended -some very dubious functions, penetrating to quarters of the Metropolis -which were famous for the topmost achievements of rascality, where he -ran riot among various intoxicants. After besieging a certain beauteous -actress with all the languishing glances at their command, these foolish -comrades would pledge her in pale ale till, like Byron, they seemed to -walk upon the ceiling. Thus were buttresses added to CLARE’S unfortunate -predilection. Those who revel by gaslight are not fond of returning home -before midnight, and CLARE was no exception to the rule. But the hours -of his choice were not grateful to Mr. Taylor, whose sense of the -fitness of things was offended by his visitor’s conduct. Therefore, -Thomas Hood was deputed to inform CLARE that he was vexing his host, an -intimation which resulted in the poet carrying his handkerchief full of -belongings to Mrs. Emmerson’s house, where his manners did not improve. -Under the accomplished tuition of Mr. Rippingille he found how easy the -descent of Avernus was. His next move was to Chiswick, where the Rev. H. -T. Cary entertained him. His stay here was brief, owing to an amusing -episode. Strangely enough CLARE was ignorant of the fact that his -elderly host had a young and handsome wife. In the belief that he was -doing homage to the charms of one of Mr. Cary’s grown-up daughters, he -addressed several poems, which were not without the quality of ardour, -to the wife of the translator’s bosom. After this, although his -explanation was accepted and understood, CLARE thought he had better -depart from Chiswick. During this stay in London the Northamptonshire -poet was introduced to William Gifford and Charles Lamb, the latter of -whom, if report may be trusted, was guilty of a rather coarse jape at -his expense. Not long after this, CLARE returned to Helpstone. It is -worthy to note that, whereas his first visit to London had only -accentuated his country raptures, the village minstrel now actually -pined for the fatted calves, the theatres, the glitter, and the merry -companions of the city. The taint of Rippingille was upon him. Reaction -came in time; the meadows captured him again; but this small piece of -history is significant of much. - -As soon as he was once more in possession of his best self, CLARE began -to face his troubles--most of which sprang from insufficient means at -this time--with as much courage as he could summon. He was rather slow -in being convinced that he could not derive a steady income from the -composition of poetry; but when this truth was driven home his mind at -once became agile in devising numberless plans for the betterment of his -state, for he suffered from a torturing anxiety when he remembered for -how many his fate had appointed him the bread-winner. He was now -fighting hand to hand with poverty, valorous in behalf of his aged -mother, his wife, and his little children, who enjoyed the fruits of -whatsoever victories were gained far more than did their defender--since -he secretly starved himself in order to increase the tale of loaves -presided over by Patty. In the year 1823, worn out by his failures to -extract a supporting flow of guineas from either poetry or agriculture, -he fell very ill, just after the shock occasioned by the death of Mr. -Gilchrist. His recovery was of the slowest, and it was not till he was -put by Mr. Taylor under the care of Dr. Darling, in London, that the -poet mended in a manner to satisfy his friends. It was during this third -visit to the Metropolis that CLARE came in contact with De Quincey, -Coleridge, William Hazlitt, and Allan Cunningham, to mention only four -of the prominent men whom Mr. Taylor delighted to make members of his -evening parties. CLARE found his imaginary portraits to be very -deceptive, especially so in the case of De Quincey. The bulk and dull -appearance of Coleridge also surprised, as well as disappointed, him, -for he had pictured the great man in a guise completely opposite to -reality. There is little need to say that in Mr. Taylor’s house nothing -of a bacchanalian tinge was likely to occur; but even the moderate -pleasures of the publisher’s entertainments threatened to destroy the -good brought about by the skill and care of Dr. Darling, and therefore -Clare was induced to return to Helpstone, where he once more renewed his -search for employment, encountered thoughtless snubs from the high and -mighty of the district, and gradually approached the line which -separates mental health from mental disease. He was for ever engaged in -keeping the wolf from the door. He did not eat a due share of what his -means supplied, denying himself from day to day with a rigidity which -could not fail to injure both body and brain. At the end of the year -1825, after working in the cornfields throughout the harvest, CLARE -turned to the composition of poetry, and produced “The Shepherd’s -Calendar,” a volume in which he used the file to excellent purpose. -Already bruised and wounded by the rough edges of life, the poet found -an additional hardship in the fact that Mr. Taylor long delayed to -publish this third book of verse; for to make both ends meet was now a -miracle beyond his accomplishing. Although several editors of those -elegant annuals which were then so much in favour had asked CLARE to -assist in making their sugary volumes attractive, they were by no means -quick to send him the money he had earned. He had only his annuity and a -few shillings gained by doing odd jobs for the farmers of the -neighbourhood. At this juncture Patty bore him a third child. - -In 1828 CLARE went to London again at the invitation of Mrs. Emmerson, -and it was then that he discovered how completely the “Shepherd’s -Calendar” had failed to stir the interest of the public. It was during -this visit that Mr. Taylor, doubtless believing the open-air exercise -would be most beneficial to the poet, suggested to CLARE the -advisability of his attempting to dispose of his works by carrying them -from house to house in Northamptonshire and the adjoining counties. -Allan Cunningham was furious at the idea, but in the end CLARE embraced -it, though it had been better for him had he held the same opinion as -his friend, for the adventure was prolific of more kicks than halfpence. -The history of this part of CLARE’S career makes very sad reading. -Hungry and footsore he tramped from rebuff to rebuff, pondering misery -and dreading the workhouse. But though the record of his travels is, for -the most part, a document of disaster, there are a few proofs of -kindliness contained in its pages. For example, when he returned to -Helpstone from Boston, where certain of the leading inhabitants had done -their best to render him extremely uncomfortable, he found ten -sovereigns in his wallet. A few young men had treated him as Joseph -treated his brethren. For three months after his experiences at Boston, -CLARE was exceedingly ill, and it looked as if there was to be no ebbing -of that tide of misfortune which had flowed in his direction for so -long. Better luck, however, was in store. CLARE got some regular work to -do, and was thus prevented from poring over foolscap. Little by little -he reduced his debts; his body throve in the sunshine of content; and he -was able to comfort himself with the belief that, after all, he would -escape the degradation of becoming a pauper. Unfortunately a hard winter -followed the summer and autumn during which he had been so happy, and -illness once more caused him to renew acquaintance with those bitter -familiars of his--want and despair. About this time he chanced to have a -conversation with Earl Fitzwilliam, with the result that his patron -promised to build him a cottage somewhere near Helpstone. The exact -place decided upon by his lordship was Northborough, a hamlet three -miles distant from Helpstone. This situation was chosen in a spirit of -kindness, the earl believing that the many natural beauties to be found -almost at the door of the cottage would please the eye as well as -stimulate the genius of the poet. But the prospect of being severed from -the bleak surroundings of his native place filled CLARE with sensations -of terror acute enough to make a severe effect upon his mind. For days -before the final wrench came he strode about the lanes and fields, -outwardly exhibiting symptoms of a deranged intellect; but when the hour -for departure struck he allowed himself to be led to his new home as -placidly as a tired horse to the pasture. So far from proving a blessing -to CLARE, the cottage at Northborough was the immediate cause of fresh -perplexities. Expenditure was necessary to furnish it and to keep it in -repair; debts were quickly piled one upon the other; among strangers it -was harder to obtain employment than it had been at Helpstone; and in -the January of 1833 Patty bore her seventh child. At the thought that he -could scarcely provide his dear ones with bread enough to keep body and -soul together, CLARE, shortly after hearing the news of his boy’s birth, -rushed out into the fields to give his sorrow vent. Late in the evening -his eldest daughter found him lying insensible on an embankment. A month -of bed followed this collapse. In the spring, although his vital forces -were now sufficient to carry him in search of the early flowers, he -showed no inclination to leave the little room where he kept his books -and papers. The irresistible magnets of former years--blossoms, birds, -greenery and sunshine--had all lost their pulling power. CLARE himself -perceived that he was in danger of ceasing to be his own master, and -accordingly wrote to Mr. Taylor begging him to secure Dr. Darling’s -help. In reply, his old publisher invited him to London. But the poet -neither had money in his purse nor a single chance of raising the amount -necessary to defray the costs of the journey. Messrs. Whittaker & Co., -who were responsible for the appearance of the “Rural Muse,” declined -to send him even a small sum on account, so that he was tied fast to -Northborough, where his mental malady had everything in its favour. Had -it not been for the untiring exertions of Dr. Smith, of Peterborough, -who mingled poetry and pills in his advice to patients, thus obtaining a -goodly list of subscribers, it is doubtful whether the “Rural Muse” -would have made its appearance before CLARE was overcome by permanent -imbecility. In the summer of 1835 this beautiful collection of rustic -reeds was put forward as a candidate for the affection of those -professing a love for music and wholesomeness in verse. The reception -accorded to the book proved conclusively what important parts fashion -and hypocrisy play in the concerns of the lyre. CLARE was out of vogue; -he was a stale lion; the parasites upon genius could no longer hope to -gain a temporary notoriety by displaying his peculiarities in their -saloons. The idea of reading poetry for the sake of poetry appears never -to have occurred to the members of a society as ponderable, in the -matter of intellect, as thistledown, and as variable as the sheen of an -opal. It is a moot point whether or no the reviewers wrote notices of -the “Rural Muse.” If they did their duty, the editors certainly did not -back them up by granting space for the criticisms, for scarcely a -paragraph of commendation saw the light. If CLARE did not fall among -thieves, he at least fell among blind bats. Literary England blotted her -own escutcheon in this respect, but Scotland was saved from a similar -disgrace by a noble outburst of praise for the poet, and scorn for his -frigid countrymen, from the pen of Professor Wilson, in the course of -which he adjured the Southrons to hold their tongues about the fate of -Burns. Let them remember Bloomfield. Had he but known all the evil -circumstances which were combining to push JOHN CLARE in the direction -of a lunatic asylum, his retort would have been strengthened to a degree -melancholy to contemplate. - -Mental derangement advanced upon CLARE with rapidity. In the spring of -1836 there was a brief period when the flowers made him a clear-minded -partaker of their magic, but the improvement was not maintained, and -little by little the condition of the poet became more widley known, -till at last it reached the ears of several patrons. These advised his -immediate removal to the asylum at Northampton, a plan to which Patty -refused her consent, for she still had hopes that if her husband were -allowed to range at his will and seek a cure from the pharmacy of -nature, he would beat the disease. But Patty’s love only delayed the -inevitable. CLARE, it is true, escaped from the control suggested by -Earl Fitzwilliam, who endeavoured to place the poet at Northampton, -where a weekly dole from the nobleman’s purse would secure for the -patient some additional comforts; but he had nowhither to fly from the -severe benefactions of the friends of former days. Mr. John Taylor and -others, willing to heed now that the catastrophe to which their silence -had contributed was come by its full dimensions, clubbed together and -sent CLARE to Dr. Allen’s private lunatic asylum in Epping Forest, where -all the resources of a humane treatment were brought to bear upon his -case. He wrote a great quantity of verse, some of which was of real -worth; tended the flowers in the garden beds; wandered about the woods -hour after hour, smoking, musing, or conversing with some companion. In -the middle of July, 1841, he escaped, and eventually reached Werrington, -a hamlet lying beyond Peterborough. His chief food had been grass; blood -was trickling from his feet when Patty took the wanderer into her arms -on the roadside at Werrington. After a day’s rest at Northborough, the -poet asked for pen and ink. When these were supplied he commenced to -write his Odyssey. It is almost safe to say that no more extraordinary -a document belongs to the personal history of any genius born within our -boundaries. It is of a character to draw tears from the unsympathetic; -your Scrooge, your Quilp, could scarcely withstand its pathos. Well -might Christopher North request us to be done with our comments upon -Scotland’s usage of Burns! - -The rest is soon told. CLARE, though quite harmless, was not allowed to -pass free among the country sights and sounds. For some reason or other -he was haled to the Northampton General Lunatic Asylum, where he -remained for twenty-two years, neglected alike by kindred, by friends, -and by the educated mob which had once made an idol of him. At the -Asylum he was treated with unvarying mildness by the authorities, who -refused to regulate the comforts of the poet by the eleven shillings a -week supplied by Earl Fitzwilliam. That their natures were not -subservient to coinage they proved by placing CLARE--poor, -eleven-shillings-a-week JOHN CLARE--among private patients in the best -ward. - -The end came in 1864, and on the 25th of May in that year the mortal -remnant of JOHN CLARE, peasant and poet, was interred at Helpstone. When -Earl Fitzwilliam was asked for a grant of the few pounds necessary for -the burial of the poet in the churchyard so beloved by him during his -lifetime, he responded by suggesting that the funeral should be that of -a pauper at Northampton. However, a few friends of the right heart -prevented this disgrace, and the body rested where the soul had marked -out for it a spot of greenery and quietude. - -That some of CLARE’S poems belong of right to the excellent things of -this earth admits of no dispute. A worshipper of Nature, by whom he was -surely appointed to be one of her chief historians, he revelled in her -manifestations, whether they showed in the higher heaven of blue or in -the lower heaven of green. He was, if the phrases may pass muster, a -gossip of the rainbow, a crony of the flowers. His heart was not less -slow than that of Wordsworth to leap up with joy when he beheld standing -across the sky, its feet treading the horizon, the most splendid -triumphal arch ever devised; and though it was not granted him to render -homage to his mistress in such large accents as those which fell from -the lips of his great brother in song, he paid for her love and favours -in music far from perishable, as may be noted by all who will read the -pieces that have been selected for this volume from the “Rural Muse.” -Who passes by any one of these poems because he early finds a flaw, does -so at his own danger, for each of them belongs, as I venture to assert, -so indubitably to the particular treasures of pastoral poetry that I -doubt whether the contradiction of our greatest critics could frighten -me from the attitude of admiration. To influences other than those of -the countryside, CLARE remained unimpressionable. To be in London was to -long for Helpstone, the commons and pools of which were more precious to -the poet than all the glories of Westminster Abbey, and the expanses of -the artificial lakes. While he sojourned in the Metropolis the right -spark would not fall from heaven, but as soon as he wandered once more -among the scenes so long familiar to him, the Muse was his unfailing -companion. Brooks glided in his songs; birds and clouds and leafage were -foundations without which he had been well-nigh powerless. He -understood, and was content with, his limits; and so perfectly did he -accomplish his duty as Nature’s cherished amanuensis, that it is no hard -task for a man with an ounce of imagination in his being to hear the -trickle of streams, and to fancy his study carpeted with grass, while -reading JOHN CLARE’S poems within four walls. As this volume of -selections is designed for the purpose of attracting readers to a poet -whose appreciative receipts from his posterity are sadly deficient in -quantity, the publisher has thought well to ask from me the tale of -CLARE’S life, rather than my views of the poet’s work and its effect -upon his successors in the production of poetry dealing almost -exclusively with the vowels and consonants in Nature’s mighty alphabet. -Enough has been said to prove the writer no half-hearted advocate; and -if these few pages serve to increase the number of CLARE’S friends, he -will be more than satisfied, happy in the thought that he has been the -means of introducing readers to poetry as gentle as it is healing, as -simple as it is sincere. Touching its wholesomeness, how could it fail -to delight in this respect when the chief of its constituent parts were -the large and lovely expressions of Nature’s handicraft? JOHN CLARE’S -gift fell upon him direct from the skies. It came clean; and clean he -kept it from the beginning to the end of his stewardship. - -NORMAN GALE. - - - - - WHAT IS LIFE? - - - And what is Life?--An hour-glass on the run, - A mist retreating from the morning sun, - A busy, bustling, still repeated dream.-- - Its length?--A minute’s pause, a moment’s thought. - And happiness?--A bubble on the stream, - That in the act of seizing shrinks to nought. - - What is vain Hope?--The puffing gale of morn, - That robs each flow’ret of its gem,--and dies; - A cobweb hiding disappointment’s thorn, - Which stings more keenly through the thin disguise. - - --And thou, O Trouble?--nothing can suppose - (And sure the Power of Wisdom only knows), - What need requireth thee: - So free and liberal as thy bounty flows, - Some necessary cause must surely be. - But disappointments, pains, and every woe - Devoted wretches feel, - The universal plagues of life below, - Are mysteries still ’neath Fate’s unbroken seal. - - And what is Death? is still the cause unfound? - That dark, mysterious name of horrid sound?-- - A long and lingering sleep, the weary crave. - And Peace? where can its happiness abound?-- - No where at all, save heaven, and the grave. - - Then what is Life?--When stripp’d of its disguise, - A thing to be desir’d it cannot be; - Since every thing that meets our foolish eyes - Gives proof sufficient of its vanity. - ’Tis but a trial all must undergo; - To teach unthankful mortals how to prize - That happiness vain man’s denied to know, - Until he’s call’d to claim it in the skies. - - - - -ADDRESS TO PLENTY - -IN WINTER - - - O thou Bliss! to riches known, - Stranger to the poor alone; - Giving most where none’s requir’d, - Leaving none where most’s desir’d; - Who, sworn friend to miser, keeps - Adding to his useless heaps - Gifts on gifts, profusely stor’d, - Till thousands swell the mouldy hoard: - While poor, shatter’d Poverty, - To advantage seen in me, - With his rags, his wants, and pain, - Waking pity but in vain, - Bowing, cringing at thy side, - Begs his mite, and is denied. - O, thou blessing! let not me - Tell, as vain, my wants to thee; - Thou, by name of Plenty stil’d - Fortune’s heir, her favourite child. - ’Tis a maxim--hunger feed, - Give the needy when they need; - He, whom all profess to serve, - The same maxim did observe: - Their obedience here, how well, - Modern times will plainly tell. - Hear my wants, nor deem me bold, - Not without occasion told: - Hear one wish; nor fail to give; - Use me well, and bid me live. - - ’Tis not great, what I solicit: - Was it more, thou couldst not miss it: - Now the cutting Winter’s come, - ’Tis but just to find a home, - In some shelter, dry and warm, - That will shield me from the storm. - Toiling in the naked fields, - Where no bush a shelter yields, - Needy Labour dithering stands, - Beats and blows his numbing hands; - And upon the crumping snows - Stamps, in vain, to warm his toes. - Leaves are fled, that once had power - To resist a summer shower; - And the wind so piercing blows, - Winnowing small the drifting snows, - The summer shade of loaded bough - Would vainly boast a shelter now: - Piercing snows so searching fall, - They sift a passage through them all. - Though all’s vain to keep him warm, - Poverty must brave the storm. - Friendship none, its aid to lend: - Health alone his only friend; - Granting leave to live in pain, - Giving strength to toil in vain; - To be, while winter’s horrors last, - The sport of every pelting blast. - - Oh, sad sons of Poverty! - Victims doom’d to misery; - Who can paint what pain prevails - O’er that heart which Want assails? - Modest Shame the pain conceals: - No one knows, but he who feels. - O thou charm which Plenty crowns: - Fortune! smile, now Winter frowns: - Cast around a pitying eye! - Feed the hungry, ere they die. - Think, oh! think upon the poor, - Nor against them shut thy door: - Freely let thy bounty flow, - On the sons of Want and Woe. - - Hills and dales no more are seen - In their dress of pleasing green; - Summer’s robes are all thrown by, - For the clothing of the sky; - Snows on snows in heaps combine, - Hillocks, rais’d as mountains, shine, - And at distance rising proud, - Each appears a fleecy cloud. - Plenty! now thy gifts bestow; - Exit bid to every woe: - Take me in, shut out the blast, - Make the doors and windows fast; - Place me in some corner, where, - Lolling in an elbow chair, - Happy, blest to my desire, - I may find a rouzing fire; - While in chimney-corner nigh, - Coal or wood, a fresh supply, - Ready stands for laying on, - Soon as t’other’s burnt and gone. - Now and then, as taste decreed - In a book a page I’d read; - And, inquiry to amuse, - Peep at something in the news; - See who’s married, and who’s dead, - And who, through bankrupt, beg their bread: - While on hob, or table nigh, - Just to drink before I’m dry, - A pitcher at my side should stand, - With the barrel nigh at hand, - Always ready as I will’d, - When ’twas empty, to be fill’d; - And, to be possess’d of all, - A corner cupboard in the wall, - With store of victuals lin’d complete, - That when hungry I might eat. - Then would I, in Plenty’s lap, - For the first time take a nap; - Falling back in easy lair, - Sweetly slumbering in my chair; - With no reflective thoughts to wake - Pains that cause my heart to ache, - Of contracted debts, long made, - In no prospect to be paid; - And, to Want, sad news severe, - Of provisions getting dear: - While the Winter, shocking sight, - Constant freezes day and night, - Deep and deeper falls the snow, - Labour’s slack, and wages low. - These, and more, the poor can tell, - Known, alas, by them too well, - Plenty! oh, if blest by thee, - Never more should trouble me. - Hours and weeks will sweetly glide, - Soft and smooth as flows the tide, - Where no stones or choaking grass - Force a curve ere it can pass: - And as happy, and as blest, - As beasts drop them down to rest, - When in pastures, at their will, - They have roam’d and eat their fill; - Soft as nights in summer creep, - So should I then fall asleep; - While sweet visions of delight, - So enchanting to the sight, - Sweetly swimming o’er my eyes, - Would sink me into extacies. - Nor would pleasure’s dream once more, - As they oft have done before, - Cause be to create a pain, - When I woke, to find them vain: - Bitter past, the present sweet, - Would my happiness complete. - Oh; how easy should I lie, - With the fire up-blazing high, - (Summer’s artificial bloom,) - That like an oven keeps the room, - Or lovely May, as mild and warm: - While, without, the raging storm - Is roaring in the chimney-top, - In no likelihood to drop; - And the witchen-branches nigh, - O’er my snug box towering high, - That sweet shelter’d stands beneath, - In convulsive eddies wreathe. - Then while, tyrant-like, the storm - Takes delight in doing harm. - Down before him crushing all, - Till his weapons useless fall; - And as in oppression proud - Peal his howlings long and loud, - While the clouds, with horrid sweep, - Give (as suits a tyrant’s trade) - The sun a minute’s leave to peep, - To smile upon the ruin’s made; - And to make complete the blast, - While the hail comes hard and fast, - Rattling loud against the glass; - And the snowy sleets, that pass, - Driving up in heaps remain - Close adhering to the pane, - Stop the light and spread a gloom, - Suiting sleep, around the room:-- - Oh, how blest ’mid these alarms, - I should bask in Fortune’s arms, - Who, defying every frown, - Hugs me on her drowny breast, - Bids my head lie easy down, - And on Winter’s ruins rest. - So upon the troubled sea, - Emblematic simile, - Birds are known to sit secure, - While the billows roar and rave, - Slumbering in their safety sure, - Rock’d to sleep upon the wave. - So would I still slumber on, - Till hour-telling clocks had gone, - And, from the contracted day, - One or more had click’d away. - Then with sitting wearied out, - I for change’s sake, no doubt, - Just might wish to leave my seat, - And, to exercise my feet, - Make a journey to the door, - Put my nose out, but no more: - There to village taste agree; - Mark how times are like to be; - How the weather’s getting on; - Peep in ruts where carts have gone; - Or, by stones, a sturdy stroke, - View the hole the boys have broke, - Crizzling, still inclin’d to freeze;-- - And the rime upon the trees. - Then to pause on ills to come, - Just look upward on the gloom; - See fresh storms approaching fast, - View them busy in the air, - Boiling up the brewing blast, - Still fresh horrors scheming there. - Black and dismal, rising high, - From the north they fright the eye: - Pregnant with a thousand storms, - Huddled in their icy arms, - Heavy hovering as they come, - Some as mountains seem--and some - Jagg’d as craggy rocks appear - Dismally advancing near: - Fancy, at the cumbrous sight, - Chills and shudders with affright, - Fearing lest the air, in vain, - Strive her station to maintain, - And wearied, yeilding to the skies, - The world beneath in ruin lies. - So may Fancy think and feign; - Fancy oft imagines vain: - Nature’s laws, by wisdom penn’d, - Mortals cannot comprehend; - Power almighty Being gave, - Endless Mercy stoops to save; - Causes, hid from mortals’ sight, - Prove “whatever is, is right.” - - Then to look again below, - Labour’s former life I’d view, - Who, still beating through the snow, - Spite of storms their toils pursue, - Forc’d out by sad Necessity - That sad fiend that forces me. - Troubles, then no more my own, - Which I but too long had known, - Might create a care, a pain; - Then I’d seek my joys again: - Pile the fire up, fetch a drink, - Then sit down again and think; - Pause on all my sorrows past, - Think how many a bitter blast, - When it snow’d, and hail’d, and blew, - I have toil’d and batter’d through. - Then to ease reflective pain, - To my sports I’d fall again, - Till the clock had counted ten; - When I’d seek my downy bed, - Easy, happy, and well fed. - - Then might peep the morn, in vain, - Through the rimy misted pane; - Then might bawl the restless cock, - And the loud-tongued village clock; - And the flail might lump away, - Waking soon the dreary day: - They should never waken me, - Independent, blest, and free; - Nor, as usual, make me start, - Yawning sigh with heavy heart, - Loth to ope my sleepy eyes, - Weary still, in pain to rise, - With aching bones and heavy head, - Worse than when I went to bed. - With nothing then to raise a sigh, - Oh, how happy should I lie - Till the clock was eight, or more, - Then proceed as heretofore. - Best of blessings! sweetest charm! - Boon these wishes while they’re warm; - My fairy visions ne’er despise; - As reason thinks, thou realize: - Depress’d with want and poverty - I sink, I fall, denied by thee. - - - - - NOON - - - All how silent and how still; - Nothing heard but yonder mill: - While the dazzled eye surveys - All around a liquid blaze; - And amid the scorching gleams, - If we earnest look, it seems - As if crooked bits of glass - Seem’d repeatedly to pass. - Oh, for a puffing breeze to blow! - But breezes are all strangers now; - Not a twig is seen to shake, - Nor the smallest bent to quake; - From the river’s muddy side - Not a curve is seen to glide; - And no longer on the stream - Watching lies the silver bream, - Forcing, from repeated springs, - “Verges in successive rings.” - Bees are faint, and cease to hum; - Birds are overpower’d and dumb. - Rural voices all are mute, - Tuneless lie the pipe and flute: - Shepherds, with their panting sheep, - In the swaliest corner creep; - And from the tormenting heat - All are wishing to retreat. - Huddled up in grass and flowers, - Mowers wait for cooler hours; - And the cow-boy seeks the sedge, - Ramping in the woodland hedge, - While his cattle o’er the vales - Scamper, with uplifted tails; - Others not so wild and mad, - That can better bear the gad, - Underneath the hedge-row lunge, - Or, if nigh, in waters plunge. - Oh! to see how flowers are took, - How it grieves me when I look: - Ragged-robins, once so pink, - Now are turn’d as black as ink, - And the leaves, being scorch’d so much, - Even crumble at the touch; - Drowking lies the meadow-sweet, - Flopping down beneath one’s feet - While to all the flowers that blow, - If in open air they grow, - Th’ injurious deed alike is done - By the hot relentless sun. - E’en the dew is parched up - From the teasel’s jointed cup: - O poor birds! where must ye fly, - Now your water-pots are dry? - If ye stay upon the heath, - Ye’ll be choak’d and clamm’d to death: - Therefore leave the shadeless goss, - Seek the spring-head lin’d with moss; - There your little feet may stand, - Safely printing on the sand; - While, in full possession, where - Purling eddies ripple clear, - You with ease and plenty blest, - Sip the coolest and the best. - Then away! and wet your throats; - Cheer me with your warbling notes: - T’will hot noon the more revive; - While I wander to contrive - For myself a place as good, - In the middle of a wood: - There aside some mossy bank, - Where the grass in bunches rank - Lifts its down on spindles high, - Shall be where I’ll choose to lie; - Fearless of the things that creep, - There I’ll think, and there I’ll sleep; - Caring not to stir at all, - Till the dew begins to fall. - - - - - THE UNIVERSAL EPITAPH - - - No flattering praises daub my stone, - My frailties and my faults to hide; - My faults and failings all are known-- - I liv’d in sin--in sin I died. - - And oh! condemn me not, I pray, - You who my sad confession view; - But ask your soul, if it can say, - That I’m a viler man than you. - - - - - THE HARVEST MORNING - - - Cocks wake the early morn with many a crow; - Loud-striking village clock has counted four; - The labouring rustic hears his restless foe, - And weary, of his pains complaining sore, - Hobbles to fetch his horses from the moor: - Some busy ’gin to teem the loaded corn, - Which night throng’d round the barn’s becrowded door; - Such plenteous scenes the farmer’s yard adorn, - Such noisy, busy toils now mark the Harvest Morn. - - The bird-boy’s pealing horn is loudly blow’d; - The waggons jostle on with rattling sound; - And hogs and geese now throng the dusty road, - Grunting, and gabbling, in contention, round - The barley ears that litter on the ground. - What printing traces mark the waggon’s way; - What busy bustling wakens echo round; - How drive the sun’s warm beams the mist away; - How labour sweats and toils, and dreads the sultry day! - - His scythe the mower o’er his shoulder leans, - And whetting, jars with sharp and tinkling sound; - Then sweeps again ’mong corn and crackling beans, - And swath by swath flops lengthening o’er the ground; - While ’neath some friendly heap, snug shelter’d round - From spoiling sun, lies hid the heart’s delight; - And hearty soaks oft hand the bottle round, - Their toils pursuing with redoubled might-- - Great praise to him is due that brought its birth to light. - - Upon the waggon now, with eager bound, - The lusty picker whirls the rustling sheaves; - Or, resting ponderous creaking fork aground, - Boastful at once whole shocks of barley heaves: - The loading boy revengeful inly grieves - To find his unmatch’d strength and power decay; - The barley horn his garments interweaves; - Smarting and sweating ’neath the sultry day, - With muttering curses stung, he mauls the heaps away. - - A motley group the clearing field surround; - Sons of Humanity, oh ne’er deny - The humble gleaner entrance in your ground; - Winter’s sad cold, and Poverty are nigh. - Grudge not from Providence the scant supply: - You’ll never miss it from your ample store. - Who gives denial--harden’d, hungry hound,-- - May never blessings crowd his hated door! - But he shall never lack, that giveth to the poor. - - Ah, lovely Emma! mingling with the rest, - Thy beauties blooming in low life unseen, - Thy rosy cheeks, thy sweetly swelling breast; - But ill it suits thee in the stubs to glean. - O Poverty! how basely you demean - The imprison’d worth your rigid fates confine: - Not fancied charms of an Arcadian queen - So sweet as Emma’s real beauties shine: - Had Fortune blest, sweet girl, this lot had ne’er been thine. - - The sun’s increasing heat now mounted high, - Refreshment must recruit exhausted power; - The waggon stops, the busy tool’s thrown by, - And ’neath a shock’s enjoy’d the bevering hour. - The bashful maid, sweet health’s engaging flower - Lingering behind, o’er rake still blushing bends; - And when to take the horn fond swains implore, - With feign’d excuses its dislike pretends. - So pass the bevering hours, so Harvest Morning ends. - - O Rural Life! what charms thy meanness hide; - What sweet descriptions bards disdain to sing; - What loves, what graces on thy plains abide: - Oh, could I soar me on the Muse’s wing, - What rifled charms should my researches bring! - Pleas’d would I wander where these charms reside; - Of rural sports and beauties would I sing; - Those beauties, Wealth, which you in vain deride, - Beauties of richest bloom, superior to your pride. - - - - - ON AN INFANT’S GRAVE - - - Beneath the sod where smiling creep - The daisies into view, - The ashes of an Infant sleep, - Whose soul’s as smiling too; - Ah! doubly happy, doubly blest, - (Had I so happy been!) - Recall’d to heaven’s eternal rest, - Ere it knew how to sin. - - Thrice happy Infant! great the bliss - Alone reserv’d for thee; - Such joy ’twas my sad fate to miss, - And thy good luck to see; - For oh! when all must rise again, - And sentence then shall have, - What crowds will wish with me, in vain, - They’d fill’d an infant’s grave. - - - - - TO AN APRIL DAISY - - - Welcome, old Comrade! peeping once again; - Our meeting ’minds me of a pleasant hour: - Spring’s pencil pinks thee in that blushy stain, - And Summer glistens in thy tinty flower. - - Hail, Beauty’s Gem! disdaining time nor place; - Carelessly creeping on the dunghill’s side; - Demeanour’s softness in thy crimpled face - Decks thee in beauties unattain’d by pride. - - Hail, ’Venturer! once again that fearless here - Encampeth on the hoar hill’s sunny side; - Spring’s early messenger! thou’rt doubly dear; - And winter’s frost by thee is well supplied. - - Now winter’s frowns shall cease their pelting rage, - But winter’s woes I need not tell to thee; - Far better luck thy visits well presage, - And be it thine and mine that luck to see. - - Ah, may thy smiles confirm the hopes they tell - To see thee frost-bit I’d be griev’d at heart; - I meet thee happy, and I wish thee well, - Till ripening summer summons us to part. - - Then like old mates, or two who’ve neighbours been, - We’ll part, in hopes to meet another year; - And o’er thy exit from this changing scene - We’ll mix our wishes in a tokening tear. - - - - - SUMMER EVENING - - - The sinking sun is taking leave, - And sweetly gilds the edge of Eve, - While huddling clouds of purple dye - Gloomy hang the western sky. - Crows crowd croaking over-head, - Hastening to the woods to bed. - Cooing sits the lonely dove, - Calling home her absent love. - With “Kirchup! kirchup!” ’mong the wheats, - Partridge distant partridge greets; - Beckoning hints to those that roam, - That guide the squander’d covey home. - Swallows check their winding flight, - And twittering on the chimney light. - Round the pond the martins flirt, - Their snowy breasts bedaub’d with dirt, - While the mason, ’neath the slates, - Each mortar-bearing bird awaits: - By art untaught, each labouring spouse - Curious daubs his hanging house. - Bats flit by in hood and cowl; - Through the barn-hole pops the owl; - From the hedge, in drowsy hum, - Heedless buzzing beetles bum, - Haunting every bushy place, - Flopping in the labourer’s face. - Now the snail hath made his ring; - And the moth with snowy wing - Circles round in winding whirls, - Through sweet evening’s sprinkled pearls - On each nodding rush besprent; - Dancing on from bent to bent: - Now to downy grasses clung, - Resting for a while he’s hung; - Strong to ferry o’er the stream, - Vanishing as flies a dream: - Playful still his hours to keep, - Till his time has come to sleep; - In tall grass, by fountain-head, - Weary then he drops to bed. - From the hay-cock’s moisten’d heaps - Startled frogs take vaunting leaps; - And along the shaven mead, - Jumping travellers, they proceed: - Quick the dewy grass divides, - Moistening sweet their speckled sides; - From the grass or flowret’s cup, - Quick the dew-drop bounces up. - Now the blue fog creeps along, - And the bird’s forgot his song: - Flowers now sleep within their hoods; - Daisies button into buds; - From soiling dew the butter-cup - Shuts his golden jewels up; - And the rose and woodbine they - Wait again the smiles of day. - ’Neath the willow’s wavy boughs, - Dolly, singing, milks hers cows; - While the brook, as bubbling by, - Joins in murmuring melody. - Dick and Dob, with jostling joll, - Homeward drag the rumbling roll; - Whilom Ralph, for Doll to wait, - Lolls him o’er the pasture gate. - Swains to fold their sheep begin; - Dogs loud barking drive them in. - Hedgers now along the road - Homeward bend beneath their load; - And from the long furrow’d seams, - Ploughmen loose their weary teams: - Ball, with urging lashes weal’d. - Still so slow to drive a-field, - Eager blundering from the plough, - Wants no whip to drive him now; - At the stable-door he stands, - Looking round for friendly hands - To loose the door its fast’ning pin, - And let him with his corn begin. - Round the yard, a thousand ways - Beasts in expectation gaze, - Catching at the loads of hay - Passing fodd’rers tug away. - Hogs with grumbling, deaf’ning noise - Bother round the server boys; - And, far and near, the motley group - Anxious claim their suppering-up. - From the rest, a blest release, - Gabbling home, the quarrelling geese - Seek their warm straw-litter’d shed, - And, waddling, prate away to bed. - ’Nighted by unseen delay, - Poking hens, that lose their way, - On the hovel’s rafters rise, - Slumbering there, the fox’s prize. - Now the cat has ta’en her seat, - With her tail curl’d round her feet; - Patiently she sits to watch - Sparrows fighting on the thatch. - Now Doll brings th’ expected pails. - And dogs begin to wag their tails; - With strokes and pats they’re welcom’d in - And they with looking wants begin: - Slove in the milk-pail brimming o’er, - She pops their dish behind the door. - Prone to mischief boys are met, - ’Neath the eaves the ladder’s set, - Sly they climb in softest tread, - To catch the sparrow on his bed, - Massacred, O cruel pride! - Dash against the ladder’s side. - Curst barbarians! pass me by: - Come not, Turks, my cottage nigh; - Sure my sparrow’s are my own, - Let ye then my birds alone. - Come poor birds! from foes severe - Fearless come, you’re welcome here; - My heart yearns at fate like yours, - A sparrow’s life’s as sweet as ours. - Hardy clowns! grudge not the wheat - Which hunger forces birds to eat: - Your blinded eyes, worst foes to you, - Can’t see the good which sparrows do. - Did not poor birds with watching rounds - Pick up the insects from your grounds, - Did they not tend your rising grain, - You might then sow to reap in vain. - Thus Providence, right understood, - Whose end and aim is doing good, - Sends nothing here without its use; - Though ignorance loads it with abuse; - And fools despise the blessing sent, - And mock the Giver’s good intent-- - O God! let me what’s good pursue, - Let me the same to others do - As I’d have others do to me, - And learn at least humanity. - - Dark and darker glooms the sky; - Sleep ’gins close the labourer’s eye: - Dobson leaves his greensward seat, - Neighbours where they neighbours meet - Crops to praise and work in hand, - And battles tell from foreign land. - While his pipe is puffing out, - Sue he’s putting to the rout, - Gossiping, who takes delight - To shool her knitting out at night, - And back-bite neighbours ’bout the town-- - Who’s got new caps, and who a gown, - And many a thing, her evil eye - Can see they don’t come honest by. - Chattering at a neighbour’s house, - She hears call out her frowning spouse - Prepar’d to start, she soodles home, - Her knitting twirling o’er her thumb, - As, loth to leave, afraid to stay, - She bawls her story all the way: - The tale so fraught with ’ticing charms. - Her apron folded o’er her arms, - She leaves the unfinished tale, in pain, - To end as evening comes again; - And in the cottage gangs with dread - To meet old Dobson’s timely frown, - Who grumbling sits, prepar’d for bed, - While she stands chelping ’bout the town. - - The night-wind now, with sooty wings, - In the cotter’s chimney sings; - Now, as stretching o’er the bed, - Soft I raise my drowsy head, - Listening to the ushering charms - That shake the elm tree’s mossy arms; - Till sweet slumbers stronger creep, - Deeper darkness stealing round, - Then, as rock’d, I sink to sleep, - ’Mid the wild wind’s lulling sound. - - - - - PATTY - - - Ye swampy falls of pasture ground, - And rushy spreading greens; - Ye rising swells in brambles bound, - And freedom’s wilder’d scenes; - I’ve trod ye oft, and love ye dear, - And kind was fate to let me; - On you I found my all, for here - ’Twas first my Patty met me. - - Flow on, thou gently plashing stream, - O’er weed-beds wild and rank; - Delighted I’ve enjoy’d my dream - Upon thy mossy bank: - Bemoistening many a weedy stem, - I’ve watched thee wind so clearly; - And on thy bank I found the gem - That makes me love thee dearly. - - Thou wilderness, so rudely gay; - Oft as I seek thy plain, - Oft as I wend my steps away, - And meet my joys again, - And brush the weaving branches by - Of briars and thorns so matty; - So oft Reflection warms a sigh,-- - Here first I meet my Patty. - - - - - PATTY OF THE VALE - - - Where lonesome woodlands close surrounding - Mark the spot a solitude, - And nature’s uncheck’d scenes abounding - Form a prospect wild and rude, - A cottage cheers the spot so glooming, - Hid in the hollow of the dale, - Where, in youth and beauty blooming - Lives sweet Patty of the Vale. - - Gay as the lambs her cot surrounding, - Sporting wild the shades among, - O’er the hills and bushes bounding, - Artless, innocent, and young, - Fresh, as blush of morning roses - Ere the mid-day suns prevail, - Fair as lily-bud uncloses, - Blooms sweet Patty of the Vale. - - Low and humble though her station, - Dress though mean she’s doom’d to wear, - Few superiors in the nation - With her beauty can compare. - What are riches?--not worth naming, - Though with some they may prevail; - Their’s be choice of wealth proclaiming, - Mine is Patty of the Vale. - - Fools may fancy wealth and fortune - Join to make a happy pair, - And for such the god importune, - With full many a fruitless prayer: - I, their pride and wealth disdaining - Should my humble hopes prevail, - Happy then, would cease complaining, - Blest with Patty of the Vale. - - - - - MY LOVE, THOU ART A NOSEGAY SWEET - - - My love, thou art a nosegay sweet, - My sweetest flower I prove thee; - And pleas’d I pin thee to my breast, - And dearly do I love thee. - - And when, my nosegay, thou shalt fade, - As sweet a flower thou’lt prove thee; - And as thou witherest on my breast, - For beauty past I’ll love thee. - - And when, my nosegay, thou shalt die, - And heaven’s flower shalt prove thee; - My hopes shall follow to the sky, - And everlasting love thee. - - - - - THE MEETING - - - Here we meet, too soon to part, - Here to leave will raise a smart, - Here I’ll press thee to my heart, - Where none have place above thee: - Here I vow to love thee well, - And could words unseal the spell, - Had but language strength to tell, - I’d say how much I love thee. - - Here, the rose that decks thy door, - Here, the thorn that spreads thy bow’r, - Here, the willow on the moor, - The birds at rest above thee, - Had they light of life to see, - Sense of soul like thee and me, - Soon might each a witness be - How doatingly I love thee. - - By the night-sky’s purple ether, - And by even’s sweetest weather, - That oft has blest us both together,-- - The moon that shines above thee, - And shews thy beauteous cheek so blooming, - And by pale age’s winter coming, - The charms, and casualties of woman, - I will for ever love thee. - - - - - EFFUSION - - - Ah, little did I think in time that’s past, - By summer burnt, or numb’d by winter’s blast, - Delving the ditch a livelihood to earn, - Or lumping corn out in a dusty barn; - With aching bones returning home at night, - And sitting down with weary hand to write; - Ah, little did I think, as then unknown, - Those artless rhymes I even blush’d to own - Would be one day applauded and approv’d, - By learning notic’d, and by genius lov’d. - God knows, my hopes were many, but my pain - Damp’d all the prospects which I hop’d to gain; - I hardly dar’d to hope.--Thou corner-chair, - In which I’ve oft slung back in deep despair, - Hadst thou expression, thou couldst easy tell - The pains and all that I have known too well: - ’Twould be but sorrow’s tale, yet still ’twould be - A tale of truth, and passing sweet to me. - How oft upon my hand I’ve laid my head, - And thought how poverty deform’d our shed; - Look’d on each parent’s face I fain had cheer’d - Where sorrow triumph’d, and pale want appear’d; - And sigh’d, and hop’d, and wish’d some day would come, - When I might bring a blessing to their home,-- - That toil and merit comforts had in store, - To bid the tear defile their cheeks no more. - Who that has feelings would not wish to be - A friend to parents, such as mine to me, - Who in distress broke their last crust in twain, - And though want pinch’d, the remnant broke again, - And still, if craving of their scanty bread, - Gave their last mouthful that I might be fed? - Nor for their own wants tear-drops follow’d free, - Worse anguish stung--they had no more for me, - And now hope’s sun is looking brighter out, - And spreading thin the clouds of fear and doubt, - That long in gloomy sad suspense to me - Hid the long-waited smiles I wish’d to see. - And now, my parents, helping you is sweet,-- - The rudest havoc fortune could complete; - A piteous couple, little blest with friends, - Where pain and poverty have had their ends. - I’ll be thy crutch, my father, lean on me; - Weakness knits stubborn while its bearing thee; - And hard shall fall the shock of fortune’s frown - To eke thy sorrows, ere it breaks me down. - My mother, too, thy kindness shall be met, - And ere I’m able will I pay the debt; - For what thou’st done, and what gone through for me, - My last-earn’d sixpence will I break with thee: - And when my dwindled sum won’t more divide, - Then take it all--to fate I’ll leave the rest; - In helping thee I’ll always feel a pride, - Nor think I’m happy till ye both are blest. - - - - - BALLAD - - - A weedling wild, on lonely lea, - My evening rambles chanc’d to see; - And much the weedling tempted me - To crop its tender flower: - Expos’d to wind and heavy rain, - Its head bow’d lowly on the plain; - And silently it seem’d in pain - Of life’s endanger’d hour. - - “And wilt thou bid my bloom decay, - And crop my flower, and me betray? - And cast my injur’d sweets away,”-- - Its silence seemly sigh’d-- - “A moment’s idol of thy mind? - And is a stranger so unkind, - To leave a shameful root behind, - Bereft of all its pride?” - - And so it seemly did complain; - And beating fell the heavy rain; - And how it droop’d upon the plain, - To fate resign’d to fall: - My heart did melt at its decline, - And “Come,” said I, “thou gem divine, - My fate shall stand the storm with thine:” - So took the root and all. - - - - - SONG - - - One gloomy eve I roam’d about - ’Neath Oxey’s hazel bowers, - While timid hares were darting out, - To crop the dewy flowers; - And soothing was the scene to me, - Right pleased was my soul, - My breast was calm as summer’s sea - When waves forget to roll. - - But short was even’s placid smile, - My startled soul to charm, - When Nelly lightly skipt the stile, - With milk-pail on her arm: - One careless look on me she flung, - As bright as parting day: - And like a hawk from covert sprung, - It pounc’d my peace away. - - - - - THE GIPSY’S CAMP - - - How oft on Sundays, when I’d time to tramp, - My rambles led me to a gipsy’s camp, - Where the real effigy of midnight hags, - With tawny smoked flesh and tatter’d rags, - Uncouth-brimm’d hat, and weather-beaten cloak, - ’Neath the wild shelter of a knotty oak, - Along the greensward uniforming pricks - Her pliant bending hazel’s arching sticks; - While round-topt bush or briar-entangled hedge, - Where flag-leaves spring beneath, or ramping sedge, - Keep off the bothering bustle of the wind, - And give the best retreat she hopes to find. - How oft I’ve bent me o’er her fire and smoke, - To hear her gibberish tale so quaintly spoke, - While the old Sybil forg’d her boding clack, - Twin imps the meanwhile bawling at her back; - Oft on my hand her magic coin’s been struck, - And hoping chink, she talk’d of morts of luck: - And still, as boyish hopes did first agree, - Mingled with fears to drop the fortune’s fee, - I never fail’d to gain the honours sought, - And Squire and Lord were purchas’d with a groat. - But as man’s unbelieving taste came round, - She furious stampt her shoeless foot aground, - Wip’d bye her soot-black hair with clenching fist, - While through her yellow teeth the spittle hist, - Swearing by all her lucky powers of fate, - Which like as footboys on her actions wait, - That fortune’s scale should to my sorrow turn - And I one day the rash neglect should mourn; - That good to bad should change, and I should be - Lost to this world and all eternity; - That poor as Job I should remain unblest;-- - (Alas, for fourpence how my die is cast!) - Of not a hoarded farthing be possest, - And when all’s done, be shov’d to hell at last! - - - - - TO THE CLOUDS - - - O painted clouds! sweet beauties of the sky, - How have I view’d your motion and your rest - When like fleet hunters ye have left mine eye, - In your thin gauze of woolly-fleecing drest; - Or in your threaten’d thunder’s grave black vest, - Like black deep waters slowly moving by, - Awfully striking the spectator’s breast - With your Creator’s dread sublimity, - As admiration mutely views your storms. - And I do love to see you idly lie, - Painted by heav’n as various as your forms, - Pausing upon the eastern mountain high, - As morn awakes with spring’s wood-harmony; - And sweeter still, when in your slumbers sooth - You hang the western arch o’er day’s proud eye: - Still as the even-pool, uncurv’d and smooth, - My gazing soul has look’d most placidly; - And higher still devoutly wish’d to strain, - To wipe your shrouds and sky’s blue blinders by, - With all the warmness of a moon-struck brain,-- - To catch a glimpse of Him who bids you reign, - And view the dwelling of all majesty. - - - - - THE WOODMAN - - DEDICATED TO THE REV. J. KNOWLES HOLLAND. - - - The beating snow-clad bell, with sounding dead, - Hath clanked four--the woodman’s wak’d again; - And, as he leaves his comfortable bed, - Dithers to view the rimy feather’d pane, - And shrugs, and wishes--but ’tis all in vain: - The bed’s warm comforts he most now forego; - His family that oft till eight hath lain, - Without his labour’s wage could not do so. - And glad to make them blest he shuffles through the snow. - - The early winter’s morn is dark as pitch, - The wary wife from tinder brought at night - With flint and steel, and may a sturdy twitch, - Sits up in bed to strike her man a light; - And as the candle shows the rapturous sight, - Aside his wife his rosy sleeping boy, - He smacks his lips with exquisite delight, - With all a father’s feelings, father’s joy, - Then bids his wife good-bye, and hies to his employ. - His breakfast water-porridge, humble food; - A barley-crust he in his wallet flings; - On this he toils and labours in the wood, - And chops his faggot, twists his band, and sings, - As happily as princes and as kings - With all their luxury:--and blest is he, - Can but the little which his labour brings - Make both ends meet, and from long debts keep free, - And neat and clean preserve his numerous family. - - Far o’er the dreary fields the woodland lies, - Rough is the journey which he daily goes; - The woolly clouds, that hang the frowning skies, - Keep winnowing down their drifting sleet and snows, - And thro’ his doublet keen the north wind blows; - While hard as iron the cemented ground, - And smooth as glass the glibbed pool is froze; - His nailed boots with clenching tread rebound, - And dithering echo starts and mocks the clamping sound. - - The woods how gloomy in a winter’s morn! - The crows and ravens even cease to croak, - The little birds sit chittering on the thorn, - The pies scarce chatter when they leave the oak, - Startled from slumber by the woodman’s stroke; - The milk-maid’s song is drown’d in gloomy care, - And while the village chimneys curl their smoke, - She milks, and blows, and hastens to be there; - And nature all seems sad, and dying in despair. - - The quirking rabbit scarcely leaves her hole, - But rolls in torpid slumbers all the day; - The fox is loth to ’gin a long patrol, - And scouts the woods, content with meaner prey; - The hare so frisking, timid once and gay, - ’Hind the dead thistle hurkles from the view, - Nor scarce is scar’d though in the traveller’s way, - Though waffling curs and shepherd-dogs pursue: - So winter’s ragged power affects all nature through. - - What different changes winter’s frowns supply: - The clown no more a loitering hour beguiles, - Nor gaping tracks the clouds along the sky, - As when buds blossom, and the warm sun smiles, - And “Lawrence wages bids” on hills and stiles; - Banks, stiles, and flowers, and skies, no longer charm; - Deep drifting snow each summer-seat defiles; - With hasty blundering step and folded arm - He glad the stable seeks, his frost-nip nose to warm. - The shepherd haunts no more his spreading oak, - Nor on the sloping pond-head lies at lair; - The arbour he once wattled up is broke, - And left unworthy of his future care; - The ragged plundering stickers have been there, - And pilfer’d it away; he passes by - His summer dwelling, desolate and bare, - And ne’er so much as turns a conscious eye, - But gladly seeks his fire, and shuns th’ inclement sky. - - The scene is cloth’d in snow from morn till night, - The woodman’s loth his chilly tools to seize; - The crows unroosting as he comes in sight - Shake down the feathery burden from the trees; - To look at things around he’s fit to freeze: - Scar’d from her perch the fluttering pheasant flies: - His hat and doublet whiten by degrees, - He quakes, looks round, and pats his hands and sighs, - And wishes to himself that the warm sun would rise. - - The robin, tamest of the feather’d race, - Soon as he hears the woodman’s sounding chops, - With ruddy bosom and a simple face - Around his old companion fearless hops, - And there for hours in pleas’d attention stops: - The woodman’s heart is tender and humane - And at his meals he many a crumble drops. - Thanks to thy generous feelings, gentle swain; - And what thy pity gives, shall not be given in vain. - - The woodman gladly views the closing day, - To see the sun drop down behind the wood, - Sinking in clouds deep blue or misty grey, - Round as a football and as red as blood: - The pleasing prospect does his heart much good, - Though ’tis not his such beauties to admire; - He hastes to fill his bags with billet-wood, - Well-pleas’d from the chill prospect to retire, - To seek his corner chair, and warm snug cottage fire. - - And soon as dusky even hovers round, - And the white frost ’gins crizzle pond and brook, - The little family are glimpsing round, - And from the door dart many a wistful look; - The supper’s ready stewing on the hook: - And every foot that clampers down the street - Is for the coming father’s step mistook; - O’erjoy’d are they when he their eyes doth meet, - Bent ’neath his load, snow-clad, as white as any sheet. - - I think I see him seated in his chair, - Taking the bellows up the fire to blow; - I think I hear him joke and chatter there, - Telling his children news they wish to know; - With leather leggings on, that stopt the snow, - And broad-brimm’d hat uncouthly shapen round: - Nor would he, I’ll be bound, if it were so, - Give twopence for the chance, could it be found, - At that same hour to be the king of England crown’d. - - The woodman smokes, the brats in mirth and glee, - And artless prattle, even’s hour beguile, - While love’s last pledge runs scrambling up his knee, - The nightly comfort from his weary toil, - His chuff cheeks dimpling in a fondling smile; - He claims his kiss, and says his scraps of prayer; - Begging his daddy’s pretty song the while, - Playing with his jacket-buttons and his hair;-- - And thus in wedlock’s joys the labourer drowns his care. - - And as most labourers knowingly pretend - By certain signs to judge the weather right, - As oft from “Noah’s ark” great floods descend, - And “buried moons” foretell great storms at night, - In such-like things the woodman took delight; - And ere he went to bed would always ken - Whether the sky was gloom’d or stars shone bright, - Then went to comfort’s arms till morn, and then - As cheery as the sun resum’d his toils agen. - - And ere he slept he always breath’d a prayer, - “I thank Thee, Lord, that Thou to-day didst give - Sufficient strength to toil; and blest Thy care, - And thank Thee still for what I may receive: - And, O Almighty God! while I still live, - Ere my eyes open on the last day’s sun, - Prepare Thou me this wicked world to leave, - And fit my passage ere my race is run; - ’Tis all I beg, O Lord! Thy heavenly will be done.” - - Holland; to thee this humble ballad’s sent, - Who for the poor man’s welfare oft hast pray’d; - Whose tongue did ne’er belie its good intent, - Preacher, as well in practice, as in trade-- - Alas, too often money’s business made! - O may the wretch, that’s still in darkness living, - The Bible’s comforts hear by thee display’d; - And many a woodman’s family, forgiven, - Have cause for blessing thee that led their way to heaven. - - - - - RURAL EVENING - - - The sun now sinks behind the woodland green, - And twittering spangles glow the leaves between, - So bright and dazzling on the eye it plays - As if noon’s heat had kindled to a blaze, - But soon it dims in red and heavier hues, - And shows wild fancy cheated in her views. - A mist-like moisture rises from the ground, - And deeper blueness stains the distant round. - The eye each moment, as it gazes o’er, - Still loses objects which it mark’d before; - The woods at distance changing like to clouds, - And spire-points croodling under evening’s shrouds; - Till forms of things, and hues of leaf and flower, - In deeper shadows, as by magic power, - With light and all, in scarce-perceiv’d decay, - Put on mild evening’s sober garb of grey. - - Now in the sleepy gloom that blackens round - Dies many a lulling hum of rural sound, - From cottage door, farm-yard and dusty lane, - Where home the cart-house tolters with the swain. - Or padded holm, where village boys resort, - Bawling enraptur’d o’er their evening sport, - Till night awakens superstition’s dread - And drives them prisoners to a restless bed. - Thrice happy eve of days no more to me! - Whoever thought such change belong’d to thee? - When, like to boys whom now thy gloom surrounds, - I chas’d the stag, or play’d at fox-and-hounds, - Or wander’d down the lane with many a mate - To play at see-saw on the pasture-gate, - Or on the threshold of some cottage sat - To watch the flittings of the shrieking bat, - Who, seemly pleas’d to mock our treacherous view, - Would even swoop and touch us as he flew, - And vainly still our hopes to entertain - Would stint his route, and circle us again,-- - Till, wearied out with many a coaxing call - Which boyish superstition loves to bawl, - His shrill song shrieking he betook to flight, - And left us puzzled in short-sighted night. - Those days have fled me, as from them they steal: - And I’ve felt losses they must shortly feel; - But sure such ends make every bosom sore, - To think of pleasures we must meet no more. - - Now from the pasture milking-maidens come, - With each a swain to bear the burden home, - Who often coax them on their pleasant way - To soodle longer out in love’s delay; - While on a mole-hill, or a resting stile, - The simple rustics try their arts the while - With glegging smiles, and hopes and fears between, - Snatching a kiss to open what they mean: - And all the utmost that their tongues can do, - The honey’d words which nature learns to woo, - The wild-flower sweets of language, “love” and “dear,” - With warmest utterings meet each maiden’s ear; - Who as by magic smit, she knows not why, - From the warm look that waits a wish’d reply - Droops fearful down in love’s delightful swoon - As slinks the blossom from the suns of noon; - While sighs half-smother’d from the throbbing breast, - And broken words sweet trembling o’er the rest, - And cheeks, in blushes burning, turn’d aside, - Betray the plainer what she strives to hide. - The amorous swain sees through the feign’d disguise, - Discerns the fondness she at first denies, - And with all passions love and truth can move - Urges more strong the simpering maid to love; - More freely using toying ways to win-- - Tokens that echo from the soul within-- - Her soft hand nipping, that with ardour burns, - And, timid, gentlier presses its returns; - Then stealing pins with innocent deceit, - To loose the ’kerchief from its envied seat; - Then unawares her bonnet he’ll untie, - Her dark-brown ringlets wiping gently by, - To steal a kiss in seemly feign’d disguise, - As love yields kinder taken by surprise: - While nearly conquer’d she less disapproves, - And owns at last, mid tears and sighs, she loves. - With sweetest feelings that this world bestows - Now each to each their inmost souls disclose, - Vow to be true; and to be truly ta’en, - Repeat their loves, and vow it o’er again; - And pause at loss of language to proclaim - Those purest pleasures, yet without a name: - And while, in highest ecstacy of bliss - The shepherd holds her yielding hand in his - He turns to heaven to witness what he feels, - And silent shows what want of words conceals; - Then ere the parting moments hustle nigh, - And night in deeper dye his curtain dips, - Till next day’s evening glads the anxious eye, - He swears his truth, and seals it on her lips. - - At even’s hour, the truce of toil, ’tis sweet - The sons of labour at their ease to meet, - On piled bench, beside the cottage door, - Made up of mud and stones and sodded o’er; - Where rustic taste at leisure trimly weaves - The rose and straggling woodbine to the eaves,-- - And on the crowded spot that pales enclose - The white and scarlet daisy rears in rows,-- - Training the trailing peas in bunches neat, - Perfuming evening with a luscious sweet,-- - And sun-flowers planting for their gilded show, - That scale the window’s lattice ere they blow, - Then sweet to habitants within the sheds, - Peep through the diamond pane their golden heads: - Or at the shop where ploughs and harrows lie, - Well-known to every child that passes by - From shining fragments littering on the floor; - And branded letter burnt upon the door, - Where meddling boys, the torment of the street, - In hard-burnt cinders ready weapons meet, - To pelt the martins ’neath the eves at rest - That oft are wak’d to mourn a ruin’d nest; - Or sparrows, that delight their nests to leave, - In dust to flutter at the cool of eve. - For such-like scenes the gossip leaves her home, - And sons of labour light their pipes, and come - To talk of wages, whether high or low, - And mumble news that still as secrets go; - When, heedless then to all the rest may say, - The beckoning lover nods the maid away, - And at a distance many an hour they seem - In jealous whisperings o’er their pleasing theme; - While children round them teasing sports prolong, - To twirl the top, or bounce the hoop along, - Or shout across the street their “one catch all,” - Or prog the hous’d bee from the cotter’s wall. - - Now at the parish cottage wall’d with dirt, - Where all the cumber-grounds of life resort, - From the low door that bows two props between, - Some feeble tottering dame surveys the scene; - By them reminded of the long-lost day - When she herself was young, and went to play; - And, turning to the painful scenes again, - The mournful changes she has meet since then, - Her aching heart, the contrast moves so keen, - E’en sighs a wish that life had never been. - Still vainly sinning, while she strives to pray, - Half-smother’d discontent pursues its way - In whispering Providence, how blest she’d been - If life’s last troubles she’d escap’d unseen; - If, ere want sneak’d for grudg’d support from pride, - She had but shar’d of childhood’s joys, and died. - And as to talk some passing neighbours stand, - And shove their box within her tottering hand, - She turns from echoes of her younger years, - And nips the portion of her snuff with tears. - - - - - RUSTIC FISHING - - - On Sunday mornings, freed from hard employ, - How oft I mark the mischievous young boy - With anxious haste his pole and lines provide, - For make-shifts oft crook’d pins to thread were tied; - And delve his knife with wishes ever warm - In rotten dunghills for the grub and worm, - The harmless treachery of his hooks to bait; - Tracking the dewy grass with many a mate, - To seek the brook that down the meadows glides, - Where the grey willow shadows by its sides, - Where flag and reed in wild disorder spread, - And bending bulrush bows its taper head; - And, just above the surface of the floods, - Where water-lilies mount their snowy buds, - On whose broad swimming leaves of glossy green - The shining dragon-fly is often seen: - Where hanging thorns, with roots wash’d bare, appear, - That shield the moor-hen’s nest from year to year; - While crowding osiers mingling wild among - Prove snug asylums to her brood when young, - Who, when surpris’d by foes approaching near, - Plunge ’neath the weeping boughs and disappear. - There far from terrors that the parson brings, - Or church bell hearing when its summons rings, - Half hid in meadow-sweet and keck’s high flowers, - In lonely sport they spend the Sunday hours. - Though ill supplied for fishing seem the brook, - That breaks the mead in many a stinted crook, - Oft choak’d in weeds, and foil’d to find a road, - The choice retirement of the snake and toad, - Then lost in shallows dimpling restlessly, - In fluttering struggles murmuring to be free,-- - O’er gravel stones its depth can scarcely hide - It runs remnant of its broken tide, - Till, seemly weary of each choak’d control, - It rests collected in some gulled hole - Scoop’d by the sudden floods when winter’s snow - Melts in confusion by a hasty thaw; - There bent in hopeful musings on the brink - They watch their floating corks that seldom sink, - Save when a wary roach or silver bream - Nibbles the worm as passing up the stream, - Just urging expectation’s hopes to stay - To view the dodging cork, then slink away; - Still hopes keep burning with untir’d delight, - Still wobbling curves keep wavering like a bite: - If but the breezy wind their floats should spring, - And move the water with a troubling ring, - A captive fish still fills the anxious eyes - And willow-wicks lie ready for the prize; - Till evening gales awaken damp and chill, - And nip the hopes that morning suns instil; - And resting flies have tired their gauzy wing, - Nor longer tempt the watching fish to spring, - Who at the worm no nibbles more repeat, - But lunge from night in sheltering flag-retreat. - Then disappointed in their day’s employ, - They seek amusement in a feebler joy. - Short is the sigh for fancies prov’d untrue: - With humbler hopes still pleasure they pursue - Where the rude oak-bridge scales the narrow pass - Half hid in rustling reeds and scrambling grass, - Or stepping stones stride o’er the narrow sloughs - Which maidens daily cross to milk their cows; - There they in artless glee for minnows run, - And wade and dabble past the setting sun; - Chasing the struttle o’er the shallow tide, - And flat stones turning up where gudgeons hide. - All former hopes their ill success delay’d, - In this new change they fancy well repaid. - And thus they wade, and chatter o’er their joys - Till night, unlook’d-for, young success destroys, - Drives home the sons of solitude and streams, - And stops uncloy’d hope’s ever-fresh’ning dreams. - They then, like school-boys that at truant play, - In sloomy fear lounge on their homeward way, - And inly tremble, as they gain the town, - Where chastisement awaits with many a frown, - And hazel twigs, in readiness prepar’d, - For their long absence brings a meet reward. - - - - - JUNE - - - Now Summer is in flower, and Nature’s hum - Is never silent round her bounteous bloom; - Insects, as small as dust, have never done - With glitt’ring dance, and reeling in the sun; - And green wood-fly, and blossom-haunting bee, - Are never weary of their melody. - Round field and hedge, flowers in full glory twine, - Large bind-weed bells, wild hop, and streak’d woodbine, - That lift athirst their slender throated flowers, - Agape for dew-fall, and for honey showers; - These o’er each bush in sweet disorder run, - And spread their wild hues to the sultry sun. - The mottled spider, at eve’s leisure, weaves - His webs of silken lace on twigs and leaves, - Which ev’ry morning meet the poet’s eye, - Like fairies’ dew-wet dresses hung to dry. - The wheat swells into ear, and hides below - The May-month wild flowers and their gaudy show, - Leaving, a school-boy’s height, in snugger rest, - The leveret’s seat, and lark, and partridge nest. - The mowers now bend o’er the beaded grass, - Where oft the gipsy’s hungry journeying ass - Will turn his wishes from the meadow paths, - List’ning the rustle of the falling swaths. - The ploughman sweats along the fallow vales - And down the sun-crack’d furrow slowly trails; - Oft seeking, when athirst, the brook’s supply, - Where, brushing eagerly the bushes by - For coolest water, he disturbs the rest - Of ring-dove, brooding o’er its idle nest. - The shepherd’s leisure hours are over now; - No more he loiters ’neath the hedge-row bough, - On shadow-pillowed banks and lolling stile; - The wilds must lose their summer friend awhile. - With whistle, barking dogs, and chiding scold, - He drives the bleating sheep from fallow fold - To wash-pools, where the willow shadows lean, - Dashing them in, their stained coats to clean, - Then, on the sunny sward, when dry again, - He brings them homeward to the clipping pen, - Of hurdles, form’d where elm or sycamore - Shut out the sun--or to some threshing-floor. - There with the scraps of songs, and laugh, and tale, - He lightens annual toil, while merry ale - Goes round, and glads some old man’s heart to praise - The threadbare customs of his early days: - How the high bowl was in the middle set - At breakfast time, when clippers yearly met, - Fill’d full of furmety, where dainty swum - The streaking sugar and the spotting plum. - The maids could never to the table bring - The bowl, without one rising from the ring - To lend a hand; who, if ’twere ta’en amiss, - Would sell his kindness for a stolen kiss. - The large stone pitcher in its homely trim - And clouded pint-horn with its copper rim, - Were there; from which were drunk, with spirits high - Healths of the best the cellar could supply; - While sung the ancient swains, in uncouth rhymes, - Songs that were pictures of the good old times. - Thus will the old man ancient ways bewail, - Till toiling shears gain ground upon the tale, - And break it off,--for now the timid sheep, - His fleece shorn off, starts with a fearful leap, - Shaking his naked skin with wond’ring joys, - While others are brought in by sturdy boys. - Though fashion’s haughty frown hath thrown aside - Half the old forms simplicity supplied, - Yet there are some pride’s winter deigns to spare, - Left like green ivy when the trees are bare. - And now, when shearing of the flocks is done - Some ancient customs, mix’d with harmless fun, - Crown the swain’s merry toils. The timid maid, - Pleased to be praised, and yet of praise afraid, - Seeks the best flowers; not those of woods and fields, - But such as every farmer’s garden yields-- - Fine cabbage-roses, painted like her face; - The shining pansy, trimm’d with golden lace; - The tall topp’d larkheels, feather’d thick with flowers; - The woodbine, climbing o’er the door in bowers; - The London tufts, of many a mottled hue; - The pale pink pea, and monkshood darkly blue; - The white and purple gilliflowers, that stay - Ling’ring, in blossom, summer half away; - The single blood-walls, of a luscious smell, - Old-fashion’d flowers which housewives love so well; - The columbine, stone-blue, or deep night-brown, - Their honeycomb-like blossoms hanging down, - Each cottage-garden’s fond adopted child, - Though heaths still claim them, where they yet grow wild; - With marjoram knots, sweet-brier, and ribbon-grass, - And lavender, the choice of ev’ry lass, - And sprigs of lad’s-love--all familiar names, - Which every garden through the village claims. - These the maid gathers with a coy delight, - And ties them up, in readiness for night; - Then gives to ev’ry swain, ’tween love and shame, - Her “clipping-posies” as his yearly claim. - He rises, to obtain the custom’d kiss:-- - With stifled smiles, half hankering after bliss, - She shrinks away, and blushing, calls it rude; - Yet turns to smile, and hopes to be pursued; - While one, to whom the hint may be applied, - Follows to gain it, and is not denied. - The rest the loud laugh raise, to make it known,-- - She blushes silent, and will not disown! - Thus ale, and song, and healths, and merry ways, - Keep up a shadow still of former days; - But the old beechen bowl, that once supplied - The feast of furmety, is thrown aside; - And the old freedom that was living then, - When masters made them merry with their men; - When all their coats alike were russet brown, - And his rude speech was vulgar as their own-- - All this is past, and soon will pass away - The time-torn remnant of the holiday. - - - - - DECEMBER - - - Glad Christmas comes, and every hearth - Makes room to give him welcome now, - E’en want will dry its tears in mirth, - And crown him with a holly bough; - Though tramping ’neath a winter sky, - O’er snowy paths and rimy stiles, - The housewife sets her spinning by - To bid him welcome with her smiles. - - Each house is swept the day before, - And windows stuck with evergreens, - The snow is besom’d from the door, - And comfort crowns the cottage scenes. - Gilt holly, with its thorny pricks, - And yew and box, with berries small, - These deck the unused candlesticks, - And pictures hanging by the wall. - - Neighbours resume their annual cheer, - Wishing, with smiles and spirits high, - Glad Christmas and a happy year, - To every morning passer-by; - Milkmaids their Christmas journeys go, - Accompanied with favour’d swain; - And children pace the crumping snow - To taste their granny’s cake again. - - The shepherd, now no more afraid, - Since custom doth the chance bestow, - Starts up to kiss the giggling maid - Beneath the branch of mistletoe - That ’neath each cottage beam is seen, - With pearl-like berries shining gay; - The shadow still of what hath been, - Which fashion yearly fades away. - - The singing wates, a merry throng, - At early morn, with simple skill, - Yet imitate the angel’s song, - And chant their Christmas ditty still; - And ’mid the storm that dies and swells - By fits--in hummings softly steals - The music of the village bells, - Ringing round their merry peals. - - When this is past, a merry crew, - Bedeck’d in masks and ribbons gay, - The “Morris-dance,” their sports renew, - And act their winter evening play. - The clown turn’d king, for penny-praise, - Storms with the actor’s strut and swell; - And Harlequin, a laugh to raise, - Wears his hunch-back and tinkling bell. - - And oft for pence and spicy ale, - With winter nosegays pinn’d before, - The wassail-singer tells her tale, - And drawls her Christmas carols o’er. - While ’prentice boy, with ruddy face, - And rime-bepowder’d, dancing locks, - From door to door with happy pace, - Runs round to claim his “Christmas box.” - - The block upon the fire is put, - To sanction custom’s old desires; - And many a fagot’s bands are cut, - For the old farmers’ Christmas fires; - Where loud-tongued Gladness joins the throng, - And Winter meets the warmth of May, - Till feeling soon the heat too strong, - He rubs his shins, and draws away. - - While snows the window-panes bedim, - The fire curls up a sunny charm, - Where, creaming o’er the pitcher’s rim, - The flowering ale is set to warm; - Mirth, full of joy as summer bees, - Sits there, its pleasures to impart - And children, ’tween their parent’s knees, - Sing scraps of carols o’er by heart. - - And some, to view the winter weathers, - Climb up the window-seat with glee. - Likening the snow to falling feathers, - In Fancy’s infant ecstasy; - Laughing, with superstitious love, - O’er visions wild that youth supplies, - Of people pulling geese above, - And keeping Christmas in the skies. - - As tho’ the homestead trees were drest, - In lieu of snow, with dancing leaves; - As tho’ the sun-dried martin’s nest, - Instead of i’cles hung the eaves; - The children hail the happy day-- - As if the snow were April’s grass, - And pleas’d, as ’neath the warmth of May, - Sport o’er the water froze to glass. - - Thou day of happy sound and mirth, - That long with childish memory stays, - How blest around the cottage hearth - I met thee in my younger days! - Harping, with rapture’s dreaming joys, - On presents which thy coming found, - The welcome sight of little toys, - The Christmas gifts of cousins round. - - The wooden horse with arching head, - Drawn upon wheels around the room; - The gilded coach of gingerbread, - And many-colour’d sugar plum; - Gilt cover’d books for pictures sought, - Or stories childhood loves to tell, - With many an urgent promise bought, - To get to-morrow’s lesson well. - - And many a thing, a minute’s sport, - Left broken on the sanded floor, - When we would leave our play, and court - Our parent’s promises for more. - Tho’ manhood bids such raptures die, - And throws such toys aside as vain, - Yet memory loves to turn her eye, - And count past pleasures o’er again. - - Around the glowing hearth at night, - The harmless laugh and winter tale - Go round, while parting friends delight - To toast each other o’er their ale; - The cotter oft with quiet zeal - Will musing o’er his Bible lean; - While in the dark the lovers steal - To kiss and toy behind the screen. - - Old customs! Oh! I love the sound: - However simple they may be: - Whate’er with time have sanction found, - Is welcome, and is dear to me. - Pride grows above simplicity, - And spurns them from her haughty mind, - And soon the poet’s song will be - The only refuge they can find. - - - - - THE APPROACH OF SPRING - - - Now once again, thou lovely Spring, - Thy sight the day beguiles; - For fresher greens the fairy ring, - The daisy brighter smiles: - The winds, that late with chiding voice - Would fain thy stay prolong, - Relent, while little birds rejoice, - And mingle into song. - - Undaunted maiden, thou shalt find - Thy home in gleaming woods, - Thy mantle in the southern wind, - Thy wreath in swelling buds: - And may thy mantle wrap thee round, - And hopes still warm and thrive, - And dews with every morn be found - To keep thy wreath alive. - - May coming suns, that tempt thy flowers, - Smile on as they begin; - And gentle be succeeding hours - As those that bring thee in; - Full lovely are thy dappled skies, - Pearl’d round with promised showers, - And sweet thy blossoms round thee rise - To meet the sunny hours. - - The primrose bud, thy early pledge, - Sprouts ’neath each woodland tree, - And violets under every hedge - Prepare a seat for thee: - As maids just meeting woman’s bloom - Feel love’s delicious strife, - So Nature warms to find thee come, - And kindles into life. - - Through hedge-row leaves, in drifted heaps - Left by the stormy blast, - The little hopeful blossom peeps, - And tells of winter past: - A few leaves flutter from the woods, - That hung the season through, - Leaving their place for swelling buds - To spread their leaves anew. - - ’Mong withered grass upon the plain, - That lent the blast a voice, - The tender green appears again, - And creeping things rejoice; - Each warm bank shines with early flowers, - Where oft a lonely bee - Drones, venturing on in sunny hours, - Its humming song to thee. - - The birds are busy on the wing, - The fish play in the stream; - And many a hasty curdled ring - Crimps round the leaping bream; - The buds unfold to leaves apace, - Along the hedge-row bowers, - And many a child with rosy face - Is seeking after flowers. - - The soft wind fans the violet blue, - Its opening sweets to share, - And infant breezes, waked anew, - Play in the maidens’ hair-- - Maidens that freshen with thy flowers, - To charm the gentle swain, - And dally, in their milking hours, - With lovers’ vows again. - - Bright dews illume the grassy plain, - Sweet messengers of morn, - And drops hang glistening after rain - Like gems on every thorn; - What though the grass is moist and rank - Where dews fall from the tree, - The creeping sun smiles on the bank - And warms a seat for thee. - - The eager morning earlier wakes - To glad thy fond desires, - And oft its rosy bed forsakes - Ere night’s pale moon retires; - Sweet shalt thou feel the morning sun - To warm thy dewy breast, - And chase the chill mist’s purple dun - That lingers in the west. - - Her dresses Nature gladly trims, - To hail thee as her queen, - And soon shall fold thy lovely limbs - In modest garb of green: - Each day shall like a lover come - Some gifts with thee to share, - And swarms of flowers shall quickly bloom - To dress thy golden hair. - - All life and beauty warm and smile - Thy lovely face to see, - And many a hopeful hour beguile - In seeking joys with thee; - The sweetest hours that ever come - Are those which thou dost bring, - And sure the fairest flowers that bloom - Are partners of the Spring. - - I’ve met the Winter’s biting breath - In nature’s wild retreat, - When Silence listens as in death, - And thought its wildness sweet; - And I have loved the Winter’s calm - When frost has left the plain, - When suns that morning waken’d warm - Left eve to freeze again. - - I’ve heard in Autumn’s early reign - Her first, her gentlest song; - I’ve mark’d her change o’er wood and plain, - And wish’d her reign were long; - Till winds like armies, gather’d round, - And stripp’d her colour’d woods, - And storms urged on, with thunder-sound - Their desolating floods. - - And Summer’s endless stretch of green, - Spread over plain and tree, - Sweet solace to my eyes has been, - As it to all must be; - Long I have stood his burning heat, - And breathed the sultry day, - And walk’d and toil’d with weary feet, - Nor wish’d his pride away. - - But oft I’ve watch’d the greening buds - Brush’d by the linnet’s wing, - When, like a child, the gladden’d woods - First lisp the voice of Spring; - When flowers, like dreams, peep every day, - Reminding what they bring; - I’ve watch’d them, and am warn’d to pay - A preference to Spring. - - - - - TO THE RURAL MUSE. - - - Muse of the Fields! oft have I said farewell - To thee, my boon companion, loved so long, - And hung thy sweet harp in the bushy dell, - For abler hands to wake an abler song. - Much did I fear my homage did thee wrong: - Yet, loth to leave, as oft I turned again; - And to its wires mine idle hands would cling, - Torturing it into song. It may be vain; - Yet still I try, ere Fancy droops her wing, - And hopeless Silence comes to numb its ev’ry string. - - Muse of the Pasture Brooks! on thy calm sea - Of poesy I’ve sailed; and though the will - To speed were greater than my prowess be, - I’ve ventur’d with much fear of usage ill, - Yet more of joy. Though timid be my skill, - As not to dare the depths of mightier streams; - Yet rocks abide in shallow ways, and I - Have much of fear to mingle with my dreams. - Yet, lovely Muse, I still believe thee by, - And think I see thee smile, and so forget I sigh. - - Muse of the Cottage Hearth! oft did I tell - My hopes to thee, nor feared to plead in vain; - But felt around my heart thy witching spell, - That bade me as thy worshipper remain: - I did so, and still worship. Oh! again - Smile on my offerings, and so keep them green! - Bedeck my fancies like the clouds of even, - Mingling all hues which thou from heaven dost glean! - To me a portion of thy power be given, - If theme so mean as mine may merit aught of heaven. - - For thee in youth I culled the simple flower, - That on thy bosom gained a sweeter hue, - And took thy hand along life’s sunny hour, - Meeting the sweetest joys that ever grew: - More friends were needless, and my foes were few. - Though freedom then be deemed as rudeness now. - And what once won thy praise now meets disdain, - Yet the last wreath I braided for thy brow, - Thy smiles did so commend, it made me vain - To weave another one, and hope for praise again. - - With thee the spirit of departed years - Wakes that sweet voice which time hath rendered dumb; - And freshens, like to spring, loves, hopes, and fears, - That in my bosom found an early home, - Wooing the heart to ecstasy.--I come - To thee, when sick of care, of joy bereft, - Seeking the pleasures that are found in bloom. - O happy hopes, that Time hath only left - Around the haunts where thou didst erst sojourn! - Then smile, sweet Muse, again, and welcome my return. - - With thee the raptures of life’s early day - Appear, and all that pleased me when a boy. - Though pains and cares have torn the best away, - And winter creeps between us to destroy, - Do thou commend, the recompence is joy: - The tempest of the heart shall soon be calm. - Though sterner Truth against my dreams rebel, - Hope feels success; and all my spirits warm, - To strike with happier mood thy simple shell, - And seize thy mantle’s hem--O! say not fare-thee-well. - - Still, sweet Enchantress! youth’s strong feelings move, - That from thy presence their existence took:-- - The innocent idolatry and love, - Paying thee worship in each secret nook, - That fancied friends in tree, and flower, and brook, - Shaped clouds to angels and beheld them smile, - And heard commending tongues in ev’ry wind. - Life’s grosser fancies did these dreams defile, - Yet not entirely root them from the mind; - I think I hear them still, and often look behind. - - Aye, I have heard thee in the summer wind, - As if commending what I sung to thee; - Aye, I have seen thee on a cloud reclined, - Kindling my fancies into poesy; - I saw thee smile, and took the praise to me. - In beauties, past all beauty, thou wert drest; - I thought the very clouds around thee knelt: - I saw the sun to linger in the west, - Paying thee worship; and as eve did melt - In dews, they seemed thy tears for sorrows I had felt. - - Sweeter than flowers on beauty’s bosom hung, - Sweeter than dreams of happiness above, - Sweeter than themes by lips of beauty sung, - Are the young fancies of a poet’s love. - When round his thoughts thy trancing visions move. - In floating melody no notes may sound, - The world is all forgot and past his care, - While on thy harp thy fingers lightly bound, - As winning him its melody to share; - And heaven itself, with him, where is it then but there? - - E’en now my heart leaps out from grief, and all - The gloom thrown round by Care’s o’ershading wing; - E’en now those sunny visions to recall, - Like to a bird I quit dull earth and sing: - Life’s tempest swoon to calms on every string. - Ah! sweet Enchantress, if I do but dream, - If earthly visions have been only mine, - My weakness in thy service woos esteem, - And proves my truth as almost worthy thine: - Surely true worship makes the meanest theme divine. - - And still, warm courage, calming many a fear, - Heartens my hand once more thy harp to try - To join the anthem of the minstrel year: - For summer’s music in thy praise is high; - The very winds about thy mantle sigh - Love-melodies; thy minstrel bards to be, - Insects and birds, exerting all their skill, - Float in continued song for mastery, - While in thy haunts loud leaps the little rill, - To kiss thy mantle’s hem; and how can I be still? - - There still I see thee fold thy mantle grey, - To trace the dewy lawn at morn and night; - And there I see thee, in the sunny day, - Withdraw thy veil and shine confest in light; - Burning my fancies with a wild delight, - To win a portion of thy blushing fame. - Though haughty Fancy treat thy power as small, - And Fashion thy simplicity disclaim, - Should but a portion of thy mantle fall - O’er him who woos thy love, ’tis recompense for all. - - Not with the mighty to thy shrine I come, - In anxious sighs, or self applauding mirth, - On Mount Parnassus as thine heir to roam: - I dare not credit that immortal birth; - But mingling with the lesser ones on earth-- - Like as the little lark from off its nest, - Beside the mossy hill awakes in glee, - To seek the morning’s throne a merry guest-- - So do I seek thy shrine, if that may be, - To win by new attempts another smile from thee. - - If without thee ’neath storms, and clouds, and wind, - I’ve roam’d the wood, and field, and meadow lea; - And found no flowers but what the vulgar find, - Nor met one breath of living poesy, - Among such charms where inspirations be; - The fault is mine--and I must bear the lot - Of missing praise to merit thy disdain. - To feel each idle plea though urged, forgot; - I can but sigh--though foolish to complain - O’er hopes so fair begun, to find them end so vain. - - Then will it prove presumption thus to dare - To add fresh failings to each faulty song, - Urging thy blessings on an idle prayer, - To sanction silly themes: it will be wrong - For one so lowly to be heard so long. - Yet, sweet Enchantress, yet a little while - Forego impatience, and from frowns refrain; - The strong are ne’er debarr’d thy cheering smile, - Why should the weak, who need them most, complain - Alone, in solitude, soliciting in vain? - - But if my efforts on thy harp prove true, - Which bashful youth at first so feared to try; - If aught of nature be in sounds I drew - From hope’s young dreams, and doubt’s uncertainty, - To these late offerings, not without their sigh; - Then on thine altar shall these themes be laid, - And past the deeds of graven brass remain, - Filling a space in time that shall not fade; - And if it be not so--avert disdain, - Till dust shall feel no sting, nor know it toil’d in vain. - - - - - SUMMER IMAGES - - - Now swarthy Summer, by rude health embrowned, - Precedence takes of rosy fingered Spring; - And laughing Joy, with wild flowers prank’d, and crown’d, - A wild and giddy thing, - And Health robust, from every care unbound, - Come on the zephyr’s wing, - And cheer the toiling clown. - - Happy as holiday-enjoying face, - Loud tongued, and “merry as a marriage bell,” - Thy lightsome step sheds joy in every place; - And where the troubled dwell, - Thy witching charms wean them of half their cares: - And from thy sunny spell, - They greet joy unawares. - - Then with thy sultry locks all loose and rude, - And mantle laced with gems of garish light, - Come as of wont; for I would fain intrude, - And in the world’s despite, - Share the rude wealth that thy own heart beguiles; - If haply so I might - Win pleasure from thy smiles. - - Me not the noise of brawling pleasure cheers, - In nightly revels or in city streets; - But joys which soothe, and not distract the ears, - That one at leisure meets - In the green woods, and meadows summer-shorn, - Or fields, where bee-fly greets - The ear with mellow horn. - - The green-swathed grasshopper, on treble pipe, - Sings there, and dances, in mad-hearted pranks; - The bees go courting every flower that’s ripe, - On baulks and sunny banks; - And droning dragon-fly, on rude bassoon, - Attempts to give God thanks - In no discordant tune. - - The speckled thrush, by self-delight embued, - There sings unto himself for joy’s amends, - And drinks the honey dew of solitude. - There Happiness attends - With inbred Joy until the heart o’erflow, - Of which the world’s rude friends. - Nought heeding, nothing know. - - There the gay river, laughing as it goes, - Plashes with easy wave its flaggy sides, - And to the calm of heart, in calmness shows - What pleasure there abides, - To trace its sedgy banks, from trouble free: - Spots, Solitude provides - To muse, and happy be. - - There ruminating ’neath some pleasant bush, - On sweet silk grass I stretch me at mine ease, - Where I can pillow on the yielding rush; - And, acting as I please, - Drop into pleasant dreams; or musing lie, - Mark the wind-shaken trees, - And cloud-betravelled sky. - - There think me how some barter joy for care, - And waste life’s summer-health in riot rude, - Of nature, nor of nature’s sweets aware. - When passions vain intrude, - These, by calm musings, softened are and still; - And the heart’s better mood - Feels sick of doing ill. - - There I can live, and at my leisure seek - Joys far from cold restraints--not fearing pride - Free as the winds, that breathe upon my cheek - Rude health, so long denied. - Here poor Integrity can sit at ease, - And list self-satisfied - The song of honey bees; - - The green lane now I traverse, where it goes - Nought guessing, till some sudden turn espies - Rude batter’d finger post, that stooping shows - Where the snug mystery lies; - And then a mossy spire, with ivy crown, - Cheers up the short surprise, - And shows a peeping town. - - I see the wild flowers, in their summer morn - Of beauty, feeding on joy’s luscious hours; - The gay convolvulus, wreathing round the thorn, - Agape for honey showers; - And slender kingcup, burnished with the dew - Of morning’s early hours, - Like gold minted new. - - And mark by rustic bridge, o’er shallow stream, - Cow-tending boy, to toil unreconciled, - Absorbed as in some vagrant summer dream; - Who now, in gestures wild, - Starts dancing to his shadow on the wall, - Feeling self-gratified, - Nor fearing human thrall. - - Or thread the sunny valley laced with streams, - Or forests rude, and the o’ershadow’d brims - Of simple pond, where idle shepherd dreams, - Stretching his listless limbs; - Or trace hay-scented meadows, smooth and long - Where joy’s wild impulse swims - In one continued song. - - I love at early morn, from new mown swath, - To see the startled frog his route pursue; - To mark while, leaping o’er the dripping path, - His bright sides scatter dew, - The early lark that, from its bustle flies, - To hail his matin new; - And watch him to the skies. - - To note on hedgerow baulks, in moisture sprent, - The jetty snail creep from the mossy thorn, - With earnest heed, and tremulous intent, - Frail brother of the morn, - That from the tiny bent’s dew-misted leaves - Withdraws his timid horn, - And fearful vision weaves. - - Or swallow heed on smoke-tanned chimney top, - Wont to be first unsealing Morning’s eye, - Ere yet the bee hath gleaned one wayward drop - Of honey on his thigh; - To see him seek morn’s airy couch to sing, - Until the golden sky - Bepaint his russet wing. - - Or sauntering boy by tanning corn to spy, - With clapping noise to startle birds away, - And hear him bawl to every passer by - To know the hour of day; - While the uncradled breezes, fresh and strong, - With waking blossoms play, - And breathe Æolian song. - - I love the south-west wind, or low or loud, - And not the less when sudden drops of rain - Moisten my glowing cheek from ebon cloud, - Threatening soft showers again, - That over lands new ploughed and meadow grounds, - Summer’s sweet breath unchain, - And wake harmonious sounds. - - Rich music breathes in Summer’s every sound; - And in her harmony of varied greens, - Woods, meadows, hedge-rows, corn-fields, all around - Much beauty intervenes; - Filling with harmony the ear and eye; - While o’er the mingling scenes - Far spreads the laughing sky. - - See, how the wind-enamoured aspin leaves - Turn up their silver lining to the sun! - And hark! the rustling noise, that oft deceives - And makes the sheep-boy run; - The sound so mimics fast-approaching showers, - He thinks the rain’s begun, - And hastes to sheltering bowers. - - But now the evening curdles dank and grey, - Changing her watchet hue for sombre weed; - And moping owls, to close the lids of day, - On drowsy wing proceed; - While chickering crickets, tremulous and long, - Light’s farewell inly heed, - And give it parting song. - - The pranking bat its flighty circlet makes; - The glow-worm burnishes its lamp anew; - O’er meadows dew-besprent, the beetle wakes - Inquiries ever new, - Teazing each passing ear with murmurs vain, - As wanting to pursue - His homeward path again. - - Hark! ’tis the melody of distant bells - That on the wind with pleasing hum rebounds - By fitful starts, then musically swells - O’er the dim stilly grounds; - While on the meadow-bridge the pausing boy - Listens the mellow sounds, - And hums in vacant joy. - - Now homeward-bound, the hedger bundles round - His evening faggot, and with every stride - His leathern doublet leaves a rustling sound, - Till silly sheep beside - His path start tremulous, and once again - Look back dissatisfied, - And scour the dewy plain. - - How sweet the soothing calmness that distills - O’er the heart’s every sense its opiate dews, - In meek-eyed moods and ever balmy trills! - That softens and subdues, - With gentle Quiet’s bland and sober train, - Which dreamy eve renews - In many a mellow strain! - - I love to walk the fields, they are to me - A legacy no evil can destroy; - They, like a spell, set every rapture free - That cheer’d me when a boy. - Play--pastime--all Time’s blotting pen conceal’d, - Comes like a new-born joy, - To greet me in the field. - - For Nature’s objects ever harmonize - With emulous Taste, that vulgar deed annoys; - Which loves in pensive moods to sympathize, - And meet vibrating joys - O’er Nature’s pleasing things; nor slighting, deems - Pastimes, the Muse employs, - Vain and obtrusive themes. - - - - - 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 thy 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 water-lilies 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 crowd 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; - - Then track along their feet, grown hoarse with noise, - The crawling brook, that ekes its weary speed, - And struggles through the weeds - With faint and sullen brawl.-- - - These haunts I long have favoured, more as now - With thee thus wandering, moralizing on; - Stealing glad thoughts from grief, - And happy, though I sigh. - - Sweet Vision, with the wild dishevelled hair, - And raiment shadowy of each wind’s embrace, - Fain would I win thine harp - To one accordant theme. - - Now not inaptly craved, communing thus, - Beneath the curdled arms of this stunt oak, - While pillowed on the grass, - We fondly ruminate - - O’er the disordered scenes of woods and fields, - Ploughed lands, thin travelled with half-hungry sheep, - Pastures tracked deep with cows, - Where small birds seek for seed: - - Marking the cow-boy that so merry trills - His frequent, unpremeditated song, - Wooing the winds to pause, - Till echo brawls again; - - As on with plashy step, and clouted shoon, - He roves, half indolent and self-employed, - To rob the little birds - Of hips and pendant haws, - - And sloes, dim covered as with dewy veils, - And rambling bramble-berries, pulpy and sweet, - Arching their prickly trails - Half o’er the narrow lane: - - Noting the hedger front with stubborn face - The dank bleak wind, that whistles thinly by - His leathern garb, thorn proof, - And cheek red hot with toil; - - While o’er the pleachy lands of mellow brown, - The mower’s stubbling scythe clogs to his foot - The ever ekeing whisp, - With sharp and sudden jerk, - - Till into formal rows the russet shocks - Crowd the blank field to thatch time-weather’d barns, - And hovels rude repair, - Stript by disturbing winds. - - See! from the rustling scythe the haunted hare - Scampers circuitous, with startled ears - Prickt up, then squat, as by - She brushes to the woods, - - Where reeded grass, breast-high and undisturbed, - Forms pleasant clumps, through which the soothing winds - Soften her rigid fears, - And lull to calm repose. - - Wild Sorceress! me thy restless mood delights, - More than the stir of summer’s crowded scenes, - Where, jostled in the din, - Joy palled my ear with song; - - Heart-sickening for the silence, that is here - Not broken inharmoniously, as now - That lone and vagrant bee - Booms faint with weary chime. - - Now filtering winds thin winnow through the woods - In 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 waste, 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; - - To sleep inglorious there mid tangled woods, - Till parched-lipped Summer pines in drought away - Then from thine ivy’d trance - Awake to glories new. - - - - - THE VANITIES OF LIFE - - - What are life’s joys and gains, - What pleasures crowd its ways, - That man should take such pains - To seek them all his days? - Sift this untoward strife - On which thy mind is bent-- - See if this chaff of life - Be worth the trouble spent. - - Is pride thy heart’s desire? - Is power thy climbing aim? - Is love thy folly’s fire? - Is wealth thy restless game?-- - Pride, power, love, wealth, and all, - Time’s touchstone shall destroy; - And, like base coin, prove all - Vain substitutes for joy. - - Dost think thy pride exalts - Thyself in others’ eyes, - And hides thy folly’s faults, - Which reason will despise? - Dost strut, and turn, and stride, - Like walking weathercocks? - The shadow, by thy side, - Becomes thy ape, and mocks. - - Dost think that power’s disguise - Can make thee mighty seem? - It may in folly’s eyes, - But not in worth’s esteem. - When all that thou canst ask, - And all that she can give, - Is but a paltry mask, - Which tyrants wear and live. - - Go, let thy fancies range, - And ramble where they may - View power in every change, - And what is its display?-- - The country magistrate, - The lowest shade in power, - To rulers of the state?-- - The meteors of an hour. - - View all, and mark the end - Of every proud extreme, - Where flattery turns a friend, - And counterfeits esteem; - Where worth is aped in show, - That doth her name purloin-- - As toys of golden glow, - Are sold for copper coin. - - Ambition’s haughty nod - With fancies may deceive-- - Nay, tell thee thou’rt a god; - And wilt thou such believe? - Go, bid the seas be dry; - Go, hold earth like a ball; - Or throw thy fancies by, - For God can do it all. - - Dost thou possess the dower - Of laws, to spare or kill? - Call it not heavenly power, - When but a tyrant’s will. - Know what a god will do, - And know thyself a fool; - Nor tyrant-like pursue, - Where he alone should rule. - - O put away thy pride, - Or be ashamed of power - That cannot turn aside - The breeze that waves a flower; - Or bid the clouds be still-- - Though shadows, they can brave - Thy poor power-mocking will, - Then make not man a slave. - - Dost think, when wealth is won, - Thy heart has its desire? - Hold ice up to the sun, - And wax before the fire; - Nor triumph o’er the reign - Which they so soon resign, - In this world’s ways they gain - Insurance safe as thine. - - Dost think life’s peace secure - In houses and in land? - Go, read the fairy lure-- - To twist a cord of sand, - Lodge stones upon the sky, - Hold water in a sieve; - Nor give such tales the lie, - And still thine own believe. - - Whoso with riches deals, - And thinks peace bought and sold, - Will find them slippery eels, - That slide the firmest hold; - Though sweet as sleep with health - Thy lulling luck may be, - Pride may o’erstride thy wealth, - And check prosperity. - - Dost think that beauty’s power - Life’s sweetest pleasure gives? - Go, pluck the summer flower, - And see how long it lives: - Behold the rays glide on - Along the summer plain, - ’Ere thou canst say, “They’re gone!” - And measure beauty’s reign. - - Look on the brightest eye, - Nor teach it to be proud, - But view the clearest sky, - And thou shalt find a cloud; - Nor call each face you meet - An angel’s, ’cause it’s fair, - But look beneath your feet, - And think of what they are. - - Who thinks that love doth live - In beauty’s tempting show, - Shall find his hopes misgive, - And melt in reason’s thaw; - Who thinks that pleasure lies - In every fairy bower, - Shall oft, to his surprise, - Find poison in the flower. - - Dost lawless passions grasp?-- - Judge not thou deal’st in joy; - Its flowers but hide the asp, - Thy revels to destroy. - Who trusts a harlot’s smile, - And by her wiles is led, - Plays with a sword the while, - Hung dropping o’er his head. - - Dost doubt my warning song?-- - Then doubt the sun gives light; - Doubt truth to teach the wrong, - And wrong alone as right; - And live as lives the knave, - Intrigue’s deceiving guest; - Be tyrant or be slave, - As suits thy ends the best. - - Or pause amid thy toils - For visions won and lost, - And count the fancied spoils, - If ’ere they quit the cost; - And if they still possess, - Thy mind as worthy things; - Plat straws with bedlam Bess, - And call them diamond rings. - - Thy folly’s past advice, - Thy heart’s already won, - Thy fall’s above all price, - So go and be undone: - For all who thus prefer - The seeming great for small, - Shall make wine vinegar, - And sweetest honey gall. - - Would’st heed the truths I sing, - To profit wherewithal? - Clip Folly’s wanton wing, - And keep her within call. - I’ve little else to give, - What thou canst easy try; - The lesson how to live, - Is but to learn to die. - - - - - THOUGHTS IN A CHURCH-YARD - - - Ah! happy spot, how still it seems - Where crowds of buried memories sleep; - How quiet Nature o’er them dreams, - ’Tis but our troubled thoughts that weep. - Life’s book shuts here--its page is lost - With them, and all its busy claims, - The poor are from its memory crost, - The rich leave nothing but their names. - - There rest the weary from their toil; - There lie the troubled, free from care; - Who through the strife of life’s turmoil - Sought rest, and only found it there. - With none to fear his scornful brow, - There sleeps the master with the slave; - And heedless of all titles now, - Repose the honoured and the brave. - - There rest the miser and the heir, - Both careless who their wealth shall reap; - E’en love finds cure for heart-aches here, - And none enjoy a sounder sleep. - The fair one far from folly’s freaks, - As quiet as her neighbour seems, - Unconscious now of rosy cheeks, - Without a rival in her dreams. - - Strangers alike to joy and strife, - Heedless of all its past affairs. - They’re blotted from the list of life, - And absent from its teazing cares. - Grief, joy, hope, fear, and all their crew - That haunt the memory’s living mind, - Ceased, when they could no more pursue, - And left a painless blank behind. - - Life’s _ignis fatuus_ light is gone, - No more to lead their hopes astray; - Care’s poisoned cup is drain’d and done, - And all its follies past away. - The bill’s made out, the reck’ning paid, - The book is cross’d, the business done; - On them the last demand is made, - And heaven’s eternal peace is won. - - - - - THE NIGHTINGALE’S NEST - - - Up this green woodland-ride let’s softly rove, - And list the nightingale--she dwells just here. - Hush! let the wood-gate softly clap, for fear - The noise might drive her from her home of love; - For here I’ve heard her many a merry year-- - At morn, at eve, nay, all the live-long day, - As though she lived on song. This very spot, - Just where that old-man’s-beard all wildly trails - Rude arbours o’er the road, and stops the way-- - And where that child its blue-bell flowers hath got, - Laughing and creeping through the mossy rails-- - There have I hunted like a very boy, - Creeping on hands and knees through matted thorn - To find her nest, and see her feed her young. - And vainly did I many hours employ: - All seemed as hidden as a thought unborn. - And where those crimping fern-leaves ramp among - The hazel’s under boughs, I’ve nestled down, - And watched her while she sung; and her renown - Hath made me marvel that so famed a bird - Should have no better dress than russet brown. - Her wings would tremble in her ecstasy, - And feathers stand on end, as ’twere with joy, - And mouth wide open to release her heart - Of its out-sobbing songs. The happiest part - Of summer’s fame she shared, for so to me - Did happy fancies shapen her employ; - But if I touched a bush, or scarcely stirred, - All in a moment stopt. I watched in vain; - The timid bird had left the hazel bush, - And at a distance hid to sing again. - Lost in a wilderness of listening leaves, - Rich Ecstasy would pour its luscious strain, - Till envy spurred the emulating thrush - To start less wild and scarce inferior songs; - For while of half the year Care him bereaves, - To damp the ardour of his speckled breast; - The nightingale to summer’s life belongs, - And naked trees, and winter’s nipping wrongs, - Are strangers to her music and her rest. - Her joys are evergreen, her world is wide-- - Hark! there she is as usual--let’s be hush-- - For in this black-thorn clump, if rightly guest, - Her curious house is hidden. Part aside - These hazel branches in a gentle way, - And stoop right cautious ’neath the rustling boughs, - For we will have another search to-day, - And hunt this fern-strewn thorn-clump round and round; - And where this reeded wood-grass idly bows, - We’ll wade right through, it is a likely nook: - In such like spots, and often on the ground, - They’ll build, where rude boys never think to look-- - Aye, as I live! her secret nest is here, - Upon this white-thorn stump! I’ve searched about - For hours in vain. There! put that bramble by-- - Nay, trample on its branches and get near. - How subtle is the bird! she started out, - And raised a plaintive note of danger nigh, - Ere we were past the brambles; and now, near - Her nest, she sudden stops--as choking fear, - That might betray her home. So even now - We’ll leave it as we found it; safety’s guard - Of pathless solitude shall keep it still. - See there; she’s sitting on the old oak bough, - Mute in her fears; our presence doth retard - Her joys, and doubt turns every rapture chill. - Sing on, sweet bird! may no worse hap befall - Thy visions, than the fear that now deceives. - We will not plunder music of its dower, - Nor turn this spot of happiness to thrall; - For melody seems hid in every flower, - That blossoms near thy home. These harebells all - Seem bowing with the beautiful in song; - And gaping cuckoo-flowers, with spotted leaves, - Seems blushing of the singing it has heard. - How curious is the nest; no other bird - Uses such loose materials, or weaves - Its dwelling in such spots: dead open leaves - Are placed without, and velvet moss within, - And little scraps of grass, and, scant and spare, - What scarcely seem materials, down and hair; - For from men’s haunts she nothing seems to win. - Yet Nature is the builder, and contrives - Homes for her children’s comfort, even here; - Where Solitude’s disciples spend their lives - Unseen, save when a wanderer passes near - That loves such pleasant places. Deep adown, - The nest is made a hermit’s mossy cell. - Snug lie her curious eggs in number five, - Of deadened green, or rather olive brown; - And the old prickly thorn-bush guards them well. - So here we’ll leave them, still unknown to wrong, - As the old woodland’s legacy of song. - - - - - TO P**** - - - Fair was thy bloom, when first I met - Thy summer’s maiden-blossom; - And thou art fair and lovely yet, - And dearer to my bosom. - O thou wert once a wilding flower, - All garden flowers excelling, - And still I bless the happy hour - That led me to thy dwelling. - - Though nursed by field, and brook, and wood, - And wild in every feature, - Spring ne’er unsealed a fairer bud, - Nor found a blossom sweeter. - Of all the flowers the Spring hath met, - And it has met with many, - Thou art to me the fairest yet, - And loveliest, of any. - - Though ripening summers round thee bring - Buds to thy swelling bosom, - That wait the cheering smiles of spring - To ripen into blossom; - These buds shall added blessings be, - To make our loves sincerer: - For as their flowers resemble thee, - They’ll make thy memory dearer. - - And though thy bloom shall pass away, - By winter overtaken, - Thoughts of the past will charms display, - And many joys awaken. - When time shall every sweet remove, - And blight thee on my bosom-- - Let beauty fade--to me, my love, - Thou’lt ne’er be out of blossom! - - - - - A WORLD FOR LOVE - - - Oh, the world is all too rude for thee, with much ado and care; - Oh, this world is but a rude world, and hurts a thing so fair; - Was there a nook in which the world had never been to sear, - That place would prove a paradise when thou and Love were near. - - And there to pluck the blackberry, and there to reach the sloe, - How joyously and happily would Love thy partner go; - Then rest when weary on a bank, where not a grassy blade - Had e’er been bent by Trouble’s feet, and Love thy pillow made. - - For Summer would be ever green, though sloes were in their prime, - And Winter smile his frowns to Spring, in beauty’s happy clime; - And months would come, and months would go, and all in sunny mood, - And everything inspired by thee grow beautifully good. - - And there to make a cot unknown to any care and pain, - And there to shut the door alone on singing wind and rain-- - Far, far away from all the world, more rude than rain or wind, - Oh who could wish a sweeter home, or better place to find? - - Than thus to love and live with thee, thou beautiful delight! - Than thus to live and love with thee the summer day and night! - The Earth itself, where thou hadst rest, would surely smile to see - Herself grow Eden once again, possest of Love and thee. - - - - - SONG - - - O the voice of woman’s love! - What a bosom-stirring word! - Was a sweeter ever uttered, - Was a dearer ever heard, - Than woman’s love? - - How it melts upon the ear, - How it nourishes the heart! - Cold, ah! cold, must his appear, - Who hath never shared a part - Of woman’s love. - - ’Tis pleasure to the mourner, - ’Tis freedom to the thrall; - The pilgrimage of many, - And resting place of all, - Is woman’s love. - - ’Tis the gem of beauty’s birth, - It competes with joys above; - What were angels upon earth, - If without a woman’s love-- - A woman’s love? - - - - - LOVE - - - Love, though it is not chill and cold, - But burning like eternal fire, - Is yet not of approaches bold, - Which gay dramatic tastes admire. - Oh! timid love, more fond than free, - In daring song is ill pourtrayed, - Where, as in war, the devotee - By valour wins each captive maid;-- - - Where hearts are prest to hearts in glee, - As they could tell each other’s mind; - Where ruby lips are kissed as free, - As flowers are by the summer wind. - No! gentle love, that timid dream, - With hopes and fears at foil and play, - Works like a skiff against the stream, - And thinking most finds least to say. - - It lives in blushes and in sighs, - In hopes for which no words are found; - Thoughts dare not speak but in the eyes, - The tongue is left without a sound. - The pert and forward things that dare - Their talk in every maiden’s ear, - Feel no more than their shadows there-- - Mere things of form, with nought of fear. - - True passion, that so burns to plead, - Is timid as the dove’s disguise; - ’Tis for the murder-aiming gleed - To dart at every thing that flies. - True love, it is no daring bird, - But like the little timid wren, - That in the new-leaved thorns of spring - Shrinks farther from the sight of men. - - The idol of his musing mind, - The worship of his lonely hour, - Love woos her in the summer wind, - And tells her name to every flower; - But in her sight, no open word - Escapes, his fondness to declare; - The sighs, by beauty’s magic stirred, - Are all that speak his passion there. - - - - - DECAY - - - O Poesy is on the wane, - For Fancy’s visions all unfitting; - I hardly knew her face again, - Nature herself seems on the flitting. - The fields grow old and common things, - The grass, the sky, the winds a-blowing; - And spots, where still a beauty clings, - Are sighing “going! all a-going!” - O Poesy in on the wane, - I hardly know her face again. - - The bank with brambles overspread, - And little molehills round about it, - Was more to me than laurel shades, - With paths of gravel finely clouted; - And streaking here and streaking there, - Through shaven grass and many a border, - With rutty lanes had no compare, - And heaths were in a richer order. - But Poesy is on the wane, - I hardly know her face again. - - I sat beside the pasture stream, - When Beauty’s self was sitting by - The fields did more than Eden seem, - Nor could I tell the reason why. - I often drank when not a-dry, - To pledge her health in draughts divine; - Smiles made it nectar from the sky, - Love turned e’en water into wine. - O Poesy is on the wane, - I cannot find her face again. - - The sun those mornings used to find, - Its clouds were other-country mountains, - And heaven looked downward on the mind, - Like groves, and rocks, and mottled fountains. - Those heavens are gone, the mountains grey - Turned mist--the sun, a homeless ranger, - Pursues alone his naked way, - Unnoticed like a very stranger. - O Poesy is on the wane, - Nor love nor joy is mine again. - - Love’s sun went down without a frown, - For very joy it used to grieve us; - I often think the West is gone, - Ah, cruel Time, to undeceive us. - The stream it is a common stream, - Where we on Sundays used to ramble, - The sky hangs o’er a broken dream, - The bramble’s dwindled to a bramble! - O Poesy is on the wane, - I cannot find her haunts again. - - Mere withered stalks and fading trees, - And pastures spread with hills and rushes, - Are all my fading vision sees; - Gone, gone are rapture’s flooding gushes! - When mushrooms they were fairy bowers, - Their marble pillars over-swelling, - And Danger paused to pluck the flowers, - That in their swarthy rings were dwelling. - Yes, Poesy is on the wane, - Nor joy, nor fear is mine again. - - Aye, Poesy hath passed away, - And Fancy’s visions undeceive us; - The night hath ta’en the place of day, - And why should passing shadows grieve us? - I thought the flowers upon the hill - Were flowers from Adam’s open gardens; - But I have had my summer thrills, - And I have had my heart’s rewardings. - So Poesy is on the wane, - I hardly know her face again. - - And Friendship it hath burned away, - Like to a very ember cooling, - A make-believe on April day, - That sent the simple heart a fooling; - Mere jesting in an earnest way, - Deceiving on and still deceiving; - And Hope is but a fancy-play, - And Joy the art of true believing; - For Poesy is on the wane, - O could I feel her faith again! - - - - - PASTORAL FANCIES - - - Sweet pastime here my mind so entertains, - Abiding pleasaunce, and heart-feeding joys, - To meet this blithsome day these painted plains, - These singing maids, and chubby laughing boys, - Which hay-time and the summer here employs,-- - My rod and line doth all neglected lie; - A higher joy my former sport destroys: - Nature this day doth bait the hook, and I - The glad fish am, that’s to be caught thereby. - - This silken grass, these pleasant flowers in bloom, - Among these tasty molehills that do lie - Like summer cushions, for all guests that come; - Those little feathered folk, that sing and fly - Above these trees, in that so gentle sky, - Where not a cloud dares soil its heavenly light; - And this smooth river softly grieving bye-- - All fill mine eyes with so divine a sight, - As makes me sigh that it should e’er be night. - - In sooth, methinks the choice I most should prize - Were in these meadows of delight to dwell, - To share the joyaunce heaven elsewhere denies, - The calmness that doth relish passing well, - The quiet conscience, that aye bears the bell, - And happy musing Nature would supply, - Leaving no room for troubles to rebel: - Here would I think all day, at night would lie, - The hay my bed, my coverlid the sky. - - So would I live, as nature might command, - Taking with Providence my wholesome meals; - Plucking the savory peascod from the land, - Where rustic lad oft dainty dinner steals. - For drink, I’d his me where the moss conceals - The little spring so chary from the sun, - Then lie, and listen to the merry peals - Of distant bells--all other noises shun; - Then court the Muses till the day be done. - - Here would high joys my lowly choice requite; - For garden plot, I’d choose this flow’ry lea; - Here I in culling nosegays would delight, - The lambtoe tuft, the paler culverkey: - The cricket’s mirth were talk enough for me, - When talk I needed; and when warmed to pray, - The little birds my choristers should be, - Who wear one suit for worship and for play, - And make the whole year long one sabbath-day. - - A thymy hill should be my cushioned seat; - An aged thorn, with wild hops intertwined, - My bower, where I from noontide might retreat; - A hollow oak would shield me from the wind, - Or, as might hap, I better shed might find - In gentle spot, where fewer paths intrude, - The hut of shepherd swain, with rushes lined: - There would I tenant be to Solitude, - Seeking life’s gentlest joys, to shun the rude. - - Bidding a long farewell to every trouble, - The envy and the hate of evil men; - Feeling cares lessen, happiness redouble, - And all I lost as if ’twere found again. - Vain life unseen; the past alone known then: - No worldly intercourse my mind should have - To lure me backward to its crowded den; - Here would I live and die, and only crave - The home I chose might also be my grave. - - - - - THE AUTUMN ROBIN - - - Sweet little bird in russet coat, - The livery of the closing year! - I love thy lonely plaintive note, - And tiny whispering song to hear. - While on the stile or garden seat, - I sit to watch the falling leaves, - The song thy little joys repeat, - My loneliness relieves. - - And many are the lonely minds - That hear, and welcome thee anew; - Not Taste alone, but humble hinds, - Delight to praise, and love thee too. - The veriest clown, beside his cart, - Turns from his song with many a smile, - To see thee from the hedgerow start, - To sing upon the stile. - - The shepherd on the fallen tree - Drops down to listen to thy lay, - And chides his dog beside his knee, - Who barks, and frightens thee away. - The hedger pauses, ere he knocks - The stake down in the meadow-gap-- - The boy, who every songster mocks, - Forbears the gate to clap. - - When in the hedge that hides the post - Thy ruddy bosom he surveys,-- - Pleased with thy song, in transport lost, - He pausing mutters scraps of praise. - The maiden marks, at day’s decline, - Thee in the yard, on broken plough, - And stops her song, to listen thine, - Milking the brindled cow. - - Thy simple faith in man’s esteem, - From every heart hath favour won; - Dangers to thee no dangers seem-- - Thou seemest to court them more than shun. - The clown in winter takes his gun, - The barn-door flocking birds to slay, - Yet should’st thou in the danger run - He turns the tube away. - - The gipsy boy, who seeks in glee - Blackberries for a dainty meal, - Laughs loud on first beholding thee, - When called, so near his presence steal. - He surely thinks thou know’st the call; - And though his hunger ill can spare - The fruit, he will not pluck it all, - But leaves some to thy share. - - Upon the ditcher’s spade thou’lt hop, - For grubs and wreathing worms to search; - Where woodmen in the forest chop, - Thou’lt fearless on their faggots perch; - Nay, by the gipsies’ camp I stop, - And mark thee dwell a moment there, - To prune thy wing awhile, then drop, - The littered crumbs to share. - - Domestic bird! thy pleasant face - Doth well thy common suit commend; - To meet thee in a stranger-place - Is meeting with an ancient friend. - I track the thicket’s glooms around, - And there, as loth to leave, again - Thou comest, as if thou knew the sound - And loved the sight of men. - - The loneliest wood that man can trace - To thee a pleasant dwelling gives; - In every town and crowded place - The sweet domestic robin lives. - Go where one will, in every spot - Thy little welcome mates appear; - And, like the daisy’s common lot, - Thou’rt met with every where. - - The swallow in the chimney tier, - Or twittering martin in the eaves, - With half of love and half of fear - His mortared dwelling shily weaves; - The sparrows in the thatch will shield; - Yet they, as well as e’er they can, - Contrive with doubtful faith to build - Beyond the reach of man. - - But thou’rt less timid than the wren, - Domestic and confiding bird! - And spots, the nearest haunts of men, - Are oftenest for thy home preferred. - In garden-walls thou’lt build so low, - Close where the bunch of fennel stands, - That e’en a child just taught to go - May reach with tiny hands. - - Sweet favoured bird! thy under-notes - In summer’s music grow unknown, - The concert from a thousand throats - Leaves thee as if to pipe alone; - No listening ear the shepherd lends, - The simple ploughman marks thee not, - And then by all thy autumn friends - Thou’rt missing and forgot. - - The far-famed nightingale, that shares - Cold public praise from every tongue, - The popular voice of music heirs, - And injures much thy under-song: - Yet then my walks thy theme salutes; - I find thee autumn’s favoured guest, - Gay piping on the hazel-roots - Above thy mossy nest. - - ’Tis wrong that thou shouldst be despised, - When these gay fickle birds appear; - They sing when summer flowers are prized-- - Thou at the dull and dying year. - Well! let the heedless and the gay - Bepraise the voice of louder lays, - The joy thou steal’st from Sorrow’s day - Is more to thee than praise. - - And could my notes win aught from thine, - My words but imitate thy lay, - Time could not then his charge resign, - Nor throw the meanest verse away, - But ever at this mellow time, - He should thy autumn praise prolong, - As they would share the happy prime - Of thy eternal song. - - - - - A SPRING MORNING - - - The Spring comes in with all her hues and smells, - In freshness breathing over hills and dells; - O’er woods where May her gorgeous drapery flings, - And meads washed fragrant by their laughing springs. - Fresh are new opened flowers, untouched and free - From the bold rifling of the amorous bee. - The happy time of singing birds is come, - And Love’s lone pilgrimage now finds a home; - Among the mossy oaks now coos the dove, - And the hoarse crow finds softer notes for love. - The foxes play around their dens, and bark - In joy’s excess, ’mid woodland shadows dark. - The flowers join lips below; the leaves above; - And every sound that meets the ear is Love. - - - - - THE CRAB-TREE - - - Spring comes anew, and brings each little pledge - That still, as wont, my childish heart deceives; - I stoop again for violets in the hedge, - Among the ivy and old withered leaves; - And often mark, amid the clumps of sedge, - The pooty-shells I gathered when a boy: - But cares have claimed me many an evil day, - And chilled the relish which I had for joy. - Yet when Crab-blossoms blush among the May, - As erst in years gone by, I scramble now - Up ’mid the bramble for my old esteems, - Filling my hands with many a blooming bough; - Till the heart-stirring past as present seems, - Save the bright sunshine of those fairy dreams. - - - - - WINTER - - - Old January, clad in crispy rime, - Comes limping on, and often makes a stand; - The hasty snow-storm ne’er disturbs his time, - He mends no pace, but beats his dithering hand. - And February, like a timid maid, - Smiling and sorrowing follows in his train; - Huddled in cloak, of miry roads afraid, - She hastens on to meet her home again. - Then March, the prophetess, by storms inspired, - Gazes in rapture on the troubled sky, - And now in headlong fury madly fired, - She bids the hail-storm boil and hurry by. - Yet ’neath the blackest cloud, a Sunbeam flings - Its cheering promise of returning Springs. - - - - - OLD POESY - - - Sweet is the poesy of the olden time, - In the unsullied infancy of rhyme, - When Nature reigned omnipotent to teach, - And Truth and Feeling owned the powers of speech. - Rich is the music of each early theme, - And sweet as sunshine in a summer dream, - Giving to stocks and stones, in rapture’s strife, - A soul of utterance and a tongue of life. - Sweet are these wild flowers in their disarray, - Which Art and Fashion fling as weeds away, - To sport with shadows of inferior kind, - Mere magic-lanthorns of the shifting mind, - Automatons of wonder-working powers, - Shadows of life, and artificial flowers. - - - - -’TIS SPRING, MY LOVE, ’TIS SPRING - - - ’Tis Spring, my love, ’tis Spring, - And the birds begin to sing: - If ’t was Winter, left alone with you, - Your bonny form and face, - Would make a Summer place, - And be the finest flower that ever grew. - - Tis Spring, my love, ’tis Spring, - And the hazel catkins hing, - While the snowdrop has its little blebs of dew; - But that’s not so white within - As your bosom’s hidden skin-- - That sweetest of all flowers that ever grew. - - The sun arose from bed, - All strewn with roses red, - But the brightest and the loveliest crimson place - Is not so fresh and fair, - Or so sweet beyond compare, - As thy blushing, ever smiling, happy face. - - I love Spring’s early flowers, - And their bloom in its first hours, - But they never half so bright or lovely seem - As the blithe and happy grace - Of my darling’s blushing face, - And the happiness of loves young dream. - - - - - GRAVES OF INFANTS - - - Infants’ gravemounds are steps of angels, where - Earth’s brightest gems of innocence repose. - God is their parent, so they need no tear; - He takes them to his bosom from earth’s woes, - A bud their lifetime and a flower their close. - Their spirits are the Iris of the skies, - Needing no prayers; a sunset’s happy close. - Gone are the bright rays of their soft blue eyes; - Flowers weep in dew-drops o’er them, and the gale gently sighs. - - Their lives were nothing but a sunny shower, - Melting on flowers as tears melt from the eye. - Each death * * * - Was tolled on flowers as Summer gales went by. - They bowed and trembled, yet they heaved no sigh, - And the sun smiled to show the end was well. - Infants have nought to weep for ere they die; - All prayers are needless, beads they need not tell, - White flowers their mourners are, Nature their passing bell. - - - - - HOME YEARNINGS - - - O for that sweet, untroubled rest, - That poets oft have sung!-- - The babe upon its mother’s breast, - The bird upon its young, - The heart asleep without a pain-- - When shall I know that sleep again? - - When shall I be as I have been - Upon my mother’s breast-- - Sweet Nature’s garb of verdant green - To woo to perfect rest-- - Love in the meadow, field, and glen, - And in my native wilds again? - - The sheep within the fallow field, - The herd upon the green, - The larks that in the thistle shield, - And pipe from morn to e’en-- - O for the pasture, fields, and fen, - When shall I see such rest again? - - I love the weeds along the fen, - More sweet than garden flowers, - For freedom haunts the humble glen - That blest my happiest hours. - Here prison injures health and me: - I love sweet freedom and the free. - - The crows upon the swelling hills, - The cows upon the lea, - Sheep feeding by the pasture rills, - Are ever dear to me, - Because sweet freedom is their mate, - While I am lone and desolate. - - I loved the winds when I was young, - When life was dear to me; - I loved the song which Nature sung, - Endearing liberty; - I loved the wood, the vale, the stream, - For there my boyhood used to dream. - - There even toil itself was play; - ’Twas pleasure e’en to weep; - ’Twas joy to think of dreams by day, - The beautiful of sleep. - When shall I see the wood and plain, - And dream those happy dreams again? - - - - - LOVE LIVES BEYOND THE TOMB - - - Love lives beyond the tomb, - And earth, which fades like dew! - I love the fond, - The faithful, and the true. - - Love lives in sleep; - ’Tis happiness of healthy dreams; - Eve’s dews may weep, - But love delightful seems. - - ’Tis seen in flowers, - And in the morning’s pearly dew; - In earth’s green hours, - And in the heaven’s eternal blue. - - ’Tis heard in Spring, - When light and sunbeams, warm and kind, - On angel’s wings - Bring love and music to the mind. - - And where’s the voice, - So young, so beautiful, and sweet - As Nature’s choice, - Where Spring and lovers meet? - - Love lives beyond the tomb, - And earth, which fades like dew! - I love the fond, - The faithful, and the true. - - - - - MY EARLY HOME - - - Here sparrows build upon the trees, - And stockdove hides her nest; - The leaves are winnowed by the breeze - Into a calmer rest; - The black-cap’s song was very sweet, - That used the rose to kiss; - It made the Paradise complete: - My early home was this. - - The redbreast from the sweetbriar bush - Dropt down to pick the worm; - On the horse-chesnut sang the thrush, - O’er the house where I was born; - The moonlight, like a shower of pearls, - Fell o’er this “bower of bliss,” - And on the bench sat boys and girls: - My early home was this. - - The old house stooped just like a cave, - Thatched o’er with mosses green; - Winter around the walls would rave, - But all was calm within; - The trees are here all green agen, - Here bees the flowers still kiss, - But flowers and trees seemed sweeter then: - My early home was this. - - - - - THE TELL-TALE FLOWERS - - - And has the Spring’s all-glorious eye - No lesson to the mind? - The birds that cleave the golden sky-- - Things to the earth resigned-- - Wild flowers that dance to every wind-- - Do they no memory leave behind? - - Aye, flowers! The very name of flowers, - That bloom in wood and glen, - Brings Spring to me in Winter’s hours, - And childhood’s dreams again. - The primrose on the woodland lea - Was more than gold and lands to me. - - The violets by the woodland side - Are thick as they could thrive; - I’ve talked to them with childish pride - As things that were alive: - I find them now in my distress-- - They seem as sweet, yet valueless. - - The cowslips on the meadow lea, - How have I run for them! - I looked with wild and childish glee - Upon each golden gem: - And when they bowed their heads so shy - I laughed, and thought they danced for joy. - - And when a man, in early years, - How sweet they used to come, - And give me tales of smiles and tears, - And thoughts more dear than home: - Secrets which words would then reprove-- - They told the names of early love. - - The primrose turned a babbling flower - Within its sweet recess: - I blushed to see its secret bower, - And turned her name to bless. - The violets said the eyes were blue: - I loved, and did they tell me true? - - The cowslips, blooming everywhere, - My heart’s own thoughts could steal: - I nip’t them that they should not hear: - They smiled, and would reveal; - And o’er each meadow, right or wrong, - They sing the name I’ve worshipped long. - - The brook that mirrored clear the sky-- - Full well I know the spot; - The mouse-ear looked with bright blue eye, - And said “Forget-me-not.” - And from the brook I turned away, - But heard it many an after day. - - The king-cup on its slender stalk, - Within the pasture dell, - Would picture there a pleasant walk - With one I loved so well. - It said “How sweet at eventide - ’Twould be, with true love at thy side.” - - And on the pasture’s woody knoll - I saw the wild bluebell, - On Sundays, where I used to stroll - With her I loved so well: - She culled the flowers the year before; - These bowed, and told the story o’er. - - And every flower that had a name - Would tell me who was fair; - But those without, as strangers, came - And blossomed silent there: - I stood to hear, but all alone: - They bloomed and kept their thoughts unknown. - - But seasons now have nought to say, - The flowers no news to bring: - Alone I live from day to day-- - Flowers deck the bier of Spring; - And birds upon the bush or tree - All sing a different tale to me. - - - - - TO JOHN MILTON - - - Poet of mighty power, I fain - Would court the muse that honoured thee, - And, like Elisha’s spirit, gain - A part of thy intensity; - And share the mantle which she flung - Around thee, when thy lyre was strung. - - Though faction’s scorn at first did shun, - With coldness, thy inspired song, - Though clouds of malice pass’d thy sun, - They could not hide it long; - Its brightness soon exhaled away - Dark night, and gained eternal day. - - The critics’ wrath did darkly frown - Upon thy muse’s mighty lay; - But blasts that break the blossom down - Do only stir the bay; - And thine shall flourish, green and long, - In the eternity of song. - - Thy genius saw, in quiet mood, - Gilt fashion’s follies pass thee by, - And, like the monarch of the wood, - Tower’d o’er it to the sky; - Where thou could’st sing of other spheres, - And feel the fame of future years. - - Though bitter sneers and stinging scorns - Did throng the Muse’s dangerous way, - Thy powers were past such little thorns, - They gave thee no dismay; - The scoffer’s insult pass’d thee by, - Thou smild’st and mad’st him no reply. - - Envy will gnaw its heart away - To see thy genius gather root; - And as its flowers their sweets display, - Scorn’s malice shall be mute; - Hornets that summer warmed to fly, - Shall at the death of summer die. - - Though friendly praise hath but its hour, - And little praise with thee hath been; - The bay may lose its summer flower, - But still its leaves are green; - And thine, whose buds are on the shoot, - Shall only fade to change to fruit. - - Fame lives not in the breath of words, - In public praises’ hue and cry; - The music of these summer birds - Is silent in a winter sky, - When thine shall live and flourish on, - O’er wrecks where crowds of fames are gone. - - The ivy shuns the city wall, - When busy-clamorous crowds intrude, - And climbs the desolated hall - In silent solitude; - The time-worn arch, the fallen dome, - Are roots for its eternal home. - - The bard his glory ne’er receives - Where summer’s common flowers are seen, - But winter finds it when she leaves - The laurel only green; - And time, from that eternal tree, - Shall weave a wreath to honour thee. - - Nought but thy ashes shall expire; - Thy genius, at thy obsequies, - Shall kindle up its living fire - And light the Muse’s skies; - Ay, it shall rise, and shine, and be - A sun in song’s posterity. - - - - - I AM! YET WHAT I AM - - - I am! yet what I am who cares, or knows? - My friends forsake me like a memory lost. - I am the self-consumer of my woes, - They rise and vanish, an oblivious host, - Shadows of life, whose very soul is lost. - And yet I am--I live--though I am toss’d - - Into the nothingness of scorn and noise, - Into the living sea of waking dream, - Where there is neither sense of life, nor joys, - But the huge shipwreck of my own esteem - And all that’s dear. Even those I loved the best - Are strange--nay, they are stranger than the rest. - - I long for scenes where man has never trod, - For scenes where woman never smiled or wept; - There to abide with my Creator, God, - And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept - Full of high thoughts, unborn. So let me lie, - The grass below; above the vaulted sky. - - * * * * * - - - BIBLIOGRAPHY OF JOHN CLARE - - BY C. ERNEST SMITH - - CHRONOLOGICAL LIST OF WORKS - - Clare (John). Poems, Descriptive of Rural Life - and Scenery. 12mo., pp. 222. 1820 - - (Contains passages suppressed in later editions). - ----- The Village Minstrel, and Other Poems. -_Portrait and Sketch of Clare’s Cottage._ 2 vols., -12mo., pp. 216 and 211. 1821 - ----- The Shepherd’s Calendar, with Village -Stories and Other Poems. _Front by Dewint._ -12mo., pp. 238. 1827 - ----- The Rural Muse. _Front, and Engraved -Title._ 12mo., pp. 175. 1835 - - - BIOGRAPHY - -Cherry (J. L.) Life and Remains of John Clare. -_Illustrations by Birket Foster._ Cr. 8vo. 1873 - -This volume was afterwards included in the _Chandos -Classics,_ published by Warne & Co., London. - -Martin (F.) Life of John Clare. _Engraved Title._ -8vo. 1865 - - [See also _Encyclopædia Britannica_; and _Dictionary of National - Biography_, vol. 10]. - - - CRITICISM, ETC. - -The Book of Gems, edited by S. C. Hall. 8vo. 1853 - -(References to Clare, pp. 162-166. Facsimile of Clare’s -Autograph at end of volume). - -Casket of Gems, edited by Chas. Gibbon. 4 vols., -Royal 8vo. N. D. - -(Contains a Poem of Clare’s which has been very much -altered and revised by another hand). - -Dack (Chas.) Catalogue of the Clare Centenary -Exhibition at Peterborough. 1893 - -(Full reports of the Centenary Celebrations appear in -_Peterboro’ Standard_, July 15, Aug. 26, Sept. 9, 1893, -and _Stamford Guardian_, Sept. 1, 1893). - -De Wilde (G. J.) Rambles Roundabout, and -Poems. Cr. 8vo. _Northampton,_ N. D. - -(Includes much interesting matter about Clare and his -birthplace). - -Four Letters from Rev. W. Allen to Lord Radstock -on the Poems of Clare. 12mo. 1823 - -Heath (Richard). The English Peasant: His Past -and Present. Sm. 8vo. 1899 - -(Exhaustive account of Clare occupies large portion of -the book). - -Holland (J.), and J. Everett. James Montgomery. -7 vols., 8vo. 1854-6 - -(References to Clare, vol. iv., pp. 96-175). - -Hood (E. Paxton). The Peerage of Poverty. -Cr. 8vo. N. D. - -(An account of Clare occupies some fifty pages.) - -Poets and the Poetry of the Century, edited by -Alfred H. Miles. Keats to Lytton. 12mo. N. D. - -(Clare, by Hon. Roden Noel, pp. 79-106). - -Redding (Cyrus). Fifty Years’ Recollections. -3 vols., p. 8vo. 1858 - -(Vol. III., pp. 216, references to Clare). - -Stoddard (R. H.) Under the Evening Lamp. -Cr. 8vo. 1893 - -(Essay on Clare, pp. 120-134). - -Wilson (Professor). Clare’s Rural Muse. 16 pp. -_Blackwood’s Magazine_, August, 1835. - - - MAGAZINE ARTICLES, ETC. - -Anti-Jacobin Review. June, 1820. - -Baldwin’s London Magazine. March, 1820. - -Blackwood’s Magazine. August, 1835. - -Eclectic Review. April, 1820. - -Gentleman’s Magazine. February, 1820. - -Literary World. August and September, 1893. - -London Magazine. I., 5-11--323-29. IV., 540-8. - -New Monthly Magazine. March, 1820. - - Notes and Queries. Ist S., vi., 196; IInd S., v., 186; IVth S., - xi., 127; Vth S., ii., 302; VIIth S., x., 187. - -Peterborough Standard. July 15, August 26, and September 2 and 9, 1893. - -Quarterly Review. May, 1820, pp. 166-75. - - Stamford and Rutland Guardian. Aug. and Sept., 1890; May and June, - 1891; Sept., Oct., and December, 1893. - -[Illustration: THE RUGBY PRESS] - - - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, by John Clare - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS *** - -***** This file should be named 52601-0.txt or 52601-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/2/6/0/52601/ - -Produced by Larry B. 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