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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/9156.txt b/9156.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..411d3d2 --- /dev/null +++ b/9156.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9741 @@ +Project Gutenberg's Life and Remains of John Clare, by J. L. Cherry + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: Life and Remains of John Clare + "The Northamptonshire Peasant Poet" + +Author: J. L. Cherry + +Release Date: October, 2005 [EBook #9156] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on September 9, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LIFE AND REMAINS OF JOHN CLARE *** + + + + +Produced by Mark Sherwood, Delphine Lettau and Charles Aldarondo + + + + +LIFE AND REMAINS + +of + +JOHN CLARE + +The "Northamptonshire Peasant Poet" + +INCLUDING: + +LETTERS FROM HIS FRIENDS AND CONTEMPORARIES, + +EXTRACTS FROM HIS DIARY, + +PROSE FRAGMENTS, OLD BALLADS (COLLECTED BY CLARE). + +By J.L.CHERRY + +"And he sat him down in a lonely place, +And chanted a melody loud and sweet." + Tennyson. + +WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY BIRKET FOSTER + + + + +DEDICATION + +To HIS EXCELLENCY, THE LORD-LIEUTENANT OF IRELAND. + +MY LORD: + +Among the papers which John Clare, the "Peasant Poet" of our county, +left behind him, was one in which he desired that the Editor of his +"Remains" should dedicate them "to Earl Spencer, with the Author's +last wishes." + +That memorandum was written in the year 1825, when the poet was +anticipating, to use his own words, a speedy entrance into "the dark +porch of eternity, whence none returns to tell the tale of his +reception." + +These melancholy forebodings were not realized, for although in a few +years Clare became dead to the world, he lived on in seclusion to a +patriarchal age. Meanwhile the Earl Spencer to whom he desired that +his "Remains" should be dedicated passed away, and the title +descended first to your lordship's uncle, then to your lordship's +father, and lastly to your lordship. But through all these years the +Earls Spencer were the steadfast and generous friends of the unhappy +Poet, nor did your lordship's bounty cease with his life, but was +continued to his widow. + +In dedicating this volume to your lordship, as I now do, I am +complying with the spirit and almost with the very letter of poor +Clare's injunction. + +I am, with unfeigned respect, + +Your lordship's most obedient servant, + +THE EDITOR. + + + + +INTRODUCTION + +The Editor begs the reader to believe that he under took the +compilation of this volume with diffidence and trepidation, lest by +any defect of judgment he might do aught to diminish the reputation +which John Clare has always enjoyed with the lovers of pastoral +poetry. He trusts that the shortcomings of an unskilful workman will +be forgotten in admiration of the gems for which he has been required +to find a setting. + +Shortly after Clare's death his literary "Remains" came into the +possession of Mr. Taylor, of Northampton. The MSS included several +hundreds of hitherto unpublished poems, more than a thousand letters +addressed to Clare by his friends and contemporaries, (among them +Charles Lamb, James Montgomery, Bloomfield, Sir Chas. A. Elton, Hood, +Cary, Allan Cunningham, Mrs. Emmerson, Lord Radstock, &c), diary, +pocket books in which Clare had jotted down passing thoughts and +fancies in prose and verse, a small collection of curious "Old +Ballads" which he says he wrote down on hearing them sung by his +father and mother, and numerous other valuable and interesting +documents. + +This volume has been compiled mainly from these manuscripts. The +contents are divided into five sections, namely:--Life and Letters, +Asylum Poems, Miscellaneous Poems, Prose Fragments, Old Ballads. + +For much of the information relating to the Poet's earlier years the +Editor is indebted to Mr. Martin's "Life of Clare," and the +narratives of his youthful struggles and sufferings which appeared in +the "Quarterly Review" and other periodicals at the time of the +publication of his first volume. From that time the correspondence +already mentioned became the basis of the biographical sketch, and +was of the greatest value. In the few pages which relate to Clare's +residence at Northampton, the Editor was enabled to write principally +from personal knowledge. + +It is almost incumbent upon him to add, that in several important +particulars he dissents from Mr. Martin, but he will not engage in +the ungracious task of criticizing a work to which he is under an +obligation. + +While an inmate of the Northampton County Lunatic Asylum, Clare wrote +more than five hundred poems. These were carefully preserved by Mr. +W. F. Knight, of Birmingham, a gentleman who for many years held a +responsible office in that institution, and was a kind-hearted friend +of the unhappy bard. From this pile of manuscripts the Editor has +selected those which appear under the title of Asylum Poems. The +selection was a pleasing, mournful task. Again and again it happened +that a poem would open with a bright, musical stanza giving promise +of a finished work not unworthy of Clare's genius at its best. This +would be followed by others in which, to quote a line from the +"Village Minstrel," were "Half-vacant thoughts and rhymes of careless +form." Then came deeper obscurity, and at last incoherent nonsense. +Of those which are printed, scarcely one was found in a state in +which it could be submitted to the public without more or less of +revision and correction. + +The Miscellaneous Poems are chiefly fugitive pieces collected from +magazines and annuals. One or two, referred to in the correspondence +with James Montgomery, have been reprinted from the "Rural Muse," and +there are a few which, like the Asylum Poems, have not been published +before. "Maying; or, Love and Flowers," to which the Editor presumes +specially to direct attention, is one of these. + +The Prose Fragments are of minor literary importance, but they help +to a knowledge and an understanding of the man. The Old Ballads have +an interest of their own, apart from their association with Clare. +The majority are no doubt what they purport to be, but in two or +three instances Clare's hand is discernible. + +J. L. C. + +Havelock-place, Hanley, + +December, 1872. + + + + +CONTENTS + + +LIFE, LETTERS, ETC. + + +ASYLUM POEMS: + +'T is Spring, My Love, 't is Spring +Love of Nature +The Invitation +To the Lark +Graves of Infants +Bonny Lassie O! +Phoebe of the Scottish Glen +Maid of the Wilderness +Mary Bateman +When Shall We Meet Again? +The Lover's Invitation +Nature's Darling +I'll Dream Upon the Days to Come +To Isobel +The Shepherd's Daughter +Lassie, I Love Thee +The Gipsy Lass +At the Foot of Clifford Hill +To My Wife--A Valentine +My True Love is a Sailor +The Sailor's Return +Birds, Why Are Ye Silent? +Meet Me Tonight +Young Jenny +Adieu +My Bonny Alice and Her Pitcher +The Maiden I Love +To Jenny Lind +Little Trotty Wagtail +The Forest Maid +Bonnny Mary O! +Love's Emblem +The Morning Walk +To Miss C.... +I Pluck Summer Blossoms +The March Nosegay +Left Alone +To Mary +The Nightingale +The Dying Child +Mary +Clock-a Clay +Spring +Evening +The Swallow +Jockey and Jenny +The Face I Love So Dearly +The Beanfield +Where She Told Her Love +Milking O' the Kye +A Lover's Vows +The Fall of the Year +Autumn +Early Love +Evening +A Valentine +To Liberty +Approach of Winter +Mary Dove +Spring's Nosegay +The Lost One +The Tell-Tale Flowers +The Skylark +Poets Love Nature--A Fragment +Home Yearnings +My Schoolboy Days +Love Lives Beyond the Tomb +My Early Home +Mary Appleby +Among the Green Bushes +To Jane +The Old Year + + + +MISCELLANEOUS POEMS: + +Maying; or, A Love of Flowers +Two Sonnets to Mary +The Vanities of Life +March +The Old Man's Lament +Spring Flowers +Poem on Death +The Wanton Chloe +The Old Shepherd +To a Rosebud in Humble Life +The Triumphs of Time +To John Milton +The Birds and St. Valentine +Farewell and Defiance to Love +The Gipsy's Song +Peggy Band +To a Brook + + + +PROSE FRAGMENTS: + +A Confession of Faith +Essay on Popularity +Scraps for an Essay on Criticism and Fashion +Scraps for an Essay on Criticism + + + +OLD SONGS AND BALLADS: + +Adieu to My False Love Forever +O Silly Love! O Cunning Love! +Nobody Cometh to Woo +Fare Thee Well +Mary Neele +Love Scorned By Pride +Betrayed +The Maiden's Welcome +The False Knight's Tragedy +Love's Riddle +The Banks of Ivory + + + +GLOSSARY + +Bedlam cowslip: the paigle, or larger kind of cowslip. +Bents: tall, coarse, rushy stems of grass. +Blea: high, exposed. +Bleb: a bubble, a small drop. +Clock-a-clay: the ladybird. +Daffies: daffodils. +Dithering: trembling, shivering. +Hing: preterite of hang. +Ladysmock: the cardamine pratensis. +Pink: the chaffinch. +Pooty: the girdled snail shell. +Ramping: coarse and large. +Rawky: misty, foggy. +Rig: the ridge of a roof. +Sueing: a murmuring, melancholy sound. +Swaly: wasteful. +Sweltered: over-heated by the sun. +Twitchy: made of twitch grass. +Water-Hob: the marsh marigold. + + + +LIFE, LETTERS, ETC. + +HELPSTONE + +John Clare, son of Parker and Ann Clare, commonly called "the +Northamptonshire Peasant Poet," was born at Helpstone, near +Peterborough, on the 13th of July, 1793. The lowliness of his lot +lends some countenance to the saying of "Melancholy" Burton, that +"poverty is the Muses' patrimony." He was the elder of twins, and was +so small an infant that his mother used to say of him that "John +might have been put into a pint pot." Privation and toil disabled his +father at a comparatively early age, and he became a pauper, +receiving from the parish an allowance of five shillings a week. His +mother was of feeble constitution and was afflicted with dropsy. +Clare inherited the low vitality of his parents, and until he reached +middle age was subject to depressing ailments which more than once +threatened his life, but after that time the failure of his mental +powers caused him to be placed in circumstances favourable to bodily +health, and in his old age he presented the outward aspect of a +sturdy yeoman. + +Having endowed Clare with high poetic sensibility, Nature +capriciously placed him amid scenes but little calculated to call +forth rapturous praises of her charms. "Helpstone," wrote an old +friend of the poet, lately deceased, "lies between six and seven +miles NNW of Peterborough, on the Syston and Peterborough branch of +the Midland Railway, the station being about half a mile from the +town. A not unpicturesque country lies about it, though its beauty is +somewhat of the Dutch character; far-stretching distances, level +meadows, intersected with grey willows and sedgy dikes, frequent +spires, substantial watermills, and farm houses of white stone, and +cottages of white stone also. Southward, a belt of wood, with a +gentle rise beyond, redeems it from absolute flatness. Entering the +town by the road from the east you come to a cross, standing in the +midst of four ways. Before you, and to the left, stretches the town, +consisting of wide streets or roadways, with irregular buildings on +either side, interspersed with gardens now lovely with profuse blooms +of laburnum and lilac." + +The cottage in which John Clare was born is in the main street +running south. The views of it which illustrate his poems are not +very accurate. They represent it as standing alone, when it is in +fact, and evidently always has been, a cluster of two if not of three +tenements. There are three occupations now. It is on the west side of +the street, and is thatched. In the illustration to the second volume +of "The Village Minstrel" (1821), an open stream runs before the door +which is crossed by a plank. Modern sanitary regulations have done +away with this, if it ever existed and was not a fancy of the artist. + + + + +LOCAL ATTACHMENTS + +Clare, whose local attachments were intense, bewails in indignant +verse the demolition of the Green:-- + + Ye injur'd fields, ye once were gay, + When Nature's hand displayed + Long waving rows of willows grey + And clumps of hawthorn shade; + But now, alas! your hawthorn bowers + All desolate we see! + The spoiler's axe their shade devours, + And cuts down every tree. + + Not trees alone have owned their force, + Whole woods beneath them bowed, + They turned the winding rivulet's course, + And all thy pastures plough'd. + +Clare also wrote in the "Village Minstrel" in the following candid +and artless strain, "a sort of defiant parody on the Highland poets", +of the natural features of his native place:-- + + Swamps of wild rush-beds and sloughs' squashy traces, + Grounds of rough fallows with thistle and weed. + Flats and low valleys of kingcups and daisies, + Sweetest of subjects are ye for my reed: + Ye commons left free in the rude rags of nature, + Ye brown heaths beclothed in furze as ye be, + My wild eye in rapture adores every feature, + Ye are dear as this heart in my bosom to me. + + O native endearments! I would not forsake ye, + I would not forsake ye for sweetest of scenes: + For sweetest of gardens that Nature could make me + I would not forsake ye, dear valleys and greens: + Though Nature ne'er dropped ye a cloud-resting mountain, + Nor waterfalls tumble their music so free, + Had Nature denied ye a bush, tree, or fountain, + Ye still had been loved as an Eden by me. + + And long, my dear valleys, long, long may ye flourish, + Though rush-beds and thistles make most of your pride! + May showers never fail the green's daisies to nourish, + Nor suns dry the fountain that rills by its side! + Your skies may be gloomy, and misty your mornings, + Your flat swampy valleys unwholesome may be, + Still, refuse of Nature, without her adornings + Ye are dear as this heart in my bosom to me. + +That the poet's attachment to his native place was deeprooted and +unaffected was proved by the difficulty which he found in tearing +himself from it in after years, and it is more than probable that the +violence which, for the sake of others, he then did to his sensitive +nature aggravated his constitutional melancholy and contributed to +the ultimate overthrow of his reason. + + + + +GRANNY BAINS + +Clare's opportunities for learning the elements of knowledge were in +keeping with his humble station. Parker Clare, out of his miserable +and fluctuating earnings as a day labourer, paid for his child's +schooling until he was seven years of age, when he was set to watch +sheep and geese on the village heath. Here he made the acquaintance +of "Granny Bains," of whom Mr. Martin, quoting, doubtless, from +Clare's manuscript autobiography, says:-- + +"Having spent almost her whole life out of doors, in heat and cold, +storm and rain, she had come to be intimately acquainted with all the +signs of foreboding change of weather, and was looked upon by her +acquaintances as a perfect oracle. She had also a most retentive +memory, and being of a joyous nature, with a bodily frame that never +knew illness, had learnt every verse or melody that was sung within +her hearing, until her mind became a very storehouse of songs. To +John, old Granny Bains soon took a great liking, he being a devout +listener, ready to sit at her feet for hours and hours while she was +warbling her little ditties, alternately merry and plaintive. But +though often disturbed in the enjoyment of these delightful +recitations, they nevertheless sank deep into John Clare's mind, +until he found himself repeating all day long the songs he had heard, +and even in his dreams kept humming:-- + + There sat two ravens upon a tree, + Heigh down, derry O! + There sat two ravens upon a tree, + As deep in love as he and she. + +It was thus that the admiration of poetry first awoke in Parker +Clare's son, roused by the songs of Granny Bains, the cowherd of +Helpstone." + + + + +SUMMER LABOURS, WINTER STUDY + +From watching cows and geese, the boy was in due course promoted to +the rank of team-leader, and was also set to assist his father in the +threshing barn. "John," his father used to say, "was weak but +willing," and the good man made his son a flail proportioned to his +strength. Exposure in the ill-drained fields round Helpstone brought +on an attack of tertiary ague, from which the boy had scarcely +rallied when he was again sent into the fields. Favourable weather +having set in, he recovered his health, and was able that summer to +make occasionally a few pence by working overtime. These savings were +religiously devoted to schooling, and in the following winter, he +being then in his tenth year, he attended an evening school at the +neighbouring village of Glinton. John soon became a favourite of the +master, Mr. James Merrishaw, and was allowed the run of his little +library. His passion for learning rapidly developed itself, and he +eagerly devoured every book that came in his way, his reading ranging +from "Robinson Crusoe" to "Bonnycastle's Arithmetic" and "Ward's +Algebra." He refers to this in later life when he thus speaks of the +"Village Minstrel":-- + + And oft, with books, spare hours he would beguile, + And blunder oft with joy round Crusoe's lonely isle. + +John pursued his studies for two or three winters under the guidance +of the good-natured Merrishaw, and at the end of that time an +unsuccessful effort was made to obtain for him a situation as clerk +in the office of a solicitor at Wisbeach. After this failure he +returned contentedly to the fields, and about this time found a new +friend in the son of a small farmer named Turnill. The two youths +read together, Turnill assisting Clare with books and writing +materials. He now began to "snatch a fearful joy" by scribbling on +scraps of paper his unpolished rhymes. "When he was fourteen or +fifteen," to use his mother's own words, "he would show me a piece of +paper, printed sometimes on one side and scrawled all over on the +other, and he would say, 'Mother, this is worth silver and gold,' and +I used to say to him, 'Ay, boy, it looks as if it wur,' but I thought +he was only wasting his time." John deposited a bundle of these +fragments in a chink in the cottage wall, whence "they were duly and +daily subtracted by his mother to boil the morning's kettle," but we +do not find that he was greatly disturbed by the loss, for being +sympathetically asked on one occasion whether he had not kept copies +of his earliest poems he replied that he had not, and that they were +very likely good for nothing. + +While he was yet in his early youth an important and, in some +respects, a favourable change took place in the nature of his daily +occupation. Among the few well-to-do inhabitants of Helpstone was a +person named Francis Gregory, who owned a small public-house, under +the sign of the Blue Bell, and rented besides a few acres of land. +Francis Gregory, a most kind and amiable man, was unmarried, and kept +house with his old mother, a female servant, and a lad, the latter +half groom and half gardener. This situation, a yearly hiring, being +vacant, it was offered to John, and eagerly accepted, on the +understanding that he should have sufficient time of his own to +continue his studies. It was a promise abundantly kept, for John +Clare had never more leisure, and perhaps was never happier in his +life than during the year that he stayed at the Blue Bell. Mr. +Francis Gregory, suffering under constant illness, treated the pale +little boy, who was always hanging over his books, more like a son +than a servant, and this feeling was fully shared by Mr. Gregory's +mother. John's chief labours were to attend to a horse and a couple +of cows, and occasionally to do some light work in the garden or the +potato field; and as these occupations seldom filled more than part +of the day or the week, he had all the rest of the time to himself. A +characteristic part of Clare's nature began to reveal itself now. +While he had little leisure to himself, and much hard work, he was +not averse to the society of friends and companions either, as in the +case of Turnill, for study, or, as with others, for recreation; but +as soon as he found himself to a certain extent his own master he +forsook the company of his former acquaintances, and began to lead a +sort of hermit's life. He took long strolls into the woods, along the +meres, and to other lonely places, and got into the habit of +remaining whole hours at some favourite spot, lying flat on the +ground with his face towards the sky. "The flickering shadows of the +sun, the rustling of the leaves on the trees, the sailing of the +fitful clouds over the horizon, and the golden blaze of the sun at +morn and eventide were to him spectacles of which his eye never +tired, with which his heart never got satiated." (Martin.) + + + + +HIS EARLIEST RHYMES + +The age at which Clare's poetic fancies first wrought themselves into +verse cannot be definitely fixed. We know from his steadfast friend +and first editor, the late Mr. John Taylor, publisher to the London +University, that his fondness for poetry found expression before even +he had learnt to read. He was tired one day with looking at the +pictures in a volume of poems, which he used to say he thought was +Pomfret's, when his father read him one piece in the book to amuse +him. This thrilled him with a delight of which he often afterwards +spoke, but though he distinctly recollected the vivid pleasure which +the recital gave him he could never recall either the incidents or +the language. It may almost be taken for granted that so soon as +Clare could write he began to rhyme. The Editor of this volume has +before him the book in which the boy set down his arithmetical and +geometrical exercises while a pupil of Mr. Merrishaw, and in this +book are scribbled in pencil a few undecipherable lines commencing, +"Good morning to ye, ballad-singing thrush." He was thirteen years +old when an incident occurred which gave a powerful impulse to his +dawning genius. A companion had shown him Thomson's "Seasons," and he +was seized with an irrepressible desire to possess a copy. He +ascertained that the book might be bought at Stamford for +eighteenpence, and he entreated his father to give him the money. The +poor man pleaded all too truthfully his poverty, but his mother, by +great exertions, contrived to scrape together sevenpence, and the +deficiency was made up by loans from friends in the village. Next +Sunday, John rose long before the dawn and walked to Stamford, a +distance of seven miles, to buy a copy of the "Seasons," ignorant or +forgetful of the fact that business was suspended on that day. After +waiting for three or four hours before the shop to which he had been +directed, he learnt from a passer-by that it would not be re-opened +until the following morning, and he returned to Helpstone with a +heavy heart. Next day he repeated his journey and bore off the +much-coveted volume in triumph. He read as he walked back to +Helpstone, but meeting with many interruptions clambered over the +wall surrounding Burghley Park, and throwing himself on the grass +read the volume through twice over before rising. It was a fine +spring morning, and under the influence of the poems, the singing of +birds, and the bright sunshine, he composed "The Morning Walk." This +was soon followed by "The Evening Walk," and some other minor +pieces. + +At the age of sixteen, if we may trust the account given by his early +friend Mr. Octavius Gilchrist, in the "London Magazine" for January, +1820, Clare composed the following sonnet "To a Primrose":-- + + Welcome, pale primrose, starting up between + Dead matted leaves of oak and ash, that strew + The every lawn, the wood, and spinney through, + 'Mid creeping moss and ivy's darker green! + How much thy presence beautifies the ground! + How sweet thy modest, unaffected pride + Glows on the sunny bank and wood's warm side! + And where thy fairy flowers in groups are found + The schoolboy roams enchantedly along, + Plucking the fairest with a rude delight, + While the meek shepherd stops his simple song, + To gaze a moment on the pleasing sight, + O'erjoyed to see the flowers that truly bring + The welcome news of sweet returning Spring. + +As we have traced the poet's history down to his sixteenth year, the +next incident of importance may be anticipated: of course he fell in +love, and the object of his first and purest affection was Mary +Joyce, daughter of a farmer at Glinton. Little is known of this +episode excepting that the maiden was very beautiful, that after a +few months of blissful intercourse their frequent meetings came to +the knowledge of Mary's father, who sternly forbad their continuance, +and that although "Patty," Clare's future wife, was the theme of some +pretty verses, Mary Joyce was always Clare's ideal of love and +beauty, and when thirty years afterwards, he lost his reason, among +the first indications of the approaching calamity was his declaration +that Mary, who had then long been in her grave, had passed his +window. While under the influence of this delusion he wrote the poem +entitled "First Love's Recollections," of which the following are the +first two stanzas:-- + + First love will with the heart remain + When all its hopes are bye, + As frail rose-blossoms still retain + Their fragrance when they die; + And joy's first dreams will haunt the mind + With shades from whence they sprung, + As summer leaves the stems behind + On which spring's blossoms hung. + + Mary! I dare not call thee dear, + I've lost that right so long; + Yet once again I vex thine ear + With memory's idle song. + Had time and change not blotted out + The love of former days, + Thou wert the last that I should doubt + Of pleasing with my praise. + +Clare's engagement at the Blue Bell having terminated, a stone mason +of Market Deeping offered to teach him his craft on payment of a +premium which, though a very moderate sum, was far beyond the means +of Parker Clare. A shoemaker in the village next offered to take him +as an apprentice, on condition that Clare found his own tools, but +the youth's aversion to the trade was too great to be overcome. +After that his father applied to the head gardener at Burghley Park, +who engaged Clare on the terms of a three years' apprenticeship, +with eight shillings per week for the first year and an advance of +one shilling per week in each succeeding year. The engagement was +considered by Clare's father and mother to be a very fortunate and +promising one, but it proved to be in a high degree prejudicial to +his welfare. He was thrown into the society of a set of coarse- +minded, intemperate fellows who insisted on his accompanying them in +their frequent and forbidden visits to public houses in the +neighbourhood. Mr. Martin informs us that it was the custom at +Burghley to lock up at night all the workmen and apprentices +employed under the head gardener, to prevent them from robbing the +orchards, and that they regularly made their escape through a +window. On several occasions Clare was overcome by drink and slept +in the open air, with consequences to his delicate frame which may +easily be imagined. It would appear that the head gardener set the +example of habitual drunkenness to his subordinates, and that he +was, moreover, of brutal disposition, which will account for the +circumstance of the flight of Clare from Burghley Park, after he had +been there nearly a year. Accompanied by a fellow-apprentice he +walked to Grantham, a distance of twenty-two miles, and thence to +Newark, where the youths obtained employment under a nurseryman. But +Clare very shortly became homesick, and he returned to his parents +in a state of complete destitution. + +The most lamentable consequence of the roystering life which Clare +led with the gardeners at Burghley was, that he acquired a fondness +for strong drink with which he had to struggle, not always +successfully, for years. That he did struggle manfully is evident +from his correspondence, and at length, acting upon the advice of Dr. +Darling, a London physician, who for a long time generously +prescribed for him without fee or reward beyond the poet's grateful +thanks, he abstained altogether. It will be seen hereafter that in +all probability Dr. Darling's advice was given upon the supposition +that Clare was able to procure a sufficient supply of nourishing +food, when unhappily he was almost literally starving himself, in +order that his family might not go hungry. + +On returning from Nottinghamshire Clare took again to the work of a +farm labourer, and the poetic fervour which had abated in the +uncongenial society of Burghley once more manifested itself. After +taking infinite pains to that end, he had the satisfaction of +convincing his father and mother that his poetry was of somewhat +greater merit than the half-penny ballads sold at the village feast; +but his neighbours could not bring themselves to approve John's +course of life, and they adopted various disagreeable modes of +showing that they thought he was a mightily presumptuous fellow. His +shy manners and his habit of talking to himself as he walked led some +to set him down as a lunatic; others ridiculed his enthusiasm, or +darkly whispered suspicions of unhallowed intercourse with evil +spirits. This treatment, operating upon a sensitive mind and a body +debilitated both by labour and scanty and unwholesome food, had the +natural effect of robbing him of hope and buoyancy of spirits. In a +fit of desperation he enlisted in the militia, and with other +Helpstone youths was marched off to Oundle, a small town lying +between Peterborough and Northampton. He remained at Oundle for a few +weeks, at the end of which time the regiment was disbanded and Clare +returned to Helpstone, carrying with him "Paradise Lost" and "The +Tempest," which he had bought at a broker's shop in Oundle. This +brings us down to 1812, when Clare was nineteen years old. + +Little is known of Clare's manner of life for the next four or five +years, excepting that he continued to work as a farm labourer +whenever work could be found, that he tried camp life with some +gipsies, and speedily had his romantic ideas of its attractiveness +rudely dispelled, that he had a love passage or two with girls of the +village and that he accumulated a large number of poems of varying +degrees of excellence. + +In 1817 he obtained employment as a lime burner at Bridge Casterton, +in the neighbouring county of Rutland, where he earned about ten +shillings per week. The labour was very severe, but Clare was +contented, and during his stay at Bridge Casterton several of the +best among his earlier poems were produced. It was probably this +period of his life which he had in his mind when he said:-- + + I found the poems in the fields, + And only wrote them down. + +In the course of this year 1817 Clare fell in love with Martha +Turner, the daughter of a cottage farmer living at a place called +Walkherd Lodge, and this is the maiden who after the lapse of three +or four years became his wife. "She was a fair girl of eighteen, +slender, with regular features, and pretty blue eyes." Clare entered +into this new engagement with passionate ardour, but the courtship +ultimately took a more prosaic turn, and having once done so, there +was little in the worthy but illiterate and matter-of-fact "Patty" to +elevate the connection into the region of poetry. In his +correspondence Clare more than once hints at want of sympathy on the +part of those of his own household, and at one time domestic +differences, for which there is reason to think he was mainly +responsible, and which occurred when he was mentally in a very morbid +condition, caused him to contemplate suicide. It is due, however, to +the memory of "Patty" to say that Clare's latest volume of poems +("The Rural Muse," 1835) contains an address "To P * *" which is +honourable to the constancy of both parties. It is as follows:-- + + 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! + + + + +THE POET TO THE PUBLIC + +Although Clare's engagement to Martha Turner added to his +perplexities, it was really the immediate moving cause of his +determination to be up and doing. He resolved at length to publish a +collection of his poems, and consulted Mr. Henson, a printer, of +Market Deeping, on the subject. Mr. Henson offered to print three +hundred copies of a prospectus for a sovereign, but he firmly +declined the invitation of the poet to draw up that document. Clare +resolutely set to work to save the money for the printer, and soon +succeeded; but then there was the difficulty with regard to the +composition of the address to the public. He could write poetry; that +he knew; he had done so already, and he felt plenty more within; but +prose he had never yet attempted, and the task was a really grievous +one. This is his own account of his trouble, given in the +introduction to the "Village Minstrel:"-- + +"I have often dropped down five or six times, to plan an address. In +one of these musings my poor thoughts lost themselves in rhyme. +Taking a view, as I sat beneath the shelter of a woodland hedge, of +my parents' distresses at home, of my labouring so hard and so vainly +to get out of debt, and of my still added perplexities of ill-timed +love, striving to remedy all to no purpose, I burst out into an +exclamation of distress, 'What is life?' and instantly recollecting +that such a subject would be a good one for a poem, I hastily +scratted down the two first verses of it, as it stands, and continued +my journey to work." When he got to the limekiln he could not work +for thinking of the address which he had to write, "so I sat me down +on a lime scuttle," he says, "and out with my pencil, and when I had +finished I started off for Stamford with it." There he posted the +address to Mr. Henson. It ran as follows:-- + +"Proposals for publishing by subscription a Collection of Original +Trifles on Miscellaneous Subjects, Religious and Moral, in verse, by +John Clare, of Helpstone. The public are requested to observe that +the Trifles humbly offered for their candid perusal can lay no claim +to eloquence of composition: whoever thinks so will be deceived, the +greater part of them being juvenile productions, and those of later +date offsprings of those leisure intervals which the short remittance +from hard and manual labour sparingly afforded to compose them. It is +to be hoped that the humble situation which distinguishes their +author will be some excuse in their favour, and serve to make an +atonement for the many inaccuracies and imperfections that will be +found in them. The least touch from the iron hand of Criticism is +able to crush them to nothing, and sink them at once to utter +oblivion. May they be allowed to live their little day and give +satisfaction to those who may choose to honour them with a perusal, +they will gain the end for which they were designed and the author's +wishes will be gratified. Meeting with this encouragement it will +induce him to publish a similar collection of which this is offered +as a specimen." + +The specimen was the "Sonnet to the Setting Sun," in which a +comparison is drawn between sunset and the death of a Christian. The +address was too artless, too honest, and the people of the Fens, +taking Clare at his word, subscribed for exactly seven copies! The +state of excitement, caused by mingled hopes and fears, in which +Clare was at this time may be seen from the following extract from a +letter to Mr. Henson:--"Good God! How great are my expectations! What +hopes do I cherish! As great as the unfortunate Chatterton's were, on +his first entrance into London, which is now pictured in my mind. +And, undoubtedly, like him I may be building castles in the air, but +time will prove it. Please to do all in your power to procure +subscribers, as your address will be looked upon better than that of +a clown. When two are got you may print it, if you please; so do your +best." + + + + +A FRIEND IN NEED + +But now fresh troubles came upon Clare in rapid succession. He +quarrelled with Patty and was forbidden the house by her parents. He +was discharged by his master on the probably well-grounded plea that +he was writing poetry and distributing his address when he ought to +be at work, and he was soon without a penny in the world. He returned +to Helpstone and tried to get employment as a day labourer, but +failed; the farmers, who had heard of the publishing project, +considering that "he did not know his place." In this extremity he +was compelled to apply for and accept relief from the parish. This +was in the autumn of 1818, and Clare was twenty-five years old. +Henson declined to begin the printing of the book unless Clare +advanced the sum of L15, and this being impossible the negotiation +fell through. Clare shortly afterwards, with the two-fold object of +finding employment and obtaining relief from mental distraction by +change of scene, was on the point of setting out for Yorkshire, when +a copy of his prospectus fell under the notice of Mr. Edward Drury, a +bookseller, of Stamford. Mr. Drury called upon Clare at his own home, +and with difficulty induced him to show him a few of his manuscript +poems. Having read, among others, "My love, thou art a nosegay +sweet," he was unable to conceal his gratification, and told Clare, +to the poor poet's intense delight, that if he would procure the +return of the poems in the possession of Mr. Henson he would publish +a volume and give Clare the profits after deducting expenses. + +On this footing the poet became intimate with Mr. Drury, who +frequently entertained him at his house. His letters to Clare are +cordial, and disclose an honest desire to be of service to him, on +which account it is the more to be regretted that, owing to a dispute +which afterwards took place between Mr. Drury and Mr. Taylor, Clare's +London publisher, Clare rather ungraciously separated himself from +his early friend. He was clearly indebted to Mr. Drury in the first +instance for the opportunity of emerging from obscurity into public +notice, and also for introductions to Mr. Taylor and Mr. Octavius +Gilchrist, both men of influence in literary circles, and both of +whom took an active and genuine interest in the young poet. Mr. +Taylor, as has been already stated, became his editor and publisher, +and remained his faithful friend until after Clare had been lost to +public view within the walls of a lunatic asylum. + +Towards the end of 1819 Clare met Mr. Taylor at the house of Mr. +Gilchrist, in Stamford, and the latter gentleman gave the following +account of the interview in a patronizing and not very judicious +article which appeared in the "London Magazine" for January, 1820:-- + +"Mr. Taylor had seen Clare, for the first time, in the morning; and +he doubted much if our invitation would be accepted by the rustic +poet, who had now just returned from his daily labour, shy, and +reserved, and disarrayed as he was. In a few minutes, however, Clare +announced his arrival by a hesitating knock at the door--'between a +single and a double rap'--and immediately upon his introduction he +dropped into a chair. Nothing could exceed the meekness, simplicity, +and diffidence with which he answered the various enquiries +concerning his life and habits, which we mingled with subjects +calculated or designed to put him much at his ease. Of music he +expressed himself passionately fond, and had learnt to play a little +on the violin, in the humble hope of obtaining a trifle at the annual +feasts in the neighbourhood, and at Christmas. The tear stole +silently down the cheek of the rustic poet as one of our little party +sang 'Auld Robin Gray.'" + +Mr. Martin gives a somewhat different account of this interview. He +states that the poet took decidedly too much wine, and that while +under its influence he wrote some doggerel verses which Mr. Gilchrist +had the cruelty to print in the article intended formally to +introduce Clare to the notice of the English public. Mr. Gilchrist +was an accomplished and warm-hearted man, and it was by his desire +that Hilton, the Royal Academical, painted Clare's portrait for +exhibition in London, but he presumed too much upon his social +superiority, and his judgment was at fault in supposing that the poet +was all meekness and diffidence. On one occasion he took him sharply +to task for associating with a Nonconformist minister, and Clare +warmly resented this interference and for a time absented himself +from Mr. Gilchrist's house. A conciliation, however, soon took place, +and the poet and the learned grocer of Stamford were fast friends +until the death of the latter in 1823. + + + + +"HEARKEN UNTO A VERSER" + +Clare's first volume was brought out by Taylor and Hessey in January, +1820. It was entitled "Poems Descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery," +and contained an introduction from the pen of Mr. Taylor. In this +preface the peculiarities of Clare's genius were described with force +and propriety, his perseverance in the face of great discouragements +was commended, and the sympathy and support of the public were +invited in the following passage:-- + +"No poet of our country has shown greater ability under circumstances +so hostile to its development. And all this is found here without any +of those distressing and revolting alloys which too often debase the +native worth of genius, and make him who was gifted with powers to +command admiration live to be the object of contempt or pity. The +lower the condition of its possessor the more unfavourable, +generally, has been the effect of genius on his life. That this has +not been the case with Clare may, perhaps, be imputed to the absolute +depression of his fortune. When we hear the consciousness of +possessing talent, and the natural irritability of the poetic +temperament, pleaded in extenuation of the follies and vices of men +in high life, let it be accounted no mean praise to such a man as +Clare that with all the excitements of their sensibility to his +station he has preserved a fair character amid dangers which +presumption did not create and difficulties which discretion could +not avoid. In the real troubles of life, when they are not brought on +by the misconduct of the individual, a strong mind acquires the power +of righting itself after each attack, and this philosophy, not to +call it by a better name, Clare possesses. If the expectations of a +'better life,' which he cannot help indulging, should all be +disappointed by the coldness with which this volume may be received, +he can 'put up with distress, and be content.' In one of his letters +he says, 'If my hopes don't succeed the hazard is not of much +consequence: if I fall, I am advanced at no great distance from my +low condition: if I sink for want of friends my old friend Necessity +is ready to help me as before. It was never my fortune as yet to meet +advancement from friendship: my fate has ever been hard labour among +the most vulgar and lowest conditions of men, and very small is the +pittance hard labour allows me, though I always toiled even beyond my +strength to obtain it.' To see a man of talent struggling under great +adversity with such a spirit must surely excite in every generous +heart the wish to befriend him. But if it be otherwise, and he should +be doomed to remediless misery, + + Why, let the stricken deer go weep, + The hart ungalled play, + For some must watch, while some sleep,-- + Thus runs the world away." + +Towards the end of January 1820, the Rev Mr. Holland of Northborough, +the minister already referred to, called upon Clare with the joyful +news that his poems had been published, and that the volume was a +great success. Next day a messenger arrived from Stamford with an +invitation to the poet to meet Mr. Drury and Mr. Gilchrist. They +confirmed the favourable report made by Mr. Holland, and at length +Clare had an opportunity of seeing the book which had caused him so +many anxious days and sleepless nights. He made no attempt to conceal +the honest pride he felt on receiving the congratulations of his +friends, and acknowledged his obligation to Mr. Taylor for the +editorial pains he had taken to prepare his manuscripts for the +press, but he was deeply mortified at the tone of the "Introduction" +in which Mr. Taylor dwelt, perhaps unconsciously, on Clare's poverty +as constituting his chief claim to public notice. + +The success of the "Poems" could scarcely be overstated. The eager +curiosity of the public led to the first edition being exhausted in a +few days, and a second was promptly announced. "The Gentleman's +Magazine," the "New Monthly Magazine," the "Eclectic Review," the +"Anti-Jacobin Review," the "London Magazine," and many other +periodicals, welcomed the new poet with generous laudation. Following +these came the "Quarterly Review," then under the editorship of the +trenchant Gifford. To the astonishment of the reading public, the +"Quarterly," which about this time "killed poor Keats," admitted a +genial article on the rustic bard, and gave him the following +excellent advice:-- + +"We counsel, we entreat him to continue something of his present +occupations, to attach himself to a few in the sincerity of whose +friendship he can confide, and to suffer no temptations of the idle +and the dissolute to seduce him from the quiet scenes of his youth +(scenes so congenial to his taste) to the hollow and heartless +society of cities, to the haunts of men who would court and flatter +him while his name was new, and who, when they had contributed to +distract his attention and impair his health, would cast him off +unceremoniously to seek some other novelty. Of his again encountering +the difficulties and privations he lately experienced there is no +danger. Report speaks of honourable and noble friends already +secured: with the aid of these, the cultivation of his own excellent +talents, and a meek but firm reliance on that good Power by whom +these were bestowed, he may, without presumption, anticipate a rich +reward in the future for the evils endured in the morning of his +life." + +The estimate formed by the writer of the liberality of Clare's +patrons was exaggerated, and instead of there being no danger of his +ever again having to encounter difficulties and privations he was +scarcely ever free from them until the crowning privation had placed +him beyond their influence. + + + + +EXAMPLES + +The "Poems Descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery" were about seventy +in number, including twenty-one sonnets. The volume opened with an +apostrophe to Helpstone, in the manner of Goldsmith, and among the +longer pieces were "The Fate of Amy," "Address to Plenty in Winter," +"Summer Morning," "Summer Evening," and "Crazy Nell." The minor +pieces included the sonnet "To the Primrose," already quoted, "My +love, thou art a Nosegay sweet," and "What is Life?", a reflective +poem produced under circumstances with which the reader has been made +acquainted. The compositions last named are inserted here as examples +of Clare's style at this early period of his career:-- + + MY LOVE, THOU ART A NOSEGAY SWEET. + + My love, thou art a nosegay sweet, + My sweetest flower I'll prove thee, + And pleased 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. + + + + 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 are vain hopes?--The puffing gale of morn, + That of its charms divests the dewy lawn, + And robs each flow'ret of its gem,--and dies; + A cobweb hiding disappointment's thorn, + Which stings more keenly through the thin disguise. + + 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 everything that meets our foolish eyes + Gives proof sufficient of its vanity. + 'T is but a trial all must undergo, + To teach unthankful mortals how to prize + That happiness vain man's denied to know + Until he's called to claim it in the skies. + +The following lines in the "Address to Plenty" have always been +admired for their Doric strength and simplicity, and the vivid +realism of the scene which they depict:-- + + 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; + +Clare used at first, without hesitation, the provincialisms of his +native county, but afterwards, as his mind matured, he saw the +propriety of adopting the suggestions which Charles Lamb and other +friends made to him on this subject, and his style gradually became +more polished, until in the "Rural Muse" scarcely any provincialisms +were employed, and the glossary of the earlier volumes was therefore +unnecessary. + +The article in the "Quarterly" was, with the exception, perhaps, of +the concluding paragraph just quoted, from the pen of Clare's friend +and neighbour, Mr. Gilchrist, who wrote to Clare on the subject in +the following jocular strain:-- + +"What's to be done now, Maester? Here's a letter from William Gifford +saying I promised him an article on one John Clare, for the +'Quarterly Review.' Did I do any such thing? Moreover, he says he has +promised Lord Radstock, and if I know him, as he thinks I do, I know +that the Lord will persecute him to the end. This does not move me +much. But he adds, 'Do not fail me, dear Gil, for I count upon you. +Tell your simple tale, and it may do the young bard good.' Think you +so? Then it must be set about. But how to weave the old web anew--how +to hoist the same rope again and again--how to continue the interest +to a twice-told tale? Have you committed any arsons or murders that +you have not yet revealed to me? If you have, out with 'em straight, +that I may turn 'em to account before you are hanged; and as you will +not come here to confess, I must hunt you up at Helpstone; so look to +it, John Clare, for ere it be long, and before you expect me, I shall +be about your eggs and bacon. I have had my critical cap on these two +days, and the cat-o'-nine-tails in my hands, and soundly I'll flog +you for your sundry sins, John Clare, John Clare! + +Given under my hand the tenth of the fourth month, anno Domini 1820." + + + + +A LION AT LAST + +Following close upon the complimentary criticisms in the principal +monthlies, the condescension of the "Quarterly" completed the little +triumph, and Clare's verses became the fashion of the hour. One of +his poems was set to music by Mr. Henry Corri, and sung by Madame +Vestris at Covent Garden. Complimentary letters, frequently in rhyme, +flowed in upon him, presents of books were brought by nearly every +coach, [2] and influential friends set about devising plans (of which +more presently) to rescue him from poverty and enable him to devote +at all events a portion of his time to the Muses. On the other hand, +visitors from idle curiosity were far more numerous than was +agreeable, and he was pestered with applications for autographs and +poems for ladies' albums, with patronage and advice from total +strangers, with tracts from well-meaning clergymen, and with +invitations to lionizing parties. One of these communications was in +its way a unique production, and for the entertainment of the reader +a portion of it is here introduced:-- + +"The darksome daughter of Chaos has now enveloped our hemisphere +(which a short time since was enubilous of clouds) in the grossest +blackness. The drowsy god reigns predominantly, and the obstreperous +world is wrapped in profound silence. No sounds gliding through the +ambient air salute my attentive auricles, save the frightful notes +which at different intervals issue from that common marauder of +nocturnal peace--the lonesome, ruin-dwelling owl. Wearied rustics, +exhausted by the toils of the day, are enjoying a sweet and tranquil +repose. No direful visions appal their happy souls, nor terrific +ghosts of quondam hours stand arrayed before them. Every sense is +lost in the oblivious stream. Even those who on the light, fantastic +toe lately tripped through the tangled dance of mirth have sunk into +the arms of Tired Nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep. Meditation, +avaunt! Respected (tho' unknown) Sir,--Out of the abundant store of +your immutable condescension graciously deign to pardon the bold +assurance and presumptuous liberty of an animated mass of +undistinguished dust, whose fragile composition is most miraculously +composed of congenial atoms so promiscuously concentred as to +personify in an abstracted degree the beauteous form of man, to +convey by proxy to your brilliant opthalmic organs the sincere thanks +of a mild, gentle, and grateful heart for the delightful amusement I +have experienced and the instruction I have reaped by reading your +excellent poems, in (several of) which you have exquisitely given +dame nature her natural form, and delineated her in colours so +admirable that on the perusal of them I was led to exclaim with +extacy Clare everywhere excels in the descriptive. But your literary +prowess is too circuitously authenticated to admit of any punctilious +commendation from my debilitated pen, and under its umbrageous +recess, serenely segregated, from the malapert and hypochondriachal +vapours of myopic critics (as I am no acromatic philosopher) I trust +every solecism contained in this autographical epistle will find a +salvable retirement. Tho' no Solitaire, I am irreversibly resolved to +be on this occasion heteroclitical. I will not insult your good sense +by lamenting the exigencies of the present times, as doubtless it +always dictates to you to be (whilst travelling through the mazy +labyrinth of joy and sorrow) humble in the lucent days of prosperity +and omnific in the tenebricous moments of adversity." + +Clare's claim to the title of poet having been established, his noble +neighbours at Milton and Burghley invited him to visit them. At +Milton Park he was graciously received by Earl Fitzwilliam and Lord +and Lady Milton, after he had dined with the servants. A long +conversation on his health, means, expectations, and principles was +held, and he was dismissed with a very handsome present--an earnest +of greater favours to come. + +The visit to the Marquis of Exeter was equally gratifying. His +lordship made himself acquainted with the state of the poet's +affairs, and having read a number of unpublished effusions which +Clare had taken with him, told him that it was his intention to allow +him an annuity of fifteen pounds for life. The delight of the poor +bard may be imagined without difficulty, for now he doubted not he +could reconcile Patty's parents to the long hoped-for marriage, and +deliver his mistress from anxieties which had for some time made life +almost intolerable. He dined in the servants' hall. About the same +time Clare also visited by invitation General Birch Reynardson, of +Holywell Park--a visit full of romance, as narrated by Mr. Martin, a +beautiful young lady, governess to the General's children, having to +all appearances fallen desperately in love with the poet at first +sight. The only unromantic incident of the day was the customary +dinner at the servants' table. Clare's biographer, with excusable +warmth, says that his local patrons, however much they might differ +on other subjects, held that the true place of a poet was among +footmen and kitchen maids. But it should not be forgotten that the +noblemen named were life-long friends of Clare and his family, and it +would be unjust to reflect upon their memory because the relations of +"the hearty and generous Oxford," the Duke and Duchess of Queensbury, +and Lord Bolingbroke with the polite and scholarly Prior, Gay, and +Pope were not immediately established between the Marquis of Exeter +or Earl Fitzwilliam and the gifted but unlettered rustic who had +toiled in their fields. + +Clare's proud spirit was almost always restive under the burden of +patronage, especially if bestowed on account of his poverty, but we +may feel sure that he did not expect to dine with these noblemen, +that no indignity was intended in sending him to the common hall, and +that it did not occur to him that he ought to feel insulted. Clare +was married to Martha Turner at Great Casterton Church on the 16th of +March, 1820, and for a time Mrs. Clare remained at her father's +house. She afterwards joined her husband at the house of his parents +in Helpstone, his "own old home of homes," as he fondly called the +lowly cottage in one of his most pathetic poems, and there they all +remained, with the offspring of the marriage, until the removal to +Northborough in 1832. Flushed with his recent good fortune, Clare +distributed bride cake among his friends, and received from all +hearty good wishes for his future happiness. + + + + +FIRST VISIT TO LONDON + +Early in the same month, and before his marriage, Clare accepted the +invitation of his publishers, Messrs. Taylor and Hessey, to pay them +a visit in Town. He was accompanied by Mr. Gilchrist, and remained +for a week, making his home at his publishers' house in Fleet Street. +With great difficulty Mr. Taylor persuaded him to meet a party of +friends and admirers at dinner. It was impossible for him to overcome +with one effort his natural shyness, but the cordial manner in which +he was welcomed by Mr. Taylor's guests put him comparatively at his +ease, for he was made to feel that the labourer was forgotten in the +poet and that he was regarded as an equal. The host placed him at +dinner next to Admiral Lord Radstock, an intimate friend of Mrs. +Emmerson, a lady whose name will frequently occur in the course of +this memoir. His lordship had taken great interest in Clare from the +first appearance of his poems, and had already made him several +presents of books. By mingled tact and kindness he got from the poet +an account of his life, his struggles, his hopes, his fears, and his +prospects. Clare's share in the conversation made so deep an +impression upon Lord Radstock that he conceived for him an attachment +approaching to affection, and never ceased to exert all the influence +of his position and high character in favour of his protege. The +Editor has before him many letters addressed to Clare by his +excellent friend, but is restrained, by a wish expressed in one of +the number, from publishing any portion of them. The request does +not, however, apply to the inscriptions in books which Lord Radstock +presented to Clare, and as the intimacy had a very important +influence on the poet's career, those who are sufficiently interested +in the subject to read these pages will not look upon the following +passages as a superfluity. + +In a work by Thomas Erskine on the Christian Evidences his lordship +wrote:-- + +"The kindest and most valuable present that Admiral Lord Radstock +could possibly make to his dear & affectionate friend, John Clare. +God grant that he may make the proper use of it!" + +In a copy of Owen Feltham's "Resolves":-- + +"The Bible excepted, I consider Owen Feltham's 'Resolves' and Boyle's +'Occasional Reflections' to be two as good books as were ever usher'd +into the world, with a view to direct the heart and keep it in its +right place; consequently, to render us happy in this life and lay a +reasonable foundation for the salvation of our souls through Jesus +Christ our only Mediator and Redeemer. It was, therefore, under this +conviction that I not long since presented you with both these truly +valuable books, earnestly hoping, trusting, and, let me add, not +doubting that you will make that use of them which is intended by +your ever truly and affectionate friend, Radstock." + +In a copy of Mason's "Self-Knowledge":-- + +"I give this little pocket companion to my friend John Clare, not +with a view to improve his heart, for that, I believe, would be no +easy task, but in order to enable him to acquire a more perfect +knowledge of his own character, and likewise to give him a close peep +into human nature." + +In a copy of Hannah More's "Spirit of Prayer":-- + +"My very dear Clare,--If this excellent little book, and the others +which accompany it, do not speak sufficiently for themselves, it +would be in vain to think of offering you any further earthly +inducement to study them and seek the truth. The grace of God can +alone do this, and Heaven grant that this may not be wanting! So +prays your truly sincere and affectionate Radstock." + +Similar inscriptions accompanied a copy of Watson's "Apology for the +Bible," Bishop Wilson's "Maxims of Piety and Christianity," and other +works of a corresponding character. + + + + +"A SOUL FEMININE SALUTETH US" + +Soon after his arrival in London Lord Radstock took Clare to see Mrs. +Emmerson, who had already been in correspondence with him, and thus +commenced a friendship the ardour and constancy of which knew no +abatement until poor Clare was no longer able to hold rational +intercourse with his fellow-creatures. Mrs. Emmerson was the wife of +Mr. Thomas Emmerson, of Berners Street, Oxford Street, and afterwards +of Stratford Place. She was a lady in easy circumstances, and +occupied a good social position. [3] Being of refined and elegant +tastes, and singularly generous disposition, she associated herself +with young aspirants for fame in poetry, painting, and sculpture, and +to the utmost of her power endeavoured to procure for them public +notice and patronage. She was herself a frequent writer of graceful +verses, and her letters disclose a sensitive, poetic mind, a habit of +self-denial when the happiness of her friends was concerned, and a +delicate physical organization liable to prostrating attacks of +various nervous disorders. Clare preserved nearly three hundred of +her letters, the dates ranging from February, 1820, to July, 1837, or +an average of one letter in about every three weeks; and the Editor, +having read the whole of them, feels constrained, a different version +of the relationship having been given, to state his conviction that +no poor struggling genius was ever blessed with a tenderer or a truer +friend. No man of feeling could rise from the perusal of them without +the deepest respect and admiration for the writer. The style is +effusive, and the language in which the lady writes of Clare's poetry +is occasionally eulogistic to the point of extravagance, and was to +that extent injudicious; but all blemishes are forgotten in the +presence of overwhelming evidences of pure and disinterested +friendship. + +Although by no means insensible to the reception given to her own +verses, Clare's literary reputation lay much nearer to her heart. She +firmly believed that he was a great genius, and she insisted upon all +her friends believing so too, and buying his books. She very soon +began to feel an interest in his domestic affairs, and to send him +valuable presents. She was godmother to his second child, which was +named after her, Eliza Louisa, and for years the coach brought +regularly, a day or two before Christmas, two sovereigns "to pay for +little Eliza's schooling," another sovereign for the Christmas +dinner, and a waistcoat-piece and two India silk neckerchiefs "for my +dear Clare" with many kind wishes "for all in his humble cot." At +another time Patty's eyes were gladdened by the present of a dozen +silver teaspoons and a pair of sugar tongs. These were followed by a +silver seal, engraved for Clare in Paris and mounted in ivory, while +under the pretext that he must find postage expensive she several +times sent him a sovereign "under the wax." At one time she would +appear to have given him sufficient clothing to equip the entire +family, and when in 1832 Clare made his venture as a cottage farmer, +his thoughtful friend gave him L10 with which to buy a cow, +stipulating only (for the kind-hearted little woman must be +sentimental) that it should be christened "May." After that, she +strove hard to obtain for one of his boys admission to Christ's +Hospital, and in conjunction with Mr. Taylor discharged a heavy +account sent in by a local medical practitioner. + +But in higher matters than these the genuineness of Mrs. Emmerson's +friendship for Clare was demonstrated. The poet poured into her +listening and patient ear the story of every trial and every +annoyance which fell to his lot, not concealing from his friend those +mental sufferings which were caused solely by his own indiscretion +and folly. Under these latter circumstances she rebuked him with +affectionate solicitude and fidelity. In perplexities arising out of +matters of business she gave him the best advice in her power, and +when her knowledge of affairs failed her appealed to her husband, who +was always ready to do anything for "dear Johnny," as Clare came to +be called in Stratford Place. When he complained of being distressed +by wild fancies and haunted by gloomy forebodings, as he did many +years before his reason gave way, she first rallied him, though often +herself suffering acutely, and then entreated him to dispel his +melancholy by communing afresh with Nature and by meditations on the +Divine greatness and goodness. + + + + +A PRIVATE SUBSCRIPTION + +Within a few weeks of the appearance of "Poems Descriptive of Rural +Life and Scenery," a private subscription was set on foot by Lord +Radstock for the benefit of Clare and his family. Messrs. Taylor and +Hessey headed the list with the handsome donation of L100. Earl +Fitzwilliam followed with a corresponding amount; The Duke of +Bedford and the Duke of Devonshire gave L20 each; Prince Leopold +of Saxe-Coburg (afterwards King of the Belgians), the Duke of +Northumberland, the Earl of Cardigan, Lord John Russell, Sir Thomas +Baring, Lord Kenyon, and several other noblemen and gentlemen, +L10 each, making with numerous smaller subscriptions a total of +L420-12-0. This sum was invested, in the name of trustees, in Navy +Five per Cents and yielded, until the conversion of that security +to a lower denomination, about L20 a year. + +About the same time the attention of Earl Spencer was called to +Clare's circumstances by Mr. J. S. Bell, a Stamford surgeon, and his +lordship signified to Mr. Bell his intention to settle upon the poet +an annuity of L10 for life. These various benefactions, with the +Marquis of Exeter's annuity of L15, put Clare in the possession of +L45 a year, and his friends were profuse in their congratulations on +his good fortune. As he had now a fixed income greater than that he +had ever derived from labour, it was thought that by occasional farm +work and by the profit resulting from the sale of his poems he would +be relieved from anxiety about domestic affairs, and be enabled to +devote at least one half of his time to the cultivation of his poetic +faculties. The expectation appears to have been a reasonable one, but +as will be seen hereafter it was only imperfectly realized. + +The first volume of poems passed rapidly through three editions, and +a fourth was printed. Several of Clare's influential friends took +exception to a few passages in the first issue on the ground that +they were rather too outspoken in their rusticity, and Lord Radstock +strongly urged the omission in subsequent editions of several lines +which he characterized as "Radical slang." Mr. Taylor contested both +points for some time, but Lord Radstock threatened to disown Clare if +he declined to oblige his patrons, and the poet at length made the +desired concessions. The following were the passages over which his +lordship exercised censorship:-- + + Accursed Wealth! o'erbounding human laws, + Of every evil thou remain'st the cause. + + Sweet rest and peace, ye dear, departed charms, + Which industry once cherished in her arms, + When ease and plenty, known but now to few, + Were known to all, and labour had its due. + + The rough, rude ploughman, off his fallow-grounds, + (That necessary tool of wealth and pride)-- + +Being strongly urged thereto by Mr. Taylor, Clare sent to London a +large bundle of manuscripts with permission to his editor to make a +selection therefrom for a new work. The correspondence connected with +this project extended over several months, and in the autumn of 1821 +the "Village Minstrel and other Poems" made its appearance in two +volumes, with a portrait after Hilton and a view of the poet's +cottage. + + + + +NEWS OF KEATS + +In the course of the correspondence there occurs the following +passage, which has an interest of its own, in a letter from Mr. +Taylor:-- + +"Keats, you know, broke a blood-vessel, and has been very ill. He is +now recovering, and it is necessary for his getting through the +winter that he should go to Italy. Rome is the place recommended. You +are now a richer man than poor K., and how much more fortunate! We +have some trouble to get through 500 copies of his work, though it is +highly spoken of in the periodical works, but what is most against +him it has been thought necessary in the leading review, the +'Quarterly,' to damn his fame on account of his political opinions. +D--n them, I say, who could act in so cruel a way to a young man of +undoubted genius." And again (March 26, 1821):-- + +"The life of poor Keats is ended at last: he died at the age of +twenty-five. He used to say he should effect nothing which he would +rest his fame upon until he was thirty, and all hopes are over at +twenty-five. But he has left enough, though he did not think so, and +if his biographer cannot do him justice the advocate is in fault, and +not the cause. Poor fellow! Perhaps your feeling will produce some +lines to his memory. One of the very few poets of this day is gone. +Let another beware of Stamford. I wish you may keep to your +resolution of shunning that place, for it will do you immense injury +if you do not. You know what I would say. Farewell." + + + + +"THE VILLAGE MINSTREL" + +There is little doubt that by the closing hint Mr. Taylor desired to +put Clare on his guard against the indiscreet hospitality of well-to-do +friends at Stamford. While the "Village Minstrel" was in course of +preparation the "London Magazine" passed into the possession of +Messrs. Taylor & Hessey, and they at once invited Clare to +contribute, offering payment at the rate of one guinea per page, with +the right to re-publish at any time on the original terms of half +profits. Clare accepted the offer, and as he contributed almost +regularly for some time, a substantial addition was made to his +income. Among Clare's fellow-contributors in 1821 were Charles Lamb +and De Quincey, the former with "Essays of Elia," and the latter with +"Confessions of an English Opium-Eater." Two thousand copies of the +"Village Minstrel" were printed, and by the beginning of December +eight hundred had been sold. This was a very modified success, but a +number of circumstances combined to make the season an unfavourable +one for the publication of such a work. That the poetry of the +"Village Minstrel" is far superior both in conception and execution +to much contained in Clare's first book was undisputed, and indeed it +may be said at once that every successive work which he published was +an improvement upon its predecessor, until in the "Rural Muse" a +vigour of conception and polish of diction are displayed which the +most ardent admirers of Clare in his younger days--(Mrs. Emmerson +always excepted, who believed him to be at least Shakespeare's +equal)--would not have ventured to predict. The "Village Minstrel" +was so named after the principal poem, which contains one hundred and +nineteen Spenserian stanzas, and is to a considerable extent +autobiographical. It was composed in 1819, at which time Clare was +wretchedly poor, and this will no doubt account for the repining tone +of a few of the verses. It abounds, however, in poetical beauties, of +which the following stanzas may be taken as examples:-- + + O who can tell the sweets of May-day's morn, + To waken rapture in a feeling mind, + When the gilt East unveils her dappled dawn, + And the gay wood-lark has its nest resigned, + As slow the sun creeps up the hill behind; + Moon reddening round, and daylight's spotless hue, + As seemingly with rose and lily lined; + While all the prospect round beams fair to view, + Like a sweet Spring flower with its unsullied dew. + + Ah, often, brushing through the dripping grass, + Has he been seen to catch this early charm, + List'ning to the "love song" of the healthy lass + Passing with milk-pail on her well-turned arm, + Or meeting objects from the rousing farm-- + The jingling plough-teams driving down the steep + Waggon and cart, and shepherd dog's alarm, + Raising the bleatings of unfolding sheep, + As o'er the mountain top the red sun 'gins to peep. + +The first volume contains also a poem entitled "William and Robin," +of which Mr. Taylor says in his introduction:-- + +"The pastoral, 'William and Robin,' one of Clare's earliest efforts, +exhibits a degree of refinement and elegant sensibility which many +persons can hardly believe a poor uneducated clown could have +possessed: the delicacy of one of the lover towards the object of his +attachment is as perfectly inborn and unaffected as if he were a +Philip Sidney." + +Among the minor pieces of the "Village Minstrel" are the following, +which are given as additional illustrations, the first of Clare's +descriptive and the latter of his amatory manner:-- + +THE EVENING HOURS. + + The sultry day it wears away, + And o'er the distant leas + The mist again, in purple stain, + Falls moist on flower and trees: + His home to find, the weary hind + Glad leaves his carts and ploughs; + While maidens fair, with bosoms bare, + Go coolly to their cows. + + The red round sun his work has done, + And dropp'd into his bed; + And sweetly shin'd the oaks behind + His curtains fringed with red: + And step by step the night has crept, + And day, as loth, retires; + But clouds, more dark, night's entrance mark. + Till day's last spark expires. + + Pride of the vales, the nightingales + Now charm the oaken grove; + And loud and long, with amorous tongue, + They try to please their love: + And where the rose reviving blows + Upon the swelter'd bower, + I'll take my seat, my love to meet, + And wait th' appointed hour. + + And like the bird, whose joy is heard + Now he his love can join, + Who hails so loud the even's shroud, + I'll wait as glad for mine: + As weary bees o'er parched leas + Now meet reviving flowers, + So on her breast I'll sink to rest, + And bless the evening hours. + + + + + I LOVE THEE, SWEET MARY. + + I love thee, sweet Mary, but love thee in fear; + Were I but the morning breeze, healthful and airy, + As thou goest a-walking I'd breathe in thine ear, + And whisper and sigh, how I love thee, my Mary! + + I wish but to touch thee, but wish it in vain; + Wert thou but a streamlet, a-winding so clearly, + And I little globules of soft dropping rain, + How fond would I press thy white bosom, my Mary! + + I would steal a kiss, but I dare not presume; + Wert thou but a rose in thy garden, sweet fairy, + And I a bold bee for to rifle its bloom, + A whole Summer's day would I kiss thee, my Mary! + + I long to be with thee, but cannot tell how; + Wert thou but the elder that grows by thy dairy, + And I the blest woodbine to twine on the bough, + I'd embrace thee and cling to thee ever, my Mary! + + + + +A MODEST AMBITION THWARTED + +Mr. Taylor called at Helpstone in October, 1821, on his way from +Retford to London, and published, in the "London Magazine" for the +following month, an interesting and genial account of his visit to +Clare. While at Helpstone he urged Clare to accept an oft-repeated +invitation to come to London and prolong his stay to a few weeks, but +about this time the poet, always yearning after independence, became +possessed with a longing to acquire a small freehold of about seven +acres, which belonged to friends of his own who had mortgaged it to +the amount of L200, and being unable to meet the interest thereupon +were threatened with a foreclosure. The owners offered the property +to Clare, who at once applied to his friends in London to sell out +sufficient of the funded property to enable him to acquire it. His +disappointment and mortification appear to have been very keen on +learning that the funded property was vested in trustees who were +restricted to paying the interest to him. This resource having failed +him, he offered to sell his writings to his publishers for five years +for L200. To this proposal Mr. Taylor replied on the 4th of February, +1822:-- + +"It will not be honourable in us to buy the interest in your poems +for five years for L200. It may be worth more than that, which would +be an injury to you, and a discredit to us; or less, which would be a +loss to us. Besides, if the original mortgage was for L200, it is not +that sum which would redeem it now. Many expenses have been created +by these money-lenders, all which must be satisfied before the +writings would be given up. It is meddling with a wasp's nest to +interfere rashly. I am happy that Lord Milton has taken the writings, +to look them over. He may be able to do some good, and to keep your +friends the Billingses in their little estate, but I fear it is not +possible for you to do it without incurring fresh risks, and +encountering such dangers from the want of sufficient legal advice as +would be more than you would get through." + +Clare had set his heart upon accomplishing this little scheme; his +failure to compass it weighed upon his mind, and for a time he sought +an alleviation of his unhappiness in the society of the Blue Bell and +among hilarious friends at Stamford. + + + + +"LORD, WHAT FOOLS THESE MORTALS BE!" + +Clare paid a second visit to London in May, 1822, and was again +hospitably entertained by his publishers, at whose house he met +several literary men of note, whose friendship he afterwards enjoyed +for years. Among these were Charles Lamb, Thomas Hood, H. F. Gary, +Allan Cunningham, George Barley, and others; but his most frequent +companion in town would appear to have been Rippingille, the painter, +to whom he was introduced at the house of Mrs. Emmerson. Clare was +assured by that lady that he would find Mr. Rippingille an excellent +and discreet young man, but there is reason to suspect that "friend +Rip," as he was called by his intimates, had carefully concealed some +of his foibles from Mrs. Emmerson, for he and Clare had several not +very creditable drinking bouts, and were not particular in the class +of entertainments which they patronized. After Clare had returned to +Helpstone and Rippingille to Bristol, where he lived for several +years, the latter repeatedly urged his poet-friend to visit him, and +this is the way in which the amusing rattlepate wrote:-- + +"My dear Johnny Clare,--I am perfectly sure that I sha'nt be able to +write one word of sense, or spin out one decent thought. If the old +Devil and the most romping of his imps had been dancing, and +jostling, and running stark mad amongst the delicate threads and +fibres of my brain, it could not be in a worse condition, but I am +resolved to write in spite of the Devil, my stars, and want of +brains, for all of which I have most excellent precedents and +examples, and sound orthodox authority, so here goes. Tonight; but +what is tonight? 'T was last night, my dear Johnny. I was up till +past five this morning, during which time I was stupid enough to +imbibe certain potions of porter, punch, moselle, and madeira, that +have been all day long uniting their forces in fermenting and fuming, +and bubbling and humming. Are you coming, Clare, or are you going to +remain until all the fine weather is gone, and then come and see +nothing? Or do you mean to come at all? Now is your time, if you do. +You will just be in time for the fair, which begins on the 1st of +September and lasts ten days. And most glorious fun it is, I can tell +you. Crowds, tribes, shoals, and natives of all sorts! I looked at +the standings the other night, and thought of you. Will he come, said +I? D--n the fellow! Nothing can move him. There he sticks, and there +he will stick. Will none but a draggle-tailed muse suit him? + + His evening devotions and matins + Both addressed to a muse that wears pattens: + A poet that kneels in the bogs, + Where his muse can't go out without clogs, + Or stir without crushing the frogs! + --Old Play. + + Where toads die of vapours and hip, + And tadpoles of ague and pip. + --Old Play. + + Give 'em all, my dear Johnny, the slip, + And at once take to Bristol a trip. + By G--, you should come, and you must. + Do you mean I should finish your bust? + If you don't, stay away and be cussed! + +My muse is taken a little qualmish, therefore pray excuse her. She is +a well-meaning jade, and if it was not for the wild treatment she +received last night would, I have no doubt, have given you a very +polite invitation, but I fear, Johnny, nothing will move you. Your +heart is as hard as an overseer's. I dined at Elton's two days ago. +We talked about you, wondered if you would come, feared not, +regretted it, and the loss of the fine weather, and the fine scenery, +and the other fine things: in fine, we lamented finely. Come and +cheer our hearts. Bring Patty and all the little bardettes, if you +will. We will find room for them somewhere. I have read only my +introductory lecture yet, so that you may hear 'em or read 'em all, +if you like. Having thrown my bread upon the waters, where I hope it +will be found after many days. I take my leave, my dear Clare, in the +full hope I shall see you by the 1st of September. Write to me by +return, saying what day you will be here. + +Yours for ever and after, E. V. RIPPINGILLE." + + + + +LETTER FROM CHARLES LAMB + +Clare visited Charles Lamb, and received from him the following +characteristic letter after his return to Helpstone:-- + +"India House, 1st Aug. 1822. + +Dear Clare,--I thank you heartily for your present. I am an +inveterate old Londoner, but while I am among your choice collections +I seem to be native to them and free of the country. The quantity of +your observation has astonished me. What have most pleased me have +been 'Recollections after a Ramble,' and those 'Grongar Hill' kind of +pieces in eight-syllable lines, my favourite measure, such as 'Cowper +Hill' and 'Solitude.' In some of your story-telling ballads the +provincial phrases sometimes startle me. I think you are too profuse +with them. In poetry, slang of every kind is to be avoided. There is +a rustick Cockneyism as little pleasing as ours of London. Transplant +Arcadia to Helpstone. The true rustic style, the Arcadian English, I +think is to be found in Shenstone. Would his 'Schoolmistress,' the +prettiest of poems, have been better if he had used quite the Goody's +own language? Now and then a home rusticism is fresh and startling, +but where nothing is gained in expression it is out of tenor. It may +make folks smile and stare, but the ungenial coalition of barbarous +with refined phrases will prevent you in the end from being so +generally tasted as you deserve to be. Excuse my freedom, and take +the same liberty with my puns. I send you two little volumes of my +spare hours. They are of all sorts. There's a Methodist hymn for +Sundays, and a farce for Saturday night. Pray give them a place on +your shelf, and accept a little volume of which I have duplicate, +that I may return in equal number to your welcome present. I think I +am indebted to you for a sonnet in the 'London' for August. Since I +saw you I have been in France and have eaten frogs. The nicest little +rabbity things you ever tasted. Do look about for them. Make Mrs. +Clare pick off the hindquarters; boil them plain with parsley and +butter. The fore quarters are not so good. She may let them hop off +by themselves. + +Yours sincerely, + +CHAS. LAMB." + + + + +THE REVEREND CARY + +During his second visit to London, Clare became for a few days the +guest of Mr. Cary, at Chiswick. Here, it is said, he wrote several +amorous sonnets in praise of Cary's wife, and presented them to the +lady, who passed them on to her husband. The learned translator of +Dante requested an explanation, which Clare at once gave. The +circumstance that Cary corresponded with Clare for at least ten years +afterwards will enable the reader to form his own estimate of the +importance of the incident. Among Cary's letters were the following:-- + + + +"Chiswick, London, + +Jany. 3rd, 1822. + +Many happy years to you, dear Clare. + +Do not think because I have not written to you sooner that I have +forgot you. I often think of you in that walk we took here together, +and which I take almost every day, generally alone, sometimes musing +of absent friends and at others putting into English those old French +verses which I dare say sometimes occasion you to cry 'Pish!'--(I +hope you vent your displeasure in such innocent terms)--when turning +over the pages of the magazine. I was much pleased with a native +strain of yours, signed, I remember, 'Percy Green.' Mr. Taylor can +tell you that I enquired with much earnestness after the author of it +(it was the first with that signature), not knowing it to be yours, +and what pleasure it gave me to find it was so. I am glad to find a +new 'Shepherd's Calendar' advertised with your name. You will no +doubt bring before us many objects in Nature that we have often seen +in her but never before in books, and that in verse of a very musical +construction. There are two things, I mean description of natural +objects taken from the life, and a sweet melodious versification, +that particularly please me in poetry; and these two you can command +if you choose. Of sentiment I do not reck so much. Your admiration of +poets I felt most strongly earlier in life, and have still a good +deal of it left, but time deadens that as well as many of our other +pleasantest feelings. Still, I had rather pass my time in such +company than in any other, and the poetical part of my library is +increasing above all proportion above the rest. This you may think a +strange confession for me in my way of life to make, but whatever one +feels strongly impelled to, provided it be not wrong in itself and +can administer any benefit or pleasure to others, I am inclined to +think is the task allotted to one, and thus I quiet my conscience +about the matter. I did'nt intend to make you my father confessor +when I set out, but now it is done I hope you will grant me +absolution. + +Believe me, dear Clare, + +Ever sincerely yours, + +H. F. CARY." + + + +"Chiswick, April 12th, 1823. + +Dear Clare,-- + +Have you visited the haunts of poor Cowper which you were invited to +see? And if so, what accordance did you find between the places and +his descriptions of them? What a glory it is for poetry that it can +make any piece of trumpery an object of curiosity and interest! I had +the pleasure of meeting last week with Mr. Wordsworth. He is no piece +of trumpery, but has all the appearance of being that noblest work, +an honest man. I think I scarcely ever met with any one eminent for +genius who had not also something very amiable and engaging in his +manners and character. In Mr. Wordsworth I found much frankness and +fervour. The first impression his countenance gave me was one which I +did not receive from Chantrey's bust of him--that of his being a very +benevolent man. Have you seen Barry Cornwall's new volume? He is one +of the best writers of blank verse we have, but I think blank verse +is not much in favour with you. The rhyme that is now in fashion runs +rather too wild to please me. It seems to want pruning and nailing +up. A sonnet, like a rose tree may be allowed to grow straggling, but +a long poem should be trained into some order. I hope you and your +family have got well through this hard winter. Mrs. Cary, who has +hitherto almost uniformly enjoyed good health, has suffered much from +it. She and the rest of my family join in kind remembrances to you +with, dear Clare, Yours sincerely, + +H. F. CARY." + + + + +"Chiswick, + +London, February 19th, 1825. + +My dear Clare, + +I have been reproaching myself some time for not answering your last +letter sooner, and as I am telling my congregation this Lent that it +is no use to reproach oneself for one's sins if one does not amend +them, I will mend this. I will freely own I should not have felt the +same compunction if you had been in health and spirits, but when I +find you so grievously complaining of the want of both, I cannot +leave you any longer without such poor comfort as a line for two from +me can give. I wish I were a doctor, and a skilful one, for your +sake. I mean a doctor of medicine. For though I were a doctor of +divinity I doubt I could recommend to you no better prescription in +that way than I can as plain Mister. Nay, it is one that any old +woman in your parish could hit upon as readily as myself, and that +is, patience and submission to a Will that is higher and wiser than +our own. How often have I stood in need of it myself, and with what +difficulty have I swallowed it, and how hard have I found it to keep +on my stomach! May you, my friend, have better success! If you do not +want it in one way you are sure to have occasion for it before long +in some other. If you should be raised up from this sickness, as I +trust you will, do not suppose but that you will have something else +to try you. This, you will say, is not a very cheering prospect, but +remember these lines in Crowe's poem, which you so justly admire:-- + + 'Tis meet we jostle with the world, content, + If by our Sovereign Master we be found + At last not profitless. + +What follows, I fear neither you nor I have philosophy enough to add +with sincerity:-- + + For worldly meed, + Given or withheld, I deem of it alike. + +I will read the memoir of yourself which you purpose sending me, and +not fail to tell you if I think you have spoken of others with more +acrimony than you ought. There is no occasion for sending me with it +your new publication. I shall get it as I have those before. I hope +the last chapter of your memoir, if brought up to the present time, +will record your children's having got safely over the small pox, of +which you express apprehensions in your last letter. We have got well +through the winter hitherto. For want of better employment I have +been teaching my youngest boy Dicky to write. Perhaps you will think +me not over well qualified for so important an office, but I assure +you when I have two parallel lines ruled at proper distances I can +produce something like a copy. To teach others is no bad way to learn +one's self. In spite of the floggings which I had at school, I could +never learn that grammar for which you have so great an aversion, +thoroughly, till I began to instruct my own son in it, but then I +made a wonderful progress. I should not succeed so well in collecting +ferns. A physician once recommended to me the study of botany for the +good of my health, but he had published an edition of Linnaeus. +Another prescribed to me port wine, but, poor man, he soon fell a +martyr to his own system. In such matters common sense and one's own +inclination are the best guides. Mrs. C. and your other acquaintances +here remember you kindly. I am dear Clare, with best wishes for +yourself and family, + +Your affectionate friend, + +H. F. CARY." + + + +"British Museum, April 13th, 1830, + +Dear Clare,-- + +I have waited some time to answer your letter, in hopes of being able +to give you the information you require; but the information does not +come and I will wait no longer. I have not seen either Lamb or +Wainwright since last summer, when the former spent one day with me +here, and another day we all three met at the house of the latter, +who now resides in a place he has inherited from a relative at +Turnham Green. Lamb is settled at Endfield, about seven miles from +London, with his sister, who I fear is in a very indifferent state of +health; so his friends see very little of him. In this grand age of +utility, I suppose it will soon be discovered that a piece of canvas +is more advantageously employed as the door of a safe, where it will +secure a joint of meat from the flies, than if it was covered with +the finest hues that Titian or Rubens could lay upon it, and a piece +of paper better disposed of in keeping the same meat from being burnt +while it is roasting, than in preserving the idle fancies of a poet. +No matter: if it is so we must swim with the stream. You can employ +yourself in cultivating your cabbages and in handling the hay fork, +and I not quite so pleasantly in making catalogues of books. We will +not be out of fashion, but show ourselves as useful as the rest of +the world. In the meantime we may smile at what is going forward, +entertain ourselves with our own whims in private, and expect that +the tide some day may turn. My family, whom you are so kind as to +enquire about, are all well, and all following the order of the day, +except one, who has set himself to perverting canvas from its proper +use by smearing it over with certain colours, fair indeed to look +upon, but quite void of utility. I ought indeed to have made another +exception, which is, that they are multiplying much faster than Mr. +Malthus would approve. Cowper says somewhere of those who make the +world older than the Bible accounts of it, that they have found out +that He who made it and revealed its age to Moses was mistaken in the +date. May it not be said of the anti-populationers that they +virtually accuse him of as great ignorance in the command to multiply +and replenish the earth? Well, you and I, Clare, have kept to this +text. May we observe all the rest as well! which is so good a +conclusion for a parson that I will say no more than that I am ever + +Yours truly, + +H. F. CARY. + +Mrs. C. is at Chiswick, but I can assure you of her good wishes." + + + +"Dear Clare,-- + +You ask me for literary news. I have very little of a kind likely to +interest you. Have you seen in the 'Edinburgh Review' an account of +some poems by Elliott, a Sheffield workman? In his rhymes on the Corn +Trade are not 'words that burn,' but words that scald. In his 'Love' +there is a story told in a very affecting manner. In short they are +the only new things I have been struck with for some time, and that +before I knew who the writer was. I heard lately that our friend Mr. +Lamb was very well, and his sister just recovered from one of those +illnesses which she is often afflicted with. I have just sent to the +press a translation of an old Greek poet. I do not expect he will +please you much, as he treats of little but charioteering, boxing, +running, and some old heathenish stories. But I will send you a copy, +not requiring you to read it. Mrs. C., if she were at my elbow, +would, I am sure, desire to be kindly remembered to you. + +Believe me, dear Clare, + +Sincerely yours, + +H. F. CARY. + +British Museum, Oct. 30th, 1832." + + + + +LETTERS FROM MRS EMMERSON + +Clare remained in London for several weeks, at the end of which time +he was suddenly recalled to Helpstone by alarming reports of the +state of his wife's health. It is to be feared that in more respects +than one this second visit to the metropolis had an unhealthy +influence upon the poet's mind and habits. At this time he appears to +have made very little effort to resist the pressing hospitality of +his friends, and to have complied only too readily with the convivial +customs of the time. He returned to Helpstone moody and discontented, +and in his letters to Mrs. Emmerson he complained fretfully of the +hardship of his lot in being compelled to spend his days without any +literary companionship whatsoever. About this time that lady wrote to +him two letters, which as illustrations of the style of her +correspondence are here given:-- + + +"20 Stratford Place, 17th June, 1822. + +My very dear Clare,-- + +"Your letter reached me this morning, and from the nature of its +contents it leaves me nothing to express in reply but my sincere +regrets that any necessity should have occurred to hasten your +departure from London without our again seeing each other. I wish, my +dear friend, you had expressed more fully the real cause of this +sudden measure, for you leave me with many painful fears upon my mind +for the safety of your dear wife, who I hope, ere this, has blessed +you with a little namesake, and that she is doing well with the dear +babe. I have also my own fears about yourself, your own health, your +state of mind, your worldly interests, &c., but perhaps I am wrong to +indulge in all these anxieties. Mr. Emmerson and myself had looked +for days past with great solicitude for your return to us, and we had +planned many little schemes for our mutual enjoyment while you were +with us, but these, with many other matters with which my mind and +heart were full, are now at an end, and God only knows when, or if +ever, we may meet again; but of this be assured, as long as my +friendship and correspondence are of value to you, you may command +them. In our, alas, too short interviews we had some interesting +conversations. These will not be forgotten by me, and I will hope on +your return to your own dear cot you will take the earliest +opportunity to write to your friend 'Emma.' Tell her all that affects +your happiness, and may you, my dear Clare, when restored to the calm +delights of retirement, experience also the restoration of mental +peace and every domestic blessing! Mr. E. desires his kindest regards +to you, and his sincere regrets you could not spend a few days with +him ere you quitted London. Our noble and dear friend [Lord Radstock] +will also feel much disappointment at not seeing you again. This is +not what we had hoped for and expected from your visit to Town. Yet +let me not reproach you with unkindness, though I feel much, very +much, at this moment. Mr. Rippingille spent last evening with us and +took his final leave. He goes off for Bristol this afternoon. I have +sent your silk handkerchief, with another for you, my dear Clare, as +a trifling remembrance of your very sincere and attached friend, + +ELIZA L. EMMERSON. + +P.S. Please let me know as soon as you reach home of your safe +arrival, and if the little stranger has entered this world of woe, +and if she bears the name of E. L. Lord R. has just left me, and +sends his kind regards, and regrets at not having the opportunity to +see you in Portland-place. Farewell. + +'EMMA.'" + + +"Stratford Place, 26th June, 1822. + +My very dear Friend,-- + +If it is necessary to make an apology for writing to you again so +soon, the only one I shall attempt to make is that of offering you my +sincere congratulations upon the birth of your sweet girl, Eliza +Louisa, if I did not misunderstand you when you were in Town, and the +certainty of which I wish to know in your next letter; also, if I may +be allowed to stand godmother to my little namesake, and likewise if +you have accepted the kind offer of Lord R. to become her noble +godfather. You mention your dear wife in language that alarms and +distresses me much for her safety. I hope in God, for your sake, and +for the sake of your dear children, that all danger is over, and that +she is now in a fair way to be speedily restored to you. Pardon me, +my clear Clare, when I entreat you to do all in your power to comfort +and compose her mind under her present delicate situation. Recollect +if she is now a faded flower she has become so under your influence, +and well may you be loth to lose the object who has shed her +brightest hues on you, and who in giving birth to your sweet +offspring may chance to fade almost to nothingness herself. But this +should serve to bind your affections still stronger to her. Forgive +me for talking thus to you, my dear Clare. I have no other motive +than your domestic happiness, which I anxiously pray may be +undisturbed by any event. I lament to learn by your letter that to +stifle recollections of the past, &c., you should have fled to such +resources on your journey home. Now you become the sufferer by such +means. Why not exert your philosophy, instead of seeking that which +serves to destroy your health and peace? You know, my dear Clare, +that you are injuring yourself in the deepest sense by such habits. +For God's sake, then, for your own dear children's sake, arm yourself +with a determination, a fortitude, which would do honour to your +excellent heart and good understanding, to fly from such a mode of +consolation as from a poison that will quickly destroy you. Remember +poor Burns! Let the solemn and affectionate warnings of your friend +'Emma' dissuade you, my dear Clare, from habits of inebriety. +Independent of the loss of your health and mental powers, your moral +character will be seriously injured by such means. You will charge me +with preaching a sermon, I fear, and will be inclined to commit my +good wishes to the flames, but you must not hate me for my counsel. I +can readily suppose how the 'good Quaker' would be shocked at your +'disguise' and I heartily regret the event, altho' I honour your +liberality and candour in telling me of it. I have not heard from our +friend Rippingille, but expect to do so daily. When I write to him I +will make known your wishes to correspond with him. You tell me you +'have many things to say to me in future about your journey, &c. &c.' +Pray do not be long, my dear Clare, ere you make such communications, +with all else that concerns you, for I shall be most anxious to hear +good accounts of your dear wife and the sweet babe. Mr. E. desires me +to say everything that is kind to you for him, as does our noble and +dear friend. Heaven bless you, my dear Clare. + +Ever sincerely yours, + +'EMMA.'" + + + + +FRIENDS AT "THE PALACE" + +In 1823, Clare suffered from a long and serious illness; brought on, +in all probability, by an insufficiency of food, and by mental +anxiety caused by his inability to free himself from the importunity +of creditors. During his illness he was visited by Mr. Taylor, who +had come down to Stamford to attend the funeral of Mr. Gilchrist, and +Mr. Taylor, shocked at the poet's appearance, procured for him at +once the services of the principal physician in Peterborough. Clare +had also an excellent and warm-hearted friend in Mrs. Marsh, wife of +the Bishop of Peterborough, who corresponded with him frequently, in +a familiar and almost motherly manner, from 1821 to 1837. When Clare +complained of indisposition, a messenger would be dispatched from +"The Palace," with medicines or plaisters, camphor lozenges, or "a +pound of our own tea," with sensible advice as to personal habits and +diet. At another time hot-house grapes are sent, or the messenger +bears toys for the children, or a magnifying glass to assist Clare in +his observations in entomolgy, or books, or "three numbers of +Cobbett's penny trash, which Mr. Clare may keep." One day Mrs. Marsh +writes-- + +"To show you how I wish to cheer you I am sending you cakes, as one +does to children: they are harmless, so pray enjoy them, and write to +tell me how you are." + +Engravings of the new chain pier are sent from Brighton, and on one +occasion (in 1829) a steel pen was enclosed in a letter, as a great +curiosity. Clare was on several occasions a visitor at the Bishop's +Palace, and in July, 1831, Mrs. Marsh wrote the following note, which +confirms the impression received from the perusal of other letters, +that about that time Clare's mind had been much exercised with +respect to his soul's health:-- + +"My dear Mr. Clare,--I must take my leave, and in doing so must add +that in thinking of you it is my greatest comfort to know that you +fix your trust where our only and never-failing trust rests." + +Lady Milton also frequently sent her humble neighbour presents +suitable to his invalid condition. + + + + +ANOTHER VISIT TO LONDON + +Clare had not entirely recovered from this illness, when in May, +1824, he once more accepted the invitation of his publishers to visit +London. They were desirous that he should have the benefit of the +advice of Dr. Darling, the kind-hearted physician already mentioned. +On seeing him in Fleet Street, Dr. Darling ordered that he should be +kept perfectly free from excitement of all kinds, but at the end of +two or three weeks he was permitted to meet a literary party composed +chiefly of contributors to the "London Magazine." Among the guests +were Coleridge, Lamb, De Quincey, Hazlitt, and Allan Cunningham. In +the manuscript memoir to which reference has already been made, Clare +noted down his impressions of Coleridge and others, and they are +embodied in Mr. Martin's account of this visit. He was a frequent +visitor to Mrs. Emmerson, and a few days before he left London was +once more thrown into the society of Rippingille, who declared that +he had left Bristol solely for the purpose of meeting his friend. +Clare, obeying implicitly the injunctions of Dr. Darling, declined +all invitations to revelry, and therefore the companionship was less +prejudicial to his health and spirits than on the occasion of his +former visit. At his publishers, Clare made the acquaintance of +Mr.(afterwards Sir Charles) Elton, brother-in-law of Hallam, the +historian, and uncle to the subject of "In Memoriam." Mr. Elton, who +was a friend and patron of Rippingille, was much pleased with Clare, +and while he was yet in London sent him from Clifton the following +metrical epistle, which afterwards appeared in the "London Magazine." +It contains several interesting touches of portraiture:-- + + So loth, friend John, to quit the town! + 'T was in the dales thou won'st renown; + I would not, John, for half a crown, + Have left thee there, + Taking my lonely journey down + To rural air. + + The pavement flat of endless street + Is all unsuited to thy feet, + The fog-wet smoke is all unmeet + For such as thou, + Who thought'st the meadow verdure sweet, + But think'st not now. + + "Time's hoarse unfeather'd nightingales" [3] + Inspire not like the birds of vales: + I know their haunts in river dales, + On many a tree, + And they reserve their sweetest tales, + John Clare, for thee. + + I would not have thee come to sing + Long odes to that eternal spring + On which young bards their changes ring, + With buds and flowers: + I look for many a better thing + Than brooks and bowers. + + 'T is true thou paintest to the eye + The straw-thatched roof with elm trees high, + But thou hast wisdom to descry + What lurks below-- + The springing tear, the melting sigh, + The cheek's heart-glow. + + The poets all, alive and dead, + Up, Clare, and drive them from thy head! + Forget whatever thou hast read + Of phrase or rhyme, + For he must lead and not be led + Who lives through time. + + What thou hast been the world may see, + But guess not what thou still may'st be: + Some in thy lines a Goldsmith see, + Or Dyer's tone: + They praise thy worst; the best of thee + Is still unknown. + + Some grievously suspect thee, Clare: + They want to know thy form of prayer: + Thou dost not cant, and so they stare, + And hint free-thinking: + They bid thee of the devil beware, + And vote thee sinking. + + With smile sedate and patient eye, + Thou mark'st the zealots pass thee by + To rave and raise a hue and cry + Against each other: + Thou see'st a Father up on high; + In man a brother. + + I would not have a mind like thine + Its artless childhood tastes resign, + Jostle in mobs, or sup and dine + Its powers away, + And after noisy pleasures pine + Some distant day. + + And, John, though you may mildly scoff, + That hard, afflicting churchyard cough + Gives pretty plain advice, "Be off, + While yet you can." + It is not time yet, John, to doff + Your outward man. + + Drugs! can the balm of Gilead yield + Health like the cowslip-yellow'd field? + Come, sail down Avon and be heal'd, + Thou Cockney Clare. + My recipe is soon reveal'd-- + Sun, sea, and air. + + What glue has fastened thus thy brains + To kennel odours and brick lanes? + Or is it intellect detains? + For, faith, I'll own + The provinces must take some pains + To match the town. + + Does Agnus (1) fling his crotchets wild-- + "In wit a man," in heart a child? + Has Lepus (2) sense thine ear beguiled + With easy strain? + Or hast thou nodded blithe, and smiled + At Janus' (3) vein? + + Does Nalla, (4) that mild giant, bow + His dark and melancholy brow? + Or are his lips distending now + With roaring glee + That tells the heart is in a glow-- + The spirit free? + + Or does the Opium-eater (5) quell + Thy wondering sprite with witching spell? + Read'st thou the dreams of murkiest hell + In that mild mien? + Or dost thou doubt yet fear to tell + Such e'er have been? + + And while around thy board the wine + Lights up the glancing eyeballs' shine, + Seest thou in elbow'd thought recline + The Poet true (6) + Who in "Colonna" seems divine + To me and you? + + But, Clare, the birds will soon be flown: + Our Cambridge wit resumes his gown: + Our English Petrarch trundles down + To Devon's valley: + Why, when our Maga's out of town, + Stand shilly-shally? + The table-talk of London still + Shall serve for chat by rock and rill, + And you again may have your fill + Of season'd mirth, + But not if spade your chamber drill + Six feet in earth. + + Come, then! Thou never saw'st an oak + Much bigger than a wagon spoke: + Thou only could'st the Muse invoke + On treeless fen: + Then come and aim a higher stroke, + My man of men. + + The wheel and oar, by gurgling steam, + Shall waft thee down the wood-brow'd stream, + And the red channel's broadening gleam + Dilate thy gaze, + And thou shalt conjure up a theme + For future lays. + + And thou shalt have a jocund cup + To wind thy spirits gently up-- + A stoup of hock or claret cup + Once in a way, + And we'll take notes from Mistress Gupp (8) + That same glad day. + + And Rip Van Winkle (9) shall awake + From his loved idlesse for thy sake, + In earnest stretch himself, and take + Pallet on thumb, + Nor now his brains for subjects rake-- + John Clare is come! + + His touch will, hue by hue, combine + Thy thoughtful eyes, that steady shine, + The temples of Shakesperian line, + The quiet smile, + The sense and shrewdness which are thine, + Withouten guile. + +The following key accompanied the letter on its publication:-- + +1. Agnus = Charles Lamb. + +2. Lepus = Julius Hare, author of "Guesses at Truth." + +3. Janus = The writer in the "London Magazine" who signed himself + Janus Weathercock. + +4. Nalla = Allan Cunningham. + +5. Opium-eater = De Quincey, author of "The Confessions of an English + Opium-eater." + +6. The Poet true = The writer who assumes the name of Barry Cornwall. + +7. The English Petrarch = The Rev. Mr. Strong, translator of Italian + sonnets. + +8. Mistress Gupp = A lady immortalized by her invention to keep + muffins warm on the lid of the tea-urn. + +9. Rip Van Winkle = E. V. Rippingille, painter of the "Country Post + Office," the "Portrait of a Bird," &c. + + + + +ALLAN CUNNINGHAM + +The friendship of Allan Cunningham was always highly prized by Clare, +and shortly after his return from London he sent him an autograph of +Bloomfield, the receipt of which Cunningham acknowledged in the +following letter:-- + +"27, Belgrave Place, 23rd September, 1824. + +Dear Clare,-- + +I thank you much for Bloomfield's note, and as much for your own kind +letter. I agree with you in the praise you have given to his verse. +That he has living life about his productions there can be little +doubt. He trusts too much to Nature and to truth to be a fleeting +favourite, and he will be long in the highway where Fame dispenses +her favours. I have often felt indignant at the insulting way his +name has been introduced both by critics and poets. To scorn him +because of the humility of his origin is ridiculous anywhere, and +most of all here, where so many of our gentles and nobles have come +from the clods of the valley. Learned men make many mistakes about +the value of learning. I conceive it is chiefly valuable to a man's +genius in enabling him to wield his energies with greater readiness +or with better effect. But learning, though a polisher and a refiner, +is not the creator. It may be the mould out of which genius stamps +its coin, but it is not the gold itself. I am glad to hear that you +are a little better. Keep up your heart and sing only when you feel +the internal impulse, and you will add something to our poetry more +lasting than any of the peasant bards of old England have done yet. + +I remain, dear Clare, your very faithful friend, + +ALLAN CUNNINGHAM." + + + + +GEORGE DARLEY + +George Darley, another member of the "London" brotherhood, conceived +a sincere regard for Clare, and frequently wrote to him. He was +author of several dramatic poems, and of numerous works on +mathematics, and was besides a candidate for the Professorship of +English Literature at the founding of the London University. The +following are among the more entertaining of the letters which he +addressed to the poet:-- + +"Friday, March 2 1827, + +5, Upper Eaton Street, Grosvenor Place. + +My dear Clare,-- + +You see in what a brotherly way I commence my letter: not with the +frigid 'Sir' as if I were addressing one of a totally unkindred clay, +one of the drossy children of earth, with whom I have no relationship +and feel I could never have any familiarity. Have you ever felt that +the presence of a man without feeling made you a fool? I am always +dumb, or pusillanimous or (if I speak) ridiculous, in the company of +such a person. I love a reasoner, and do not by any means wish to be +flashing lightning, cloud-riding, or playing with stars. But a +marble-hearted companion, who, if you should by chance give way to an +impetuous fancy, or an extravagant imagination, looks at you with a +dead fish's eye, and asks you to write the name under your picture--I +would as soon ride in a post chaise with a lunatic, or sleep with a +corse. Never let me see the sign of such a man over an alehouse! It +would fright me away sooner than the report of a mad dog or a +scolding landlady. I would as soon enter the house if it hung out a +pestle and mortar. The fear of a drug in my posset would not repel me +so inevitably as the horror with which I should contemplate the +frost-bitten face of a portrait such as I have described. But perhaps +with all your feeling you will think my heart somewhat less sound +than a ripe medlar, if it be so unhealthily sensitive as what I have +said appears to indicate. There is, I grant, as in all other things, +a mean which ought to be observed. Recollect, however, I am not an +Englishman [Darley was an Irishman.] I should have answered your +letter long since, without waiting for your poems, in order to say +something handsome upon them, but have been so occupied with a myriad +of affairs that I have scarcely had a moment to sleep in. It is now +long, long past midnight, and all is as silent around my habitation +as if it were in the midst of a forest, or the plague had depopulated +London. After a day's hard labour at mathematical operations and +corrections I sit down to write to you these hasty and, I fear, +almost unreadable lines. Will you excuse them for the promise of +something better when I have more leisure to be point-device? Your +opinion of my geometry was very grateful, chiefly as it confirmed my +own--that there has been a great deal too much baby-making of the +English people by those who pretend to instruct them in science. +These persons write upon the Goody-two-shoes plan, and seem to look +upon their readers as infants who have not yet done drivelling. To +improve the reason is quite beside their purpose; they merely design +to titillate the fancy or provide talking matter for village oracles. +In not one of their systems do I perceive a regular progression of +reasoning whereby the mind may be led, from truth to truth, to +knowledge, as we ride step by step up to a fair temple on a goodly +hill of prospect. They jumble together heaps of facts, the most +wonder-striking they can get, which may indeed be said to confound +the imagination by their variety; but there is no ratiocinative +dependence between them, nor are they referred to demonstrative +principles, which would render people knowledgeable, as well as +knowing, of them. Each is a syllabus indeed, but not a science. It +tells many things but teaches none. There is little merit due to me +for perceiving this error, and none for avoiding it. Algebra is the +only true arithmetic. The latter is founded on the former in almost +all its rules, and one is just as easily learned as the other. If +arithmetic is to be taught rationally it must be taught +algebraically. With half the pains that a learner takes to make +himself master of the rule of three and fractions, he would acquire +as much algebra as would render every rule in arithmetic as easy as +chalking to an inn-keeper. I am apt to speak in the King Cambyses' +vein, but you understand what I wish to convey. As to the +continuation of the "Lives of the Poets," it is a work sadly wanting, +but I am not the person to supply the desideratum, even were my power +equal to the deed. Criticism is abomination in my sight. It is fit +only for the headsmen and hangmen of literature, fellows who live by +the agonies and death of others. You will say this is not the +criticism you mean, and that there is a different species (the only +genuine and estimable species) which has an eye to beauty rather than +defect, and which delights in glorifying true poetry rather than +debating it. Aye, but have you ever considered how much harder it is +to praise than to censure piquantly? I should ever be running into +the contemptuous or abusive style, as I did in the "Letters to +Dramatists." Besides, even in the best of poets, Shakspeare and +Milton, how much is there justly condemnable? On the inferior +luminaries, I should have to be continually pointing out spots and +blemishes. In short, as a vocation I detest criticism. It is a +species of fratricide with me, for I never can help cutting, +slashing, pinking, and carbonadoing--a most unnatural office for one +of the brotherhood, one who presumes to enrol himself among those +whom he conspires with the Jeffreys and Jerdans to mangle and +destroy. It is a Cain-like profession, and I deserve to be branded, +and condemned to wander houseless over the world, if ever I indulge +the murderous propensity to criticism. I was sorry to hear from +Taylor yesterday that you were not in good health. What can be the +matter with you, so healthfully situated and employed? Methinks you +should live the life of an oak-tree or a sturdy elm, that groans in a +storm, but only for pleasure. Do you meditate too much or sit too +immovably? Poetry, I mean the composition of it, does not always +sweeten the mind as much as the reading of it. There is always an +anxiety, a fervour, an impatience, a vaingloriousness attending it +which untranquillizes even in the sweetest-seeming moods of the poet. +Like the bee, he is restless and uneasy even in collecting his +sweets. Farewell, my dear Clare, and when you have leisure and +inclination, write to me again. + +Sincerely yours, + +GEORGE DARLEY." + + + + +"London, 5 Upper Eaton Street, Grosvenor Place, + +March 14th, 1829. + +My dear Clare,-- + +You have been reproaching me, I dare say, for my long neglect of your +last letter, but you might have saved yourself that trouble, as my +own conscience has scourged me repeatedly these two months about it. +The truth is I have been a good deal harassed in several ways, and +now sit down, in the midst of a headache, to write, when I can hardly +tell which end of my pen is paper-wards. I will attempt, however, to +return your questions legible if not intelligible answers. There have +been so many 'Pleasures' of so-and-so that I should almost counsel +you against baptizing your poem on Spring the 'Pleasures' of +anything. Besides, when a poem is so designated it is almost +assuredly prejudged as deficient in action (about which you appear +solicitous). 'The Pleasures of Spring' from you, identified as you +are with descriptive poesy, would almost without doubt sound in the +public ear as an announcement of a series of literary scene +paintings. Beautiful as these may be, and certainly would be from +your pencil, there is a deadness about them which tends to chill the +reader: he must be animated with something of a livelier prospect, +or, as Hamlet says of Polonius, 'he sleeps'. It may be affirmed +without hesitation that, however independent of description a drama +may be, no descriptive poem is independent of something like dramatic +spirit to give it interest with human beings. How dull a thing would +even the great descriptive poem of the Creation be without Adam and +Eve, their history and hapless fall, to enliven it! But I cannot see +why you should not infuse a dramatic spirit into your poem on Spring, +which is only the development of the living principle in Nature. See +how full of life those descriptive scenes in the 'Midsummer Night's +Dream' and the 'Winter's Tale' are. Characters may describe the +beauties or qualities of Spring just as well as the author, and +nothing prevents a story going through the season, so as to gather up +flowers and point out every beautiful feature in the landscape on its +way. Thomson has a little of this, but not enough. Imagine his +'Lavinia' spread out into a longer story, incidents and descriptions +perpetually relieving each other! Imagine this, and you have a model +for your poem. Allan Ramsay's 'Gentle Shepherd' would be still +better, only that his poem is cast into actual dramatic characters. +Besides, though with plenty of feeling and a good deal of homestead +poetry, he wants imagination, elegance, and a certain scorn of mere +earth, which is essential to the constitution of a true poet. You +want none of these, but you want his vivacity, character, and action: +I mean to say you have not as yet exhibited these qualities. The +hooks with which you have fished for praise in the ocean of +literature have not been garnished with live bait, and none of us can +get a bite without it. How few read 'Comus' who have the 'Corsair' by +heart! Why? Because the former, which is almost dark with the +excessive bright of its own glory, is deficient in human passions and +emotions, while the latter possesses these although little else. + +Your sincere friend and brother poet, + +GEORGE DARLEY." + + + + +CLARE'S DIARY + +It was on the occasion of his third visit to London that Dr. Darling +exacted from Clare the promise, already referred to, that he would +observe the strictest moderation in drinking, and if possible abstain +altogether. Clare kept his word, but his domestic difficulties +remaining unabated he suffered much, not only from physical weakness +but from melancholy forebodings which were destined to be only too +completely realized. He made many ineffectual attempts to obtain +employment in the neighbourhood of Helpstone, and it is especially to +be regretted that his applications, first to the Marquis of Exeter's +steward and then to Earl Fitzwilliam's, for the situation of gardener +were unsuccessful, because the employment would have been congenial +to his tastes, and the wages, added to his annuities, would have been +to him a competence. + +During the years 1824-23 Clare kept a diary, which, for those who +desire to know the man as well as the poet, is full of interest, on +account of the side-lights which it throws upon his character, and +also upon his pursuits during this period of involuntary leisure. The +following extracts are selected:-- + + +September 7, 1824.-- + +I have read "Foxe's Book of Martyrs" and finished it to-day, and the +sum of my opinion is, that tyranny and cruelty appear to be the +inseparable companions of religious power, and the aphorism is not +far from truth that says "all priests are the same." + + +September 11.-- + +Wrote an essay to-day on the sexual system of plants, and began one +on the fungus tribe, and on mildew, blight, &c., intended for "A +Natural History of Helpstone," in a series of letters to Hessey, who +will publish it when finished. Received a kind letter from C.A. +Elton. + + +September 12.-- + +Finished another page of my life. I have read the first chapter of +Genesis, the beginning of which is very fine, but the sacred +historian took a great deal upon credit for this world when he +imagined that God created the sun, moon, and stars, those mysterious +hosts of heaven, for no other purpose than its use. It is a harmless +and universal propensity to magnify consequences that pertain to +ourselves, and it would be a foolish thing to test Scripture upon +these groundless assertions, for it contains the best poetry and the +best morality in the world. + + +September 19.-- + +Read snatches of several poets and the Song of Solomon: thought the +supposed allusions in that luscious poem to our Saviour very +overstrained, far-fetched, and conjectural. It appears to me an +Eastern love poem, and nothing further, but an over-heated religious +fancy is strong enough to fancy anything. I think the Bible is not +illustrated by that supposition: though it is a very beautiful poem +it seems nothing like a prophetic one, as it is represented to be. + + +September 22.-- + +Very ill, and did nothing but ponder over a future existence, and +often brought up the lines to my memory said to have been uttered by +an unfortunate nobleman when on the brink of it, ready to take the +plunge:-- + + In doubt I lived, in doubt I die, + Nor shrink the dark abyss to try, + But undismayed I meet eternity. + +The first line is natural enough, but the rest is a rash courage in +such a situation. + + +September 23.-- + +A wet day: did nothing but nurse my illness: could not have walked +out had it been fine. Very disturbed in conscience about the troubles +of being forced to endure life and die by inches, and the anguish of +leaving my children, and the dark porch of eternity, whence none +return to tell the tale of their reception. + + +September 24.-- + +Tried to walk out and could not: have read nothing this week, my mind +almost overweighting me with its upbraidings and miseries: my +children very ill, night and morning, with a fever, makes me +disconsolate, and yet how happy must be the death of a child! It +bears its sufferings with an innocent patience that maketh man +ashamed, and with it the future is nothing but returning to sleep, +with the thought, no doubt, of waking to be with its playthings +again. + + +September 29.-- + +Took a walk in the fields: saw an old wood stile taken away from a +familiar spot which it had occupied all my life. The posts were +overgrown with ivy, and it seemed akin to nature and the spot where +it stood, as though it had taken it on lease for an undisturbed +existence. It hurt me to see it was gone, for my affections claim a +friendship with such things; but nothing is lasting in this world. +Last year Langley Bush was destroyed--an old white-thorn that had +stood for more than a century, full of fame. The gipsies, shepherds, +and herdsmen all had their tales of its history, and it will be long +ere its memory is forgotten. + + +October 8.-- + +Very ill to-day and very unhappy. My three children are all unwell. +Had a dismal dream of being in hell: this is the third time I have +had such a dream. As I am more than ever convinced that I cannot +recover I will make a memorandum of my temporal concerns, for next to +the spiritual they ought to be attended to for the sake of those left +behind. I will insert them in No. 5 in the Appendix. + +October 9.-- + +Patty has been to Stamford, and brought me a letter from Ned Drury, +who came from Lincoln to the mayor's feast on Thursday. It revives +old recollections. Poor fellow: he is an odd one, but still my +recollections are inclined in his favour. What a long way to come to +the mayor's feast! I would not go one mile after it to hear the din +of knives and forks, and to see a throng of blank faces about me, +chattering and stuffing, "that boast no more expression than a +muffin." + +October 12.-- + +Began to teach a poor lame boy the common rules of arithmetic, and +find him very apt and willing to learn. + + +October 16.-- + +Wrote two more pages of my life: find it not so easy as I at first +imagined, as I am anxious to give an undisguised narrative of facts, +good and bad. In the last sketch which I wrote for Taylor I had +little vanities about me to gloss over failings which I shall now +take care to lay bare, and readers, if they ever are published, to +comment upon as they please. In my last four years I shall give my +likes and dislikes of friends and acquaintances as free as I do of +myself. + + +December 25.-- + +Christmas Day: gathered a handful of daisies in full bloom: saw a +woodbine and dogrose in the woods putting out in full leaf, and a +primrose root full of ripe flowers. What a day this used to be when I +was a boy! How eager I used to be to attend the church to see it +stuck with evergreens (emblems of eternity), and the cottage windows, +and the picture ballads on the wall, all stuck with ivy, holly, box, +and yew! Such feelings are past, and "all this world is proud of." + + +January 7, 1825.-- + +Bought some cakes of colours with the intention of trying to make +sketches of curious snail horns, butterflies, moths, sphinxes, wild +flowers, and whatever my wanderings may meet with that are not too +common. + + +January 19.-- + +Just completed the 9th chapter of my life. Corrected the poem on the +"Vanities of the World," which I have written in imitation of the old +poets, on whom I mean to father it, and send it to Montgomery's paper +"The Iris," or the "Literary Chronicle," under that character. + + +February 26.-- + +Received a letter in rhyme from a John Pooley, who ran me tenpence +further in debt, as I had not money to pay the postage. + + +March 6.-- + +Parish officers are modern savages, as the following will testify: +"Crowland Abbey.--Certain surveyors have lately dug up several +foundation stones of the Abbey, and also a great quantity of stone +coffins, for the purpose of repairing the parish roads."--Stamford +Mercury. + + +March 9.-- + +I had a very odd dream last night, and take it as an ill omen, for I +don't expect that the book will meet a better fate. I thought I had +one of the proofs of the new poems from London, and after looking at +it awhile it shrank through my hands like sand, and crumbled into +dust. The birds were singing in Oxey Wood at six o'clock this evening +as loud and various as in May. + + +March 31.-- + +Artis and Henderson came to see me, and we went to see the Roman +station agen Oxey Wood, which he says is plainly Roman. + + +April 16.-- + +Took a walk in the fields, bird-nesting and botanizing, and had like +to have been taken up as a poacher in Hilly Wood, by a meddlesome, +conceited gamekeeper belonging to Sir John Trollope. He swore that he +had seen me in the act, more than once, of shooting game, when I +never shot even so much as a sparrow in my life. What terrifying +rascals these woodkeepers and gamekeepers are! They make a prison of +the forest, and are its gaolers. + + +April 18.-- + +Resumed my letters on Natural History in good earnest, and intend to +get them finished with this year, if I can get out into the fields, +for I will insert nothing but what has come under my notice. + + +May 13.-- + +Met with an extraordinary incident to-day, while walking in Openwood. +I popt unawares on an old fox and her four young cubs that were +playing about. She saw me, and instantly approached towards me +growling like an angry dog. I had no stick, and tried all I could to +fright her by imitating the bark of a fox-hound, which only irritated +her the more, and if I had not retreated a few paces back she would +have seized me: when I set up an haloo she started. + + +May 25.-- + +I watched a bluecap or blue titmouse feeding her young, whose nest +was in a wall close to an orchard. She got caterpillars out of the +blossoms of the apple trees and leaves of the plum. She fetched 120 +caterpillars in half an hour. Now suppose she only feeds them four +times a day, a quarter of an hour each time, she fetched no less than +480 caterpillars. + + +May 28.-- + +Found the old frog in my garden that has been there four years. I +know it by a mark which it received from my spade four years ago. I +thought it would die of the wound, so I turned it up on a bed of +flowers at the end of the garden, which is thickly covered with ferns +and bluebells. I am glad to see it has recovered. + + +June 3.-- + +Finished planting my auriculas: went a-botanizing after ferns and +orchises, and caught a cold in the wet grass, which has made me as +bad as ever. Got the tune of "Highland Mary" from Wisdom Smith, a +gipsy, and pricked another sweet tune without name as he riddled it. + + +June 4.-- + +Saw three fellows at the end of Royce Wood, who I found were laying +out the plan for an iron railway from Manchester to London. It is to +cross over Round Oak spring by Royce Wood corner for Woodcroft +Castle. I little thought that fresh intrusions would interrupt and +spoil my solitudes. After the enclosure they will despoil a boggy +place that is famous for orchises at Royce Wood end. + + +June 23.-- + +Wrote to Mrs. Emmerson and sent a letter to "Hone's Every-day Book," +with a poem which I fathered on Andrew Marvel. + + +July 12.-- + +Went to-day to see Artis: found him busy over his antiquities and +fossils. He told me a curious thing about the manner in which the +golden-crested wren builds her nest: he says it is the only English +bird that suspends its nest, which it hangs on three twigs of the fir +branch, and it glues the eggs at the bottom of the nest, with the gum +out of the tree, to keep them from being thrown out by the wind, +which often turns them upside down without injury. + + +August 21.-- + +Received a letter from Mr. Emmerson which tells me that Lord Radstock +died yesterday. He was the best friend I have met with. Though he +possessed too much simple-heartedness to be a fashionable friend or +hypocrite, yet it often led him to take hypocrites for honest friends +and to take an honest man for a hypocrite. + + +September 11.-- + +Went to meet Mr. and Mrs. Emmerson at the New Inn at Deeping, and +spent three days with them. + +From "No. 5 in the Appendix."-- + +I will set down before I forget it a memorandum to say that I desire +Mrs. Emmerson will do just as she pleases with any MSS. of mine which +she may have in her possession, to publish them or not as she +chooses; but I desire that any living names mentioned in my letters +may be filled up by * * * and all objectionable passages omitted--a +wish which I hope will be invariably complied with by all. I also +intend to make Mr. Emmerson one of the new executors in my new will. +I wish to lie on the north side of the churchyard, about the middle +of the ground, where the morning and evening sun can linger the +longest on my grave. I wish to have a rough unhewn stone, something +in the form of a mile stone, [sketched in the margin] so that the +playing boys may not break it in their heedless pastimes, with +nothing more on it than this inscription:--"Here rest the hopes and +ashes of John Clare." I desire that no date be inserted thereon, as I +wish it to live or die with my poems and other writings, which if +they have merit with posterity it will, and if they have not it is +not worth preserving. October 8th, 1824. "Vanity of vanities, all is +vanity." + +The "Artis" and "Henderson" referred to in the Diary were +respectively butler and head gardener at Milton Park. Artis made a +name for himself as the discoverer of extensive Roman remains at +Castor, the ancient Durobrivae, of which he published a description, +and Henderson was an accomplished botanist and entomologist. Their +uniform kindness to the poor poet did them great honour. + + + + +CORRESPONDENCE WITH JAMES MONTGOMERY + +While Clare was amusing himself by rhyming in the manner of the poets +of the seventeenth century, he had the following correspondence with +James Montgomery:-- + +"Helpstone, January 5, 1825. + +"My dear Sir,-- + +I copied the following verses from a MS. on the fly-leaves of an old +book entitled 'The World's Best Wealth, a Collection of Choice +Counsels in Verse and Prose, printed for A. Bettesworth, at the Red +Lion in Paternoster Row, 1720:' they seem to have been written after +the perusal of the book, and are in the manner of the company in +which I found [them]. I think they are as good as many old poems that +have been preserved with more care; and, under that feeling, I was +tempted to send them, thinking they might find a corner from oblivion +in your entertaining literary paper, the 'Iris;' but if my judgment +has misled me to overrate their merit, you will excuse the freedom I +have taken, and the trouble I have given you in the perusal; for, +after all, it is but an erring opinion, that may have little less +than the love of poesy to recommend it. + +I am yours sincerely, + +JOHN CLARE." + + + +To this letter Montgomery replied in the following terms:-- + +"Dear Sir,-- + +Some time ago I received from you certain verses said to be copied +from the fly-leaves of an old printed book on which they were +written. The title was 'The Vanity of Life,' and the book's title +'The World's Best Wealth,' &c. Now though I suspected, from a little +ambiguity in the wording of your letter, that these verses were not +quite so old as they professed to be, and that you yourself perhaps +had written them to exercise your own genius, and sent them to +exercise my critical acuteness, I thought that the glorious offence +carried its own redemption in itself, and I would not only forgive +but rejoice to see such faults committed every day for the sake of +such merits. It is, however, now of some importance to me to know +whether they are of the date which they affect, or whether they are +of your own production. The supposition of your being capable of such +a thing is so highly in your favour, that you will forgive the wrong, +if there be any, implied in my enquiry. But I am making a +chronological collection of 'Christian Poetry,' from the earliest +times to the latest dead of our contemporaries who have occasionally +tried their talents on consecrated themes, and if these stanzas were +really the work of some anonymous author of the last century I shall +be glad to give them the place and the honour due, but if they are +the 'happy miracle' of your 'rare birth' then, however reluctantly, I +must forego the use of them. Perhaps the volume itself contains some +valuable pieces which I have not seen, and which might suit my +purpose. The title tempts one to think that this may be the case, and +as I am in search of such jewels as certainly constitute 'the world's +best wealth,' I hope to find a few in this old-fashioned casket, +especially after the specimen you have sent, and which I take for +granted to be a genuine specimen of the quality (whatever be its +antiquity) of the hidden treasures. If you will oblige me by sending +the volume itself by coach I will take great care of it, and +thankfully return it in due time free of expense. Or if you are +unwilling to trust so precious a deposit out of your own hands, will +you furnish me with a list of those of its contents (with the +authors' names, where these are attached) which you think are most +likely to meet my views, namely, such as have direct religious +subjects and are executed with vigour or pathos? I can then see +whether there be any pieces which I have not already, and if there +be, I dare say you will not grudge the labour of transcribing two or +three hundred lines to serve, not a brother poet only, but the +Christian public. At any rate, an early reply to this application +will be greatly esteemed, and may you never ask in vain for anything +which it is honest or honourable to ask for. I need not add that this +letter comes from one who sincerely respects your talents and +rejoices in the success which has so conspicuously crowned them, when +hundreds of our fraternity can get neither fame nor profit--no, nor +even a hearing--and a threshing for all their pains. + +I am truly your friend and servant, + +J. MONTGOMERY. + +Sheffield, May 5, 1826." + + +Clare was a great admirer of Chatterton, and the melancholy fate of +"the marvellous boy" was frequently referred to by him in his +correspondence. The idea of imitating the older poets was no doubt +suggested to him by Chatterton's successful efforts, but he possessed +neither the special faculty nor the consummate artifice of his model, +and therefore we are not surprised to find him confessing at once to +the trick he had attempted. He replied to Montgomery:-- + +"Helpstone, May 8, 1826. + +My dear Sir,-- + +I will lose no time in answering your letter, for I was highly +delighted to meet so kind a notice from a poet so distinguished as +yourself; and if it be vanity to acknowledge it, it is, I hope, a +vanity of too honest a nature to be ashamed of--at least I think so, +and always shall. But your question almost makes me feel ashamed to +own to the extent of the falsehood I committed; and yet I will not +double it by adding a repetition of the offence. I must confess to +you that the poem is mine, and that the book from whence it was +pretended to have been transcribed has no existence (that I know of) +but in my invention of the title. And now that I have confessed to +the crime, I will give you the reasons for committing it. I have long +had a fondness for the poetry of the time of Elizabeth, though I have +never had any means of meeting with it, farther than in the confined +channels of Ritson's 'English Songs,' Ellis's 'Specimens,' and +Walton's 'Angler;' and the winter before last, though amidst a severe +illness, I set about writing a series of verses, in their manner, as +well as I could, which I intended to pass off under their names, +though some whom I professed to imitate I had never seen. As I am no +judge of my own verses, whether they are good or bad, I wished to +have the opinion of some one on whom I could rely; and as I was told +you were the editor of the 'Iris,' I ventured to send the first thing +to you, with many 'doubts and fears.' I was happily astonished to see +its favourable reception. Since then I have written several others in +the same style, some of which have been published; one in Hone's +'Everyday Book,' on 'Death' under the name of Marvell, and some +others in the 'European Magazine;' 'Thoughts in a Churchyard,' the +'Gipsy's Song,' and a 'Farewell to Love.' The first was intended for +Sir Henry Wootton; the next for Tom Davies; the last for Sir John +Harrington. The last thing I did in these forgeries was an 'Address +to Milton,' the poet, under the name of Davenant. And as your kind +opinion was the first and the last I ever met with from a poet to +pursue these vagaries or shadows of other days, I will venture to +transcribe them here for the 'Iris,' should they be deemed as worthy +of it as the first were by your judgment, for my own is nothing: I +should have acknowledged their kind reception [sooner] had I not +waited for the publication of my new poems, 'The Shepherd's +Calendar,' which was in the press then, where it has been ever since, +as I wish, at its coming, to beg your acceptance of a copy, with the +other volumes already published, as I am emboldened now to think they +will be kindly received, and not be deemed intrusive, as one commonly +fears while offering such trifles to strangers. I shall also be very +glad of the opportunity in proving myself ready to serve you in your +present undertaking; and could I light on an old poem that would be +worth your attention, 300 or even 1,000 lines, would be no objection +against my writing it out; but I do assure you I would not make a +forgery for such a thing, though I suppose now you would suspect me; +for I consider in such company it would be a crime, where blossoms +are collected to decorate the 'Fountain of Truth.' But I will end, +for I get very sleepy and very unintelligible. + +I am, my dear Sir, + +Yours very sincerely and affectionately, + +JOHN CLARE." + + + + +PUBLICATION OF "THE SHEPHERD'S CALENDAR" + +At intervals during the years 1825-26 Clare was occupied in supplying +his publishers with poems for his next volume--"The Shepherd's +Calendar," which was brought out in May, 1827, with a frontispiece by +De Wint. The descriptive poem which gives the title to the volume +consists of twelve cantos, of various measures, and is followed by +"Village Stories" and other compositions. Of the stories, that +entitled "Jockey and Jenny or, the Progress of Love," appears to have +made the most favourable impression upon Clare's contemporaries. In +this poem will be found the following bold and original apostrophe to +Night:-- + + + Ah, powerful Night! Were but thy chances mine! + Had I but ways to come at joys like thine! + Spite of thy wizard look and sable skin, + The ready road to bliss 't is thine to win. + All nature owns of beautiful and sweet + In thy embraces now unconscious meet: + Young Jenny, ripening into womanhood, + That hides from day, like lilies while in bud, + + To thy grim visage blooms in all her charms, + And comes, like Eve, unblushing to thy arms. + Of thy black mantle could I be possest, + How would I pillow on her panting breast, + And try those lips where trial rude beseems. + Breathing my spirit in her very dreams, + That ne'er a thought might wander from her heart, + But I possessed it, or ensured a part! + Of all the blessings that belong to thee, + Had I this one how happy should I be! + +In "The Dream," which appeared in the same volume, Clare's muse took +a still more ambitious flight--with what success the reader has here +an opportunity to judge for himself. The obscurities in the +composition must find their excuse in the nature of the subject:-- + +THE DREAM + + Thou scarest me with dreams.--JOB. + + When Night's last hours, like haunting spirits, creep + With listening terrors round the couch of sleep, + And Midnight, brooding in its deepest dye, + Seizes on Fear with dismal sympathy, + "I dreamed a dream" something akin to fate, + Which Superstition's blackest thoughts create-- + Something half natural to the grave that seems, + Which Death's long trance of slumber haply dreams; + A dream of staggering horrors and of dread, + Whose shadows fled not when the vision fled, + But clung to Memory with their gloomy view, + Till Doubt and Fancy half believed it true. + + That time was come, or seem'd as it was come, + When Death no longer makes the grave his home; + When waking spirits leave their earthly rest + To mix for ever with the damn'd or blest; + When years, in drowsy thousands counted by, + Are hung on minutes with their destiny: + When Time in terror drops his draining glass, + And all things mortal, like to shadows, pass, + As 'neath approaching tempests sinks the sun-- + When Time shall leave Eternity begun. + Life swoon'd in terror at that hour's dread birth; + As in an ague, shook the fearful Earth; + And shuddering Nature seemed herself to shun, + Whilst trembling Conscience felt the deed was done. + + A gloomy sadness round the sky was cast, + Where clouds seem'd hurrying with unusual haste; + Winds urged them onward, like to restless ships; + And light dim faded in its last eclipse; + And Agitation turn'd a straining eye; + And Hope stood watching like a bird to fly, + While suppliant Nature, like a child in dread, + Clung to her fading garments till she fled. + + Then awful sights began to be reveal'd, + Which Death's dark dungeons had so long conceal'd, + Each grave its doomsday prisoner resign'd, + Bursting in noises like a hollow wind; + And spirits, mingling with the living then, + Thrill'd fearful voices with the cries of men. + All flying furious, grinning deep despair, + Shaped dismal shadows on the troubled air: + Red lightning shot its flashes as they came, + And passing clouds seem'd kindling into flame; + And strong and stronger came the sulphury smell, + With demons following in the breath of hell, + Laughing in mockery as the doom'd complain'd, + Losing their pains in seeing others pain'd. + + Fierce raged Destruction, sweeping o'er the land, + And the last counted moment seem'd at hand: + As scales near equal hang in earnest eyes + In doubtful balance, which shall fall or rise, + So, in the moment of that crushing blast, + Eyes, hearts, and hopes paused trembling for the last. + Loud burst the thunder's clap and yawning rents + Gash'd the frail garments of the elements; + Then sudden whirlwinds, wing'd with purple flame + And lightning's flash, in stronger terrors came, + Burning all life and Nature where they fell, + And leaving earth as desolate as hell. + The pleasant hues of woods and fields were past, + And Nature's beauties had enjoyed their last: + The colour'd flower, the green of field and tree, + What they had been for ever ceased to be: + Clouds, raining fire, scorched up the hissing dews; + Grass shrivell'd brown in miserable hues; + Leaves fell to ashes in the air's hot breath, + And all awaited universal Death. + The sleepy birds, scared from their mossy nest, + Beat through the evil air in vain for rest; + And many a one, the withering shades among, + Wakened to perish o'er its brooded young. + The cattle, startled with the sudden fright, + Sicken'd from food, and madden'd into flight; + And steed and beast in plunging speed pursued + The desperate struggle of the multitude, + The faithful dogs yet knew their owners' face. + And cringing follow'd with a fearful pace, + Joining the piteous yell with panting breath, + While blasting lightnings follow'd fast with death; + Then, as Destruction stopt the vain retreat, + They dropp'd, and dying lick'd their masters' feet. + + When sudden thunders paus'd, loud went the shriek, + And groaning agonies, too much to speak, + From hurrying mortals, who with ceaseless fears + Recall'd the errors of their vanish'd years; + Flying in all directions, hope bereft, + Followed by dangers that would not be left; + Offering wild vows, and begging loud for aid, + Where none was nigh to help them when they pray'd. + None stood to listen, or to soothe a friend, + But all complained, and sorrow had no end. + Sons from their fathers, fathers sons did fly, + The strongest fled, and left the weak to die; + Pity was dead: none heeded for another; + Brother left brother, and the frantic mother + For fruitless safety hurried east and west, + And dropp'd the babe to perish from her breast; + All howling prayers that would be noticed never, + And craving mercy that was fled for ever; + While earth, in motion like a troubled sea, + Open'd in gulfs of dread immensity + Amid the wild confusions of despair, + And buried deep the howling and the prayer + Of countless multitudes, and closed--and then + Open'd and swallow'd multitudes again. + + Stars, drunk with dread, roll'd giddy from the heaven, + And staggering worlds like wrecks in storms were driven; + The pallid moon hung fluttering on the sight, + As startled bird whose wings are stretch'd for flight; + And o'er the East a fearful light begun + To show the sun rise-not the morning sun, + But one in wild confusion, doom'd to rise + And drop again in horror from the skies. + To heaven's midway it reel'd, and changed to blood, + Then dropp'd, and light rushed after like a flood, + The heaven's blue curtains rent and shrank away, + And heaven itself seem'd threaten'd with decay; + While hopeless distance, with a boundless stretch, + Flash'd on Despair the joy it could not reach, + A moment's mockery-ere the last dim light + Vanish'd, and left an everlasting Night; + And with that light Hope fled and shriek'd farewell, + And Hell in yawning echoes mock'd that yell. + + Now Night resumed her uncreated vest, + And Chaos came again, but not its rest; + The melting glooms that spread perpetual stains, + Kept whirling on in endless hurricanes; + And tearing noises, like a troubled sea, + Broke up that silence which no more would be. + + The reeling earth sank loosen'd from its stay, + And Nature's wrecks all felt their last decay. + The yielding, burning soil, that fled my feet, + I seem'd to feel and struggled to retreat; + And 'midst the dread of horror's mad extreme + I lost all notion that it was a dream: + Sinking I fell through depths that seem'd to be + As far from fathom as Eternity; + While dismal faces on the darkness came + With wings of dragons and with fangs of flame, + Writhing in agonies of wild despairs, + And giving tidings of a doom like theirs. + I felt all terrors of the damn'd, and fell + With conscious horror that my doom was hell: + And Memory mock'd me, like a haunting ghost, + With light and life and pleasures that were lost; + As dreams turn night to day, and day to night, + So Memory flash'd her shadows of that light + That once bade morning suns in glory rise, + To bless green fields and trees, and purple skies, + And waken'd life its pleasures to behold;-- + That light flash'd on me like a story told; + And days mis-spent with friends and fellow-men, + And sins committed,-all were with me then. + The boundless hell, whose demons never tire, + Glimmer'd beneath me like a world on fire: + That soul of fire, like to its souls entomb'd, + Consuming on, and ne'er to be consum'd, + Seem'd nigh at hand, where oft the sulphury damps + O'er-aw'd its light, as glimmer dying lamps, + Spreading a horrid gloom from side to side, + A twilight scene of terrors half descried. + Sad boil'd the billows of that burning sea, + And Fate's sad yellings dismal seem'd to be; + Blue roll'd its waves with horrors uncontrolled, + And its live wrecks of souls dash'd howlings as they roll'd. + + Again I struggled, and the spell was broke, + And 'midst the laugh of mocking ghosts I woke; + My eyes were open'd on an unhoped sight-- + The early morning and its welcome light, + And, as I ponder'd o'er the past profound, + I heard the cock crow, and I blest the sound. + + + + +FAILURE OF "THE SHEPHERD'S CALENDAR" + +"The Shepherd's Calendar" sold very slowly, for several months after +its publication Mr. Taylor wrote to Clare:-- + +"The season has been a very bad one for new books, and I am afraid +the time has passed away in which poetry will answer. With that +beautiful frontispiece of De Wint's to attract attention, and so much +excellent verse inside the volume, the 'Shepherd's Calendar' has had +comparatively no sale. It will be a long time, I doubt, before it +pays me my expenses, but ours is the common lot. I am almost hopeless +of the sale of the books reimbursing me. Of profit I am certain we +have not had any, but that I should not care for: it is to be +considerably out of pocket that annoys me, and by the new works my +loss will probably be heavy." + +And again, after the lapse of four or five months:-- + +"The poems have not yet sold much, but I cannot say how many are +disposed of. All the old poetry-buyers seem to be dead, and the new +ones have no taste for it." + +And now for a time Clare eked out his scanty income by writing poems +for the annuals, the silk-bound illustrated favourites of fashion, +which for ten or twelve years almost sufficed to satisfy the languid +appetite of the English public for poetry. Clare was sought after by +several editors; among the rest, Allan Cunningham, editor of the +"Anniversary;" Mr. and Mrs. S. C. Hall, who severally conducted the +"Amulet" and the "Juvenile Forget-me-not." Alaric A. Watts, editor of +the "Literary Souvenir;" Thomas Hood, and others. "The Rural Muse," +the last volume which Clare published, was composed almost entirely +of poems which had appeared in the annuals, or other periodicals. The +remuneration which Clare received was respectable, if not munificent. +His kind-hearted Scotch friend, Allan Cunningham, was certain to see +that he was treated with liberality: Mrs. Hall, on behalf of Messrs. +Ackermann, sent him in October, 1828, three guineas for "The +Grasshopper," and in the following month Mr. Hall wrote "Enclosed you +will receive L5, for your contributions to the 'Amulet' and the +'Juvenile Forget-Me-Not.' I am however still L2 in your debt, L7 +being the sum I have set apart for you. How shall I forward you the +remaining L2?" Mr. Alaric Watts frequently importuned Clare for +contributions for the "Literary Souvenir" and the "Literary Magnet," +but he was exceedingly fastidious and plain-spoken, and although he +sent Clare presents of books he never said in his letters anything +about payment. At length Clare hinted to him that some acknowledgment +of that kind would be acceptable, and then Mr. Watts replied, "I have +no objection to make you some pecuniary return if you send me any +poem worthy of yourself, but really those you have sent me of late +are so very inferior, with the exception of a little drinking song, +which I shall probably print, that it would do you no service to +insert them." This appears to have closed the correspondence. + +A sketch of Clare's life would be incomplete which did not notice the +subject of his relations with his publishers. His first two works-- +"Poems Descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery" and "The Village +Minstrel"--were published conjointly by Messrs. Taylor and Hessey and +Mr. Drury, of Stamford, on the understanding that Clare was to +receive one half of the profits, and that the London and local +publishers should divide the remaining half of the profits between +them. Before the publication of the third work--the "Shepherd's +Calendar"--an arrangement was come to by which Mr. Drury ceased to +have any interest in Clare's books, and the London firm renewed the +agreement which gave Clare one half of the profits. It was the +practice of Taylor and Hessey to remit to Clare money on account, in +sums of L10 or L20, and evidently at their own discretion--a +discretion which, considering Clare's position and circumstances, +appears to have been wisely and considerately exercised. Added +together, these remittances made, for a person in Clare's condition, +a considerable sum of money, but the poet fretted and chafed under +the want of confidence in his judgement which he thought was implied +by this mode of treatment, and he repeatedly applied to Taylor and +Hessey for a regular and businesslike statement of account. During +the time Mr. Drury had a pecuniary interest in the sale of Clare's +books, the London publishers excused themselves from furnishing an +account on the ground that it had been complicated by Mr. Drury's +claims, but years passed away after the latter had been arranged +with, and still the rendering of the account was postponed. This +irritated Clare, and he frequently spoke and wrote of his publishers +with a degree of bitterness which he afterwards regretted. His +suspicions, for which there was no real foundation, were at one time +encouraged rather than otherwise by influential friends in London, +and therefore in February, 1828, he resolved to take another journey +to Town, with the two-fold object of having a settlement with his +publishers and consulting Dr. Darling respecting a distressing +ailment with which he was then afflicted. + +"My dear and suffering Clare," wrote Mrs. Emmerson at this time, +"your painful letter of to-day is no sooner read by me than I take up +my pen, and an extra-sized sheet of paper, to pour out the regrets of +my heart for your illness. God knows I am little able to give thee +'comfort,' for indeed, my Clare, thy friend is a beggar in +philosophy, so heavily have the ills of humanity pressed upon her of +late; but such 'comfort' as confiding and sympathizing souls can +offer do I give in full to thee. Receive it then, my poor Clare, and +let the utterings of my pen (which instead of gloomy ink I would dip +into the sweet balm of Gilead for thy afflictions) prove again and +again thy 'physician.' Forget not what you told me in your former +letter: 'your letters come over my melancholy musings like the dews +of the morning. I am already better, and you are my physician.' Now, +my dear Clare, let me, instead of listening to, or rather acting upon +your melancholy forebodings, entreat you to cheer up, and in the +course of another week make up a little bundle of clothes, and set +yourself quietly inside the Deeping coach for London. I will get your +'sky chamber' ready to receive you, or my niece Eliza shall yield to +you her lower apartment, the blue room. We can then, 'in council +met,' talk over wills, and new volumes of poems, and all other +worldly matters relating to yourself, myself, and posterity." + +And again, on the 20th of February:-- + +"I was yesterday obliged to receive a whole family of foreigners to +dinner. I now hasten, my dear Clare, to entreat you will not allow +your kind resolves of coming to visit us to take an unfavourable +change. I would send down the money for your journey, but am fearful +it might be lost. Let me merely say then, that I shall have the +pleasure to give it you when we meet. I am sure you will benefit in +your health by coming to see us. I have a most worthy friend, a +physician, who will do everything, I am sure, to aid you. We shall +have a thousand things to chat over when we meet, and it will require +a calm head and a quiet heart to effect all we propose. Bring your +MSS. With you, and I will do all in my power." + +The cordiality of this invitation was irresistible, and Clare, a few +days afterwards, presented himself in Stratford Place, where he was +entertained during his stay in London, which extended over five +weeks. + + + + +THE POET TURNED PEDLAR + +Shortly after his arrival he called upon Mr. Taylor, who told him +that the sale of the "Shepherd's Calendar" had not been large, and +that if he chose to sell his books himself in his own neighbourhood +he might have a supply at cost price, or half-a-crown per volume. +Clare consulted his intimate friends on this project: Allan +Cunningham indignantly inveighed against Mr. Taylor for making a +suggestion so derogatory to the dignity of a poet, and Mrs. Emmerson +at first took a similar view, but afterwards changed her mind, on +seeing Clare himself pretty confident that he could sell a sufficient +number of copies not only to clear himself from debt but enable him +to rent a small farm. After Clare had accepted the offer she wrote to +him as follows:-- + +"I am sincerely happy to hear from your last communications about Mr. +Taylor that you can now become the merchant of your own gems, so get +purchasers for them as fast as possible, and, as Shakspeare says, +'put money in thy purse.' I hope your long account with T. may +shortly and satisfactorily be settled. 'Tis well of you to do things +gently and with kindly disposition, for indeed I think Mr. Taylor is +a worthy man at heart." + +The promised statement of account was furnished in August or +September 1829, but Clare disputed its accuracy and some of his +corrections were accepted. Years elapsed before he could feel quite +satisfied that he had been fairly treated, and in the meantime a +rupture with his old friend and trustee, Mr. Taylor, was only averted +by that gentleman's kindness and forbearance. Clare gave the pedlar +project a fair trial, but it brought him little beyond fatigue, +mortification, and disappointment. About this time his fifth child +was born. + + + + +VISIT TO BOSTON + +Not long after Clare's return from London, the Mayor of Boston +invited him to visit that town. He accepted the invitation and was +hospitably entertained. A number of young men of the town proposed a +public supper in his honour, and gave him notice that he would have +to reply to the toast of his own health. Clare shrank from this +terrible ordeal and quitted Boston with scant ceremony. This he +regretted on discovering that his warm-hearted friends and admirers +had, unknown to him, put ten pounds into his travelling bag. His +visit to Boston was followed by an attack of fever which assailed in +turn every member of his family, and rendered necessary the frequent +visits of a medical man for several months. For a long time Clare was +quite unable to do any work in the fields, or sell any of his poems, +and hence arose fresh embarrassments. + +In the autumn of 1829 Clare once more made a farming venture on a +small scale, and for about eighteen months he was fairly successful. +This raised his spirits to an unwonted pitch, and his health greatly +improved; but the gleam of sunshine passed away and poverty and +sickness were again his portion. In 1831 his household consisted of +ten persons, a sixth child having been born to him in the previous +year. To support so large a family it was not sufficient that he +frequently denied himself the commonest necessaries of life: this for +years past he had been accustomed to do, but still he could not "keep +the wolf from the door." In his distress he consulted his +confidential friends, Artis and Henderson. While talking with +Henderson one day at Milton Park, Clare had the good fortune to meet +the noble owner, to whom he told all his troubles. His lordship +listened attentively to the story, and when Clare had finished +promised that a cottage and a small piece of land should be found for +him. The promise was kept, for we find Mr. Emmerson writing on the +9th of November, 1831:-- + +"Why have you not, with your own good pen, informed me of the +circumstance of your shortly becoming Farmer John? Yes, thanks to the +generous Lord Milton, I am told in a letter from your kind friend, +the Rev. Mr. Mossop (dated October 27th) that you have the offer of a +most comfortable cottage, which will be fitted up for your reception +about January the 1st 1832, that it will have an acre of orchard and +garden, inclusive of a common for two cows, with a meadow sufficient +to produce fodder for the winter." + + + + +REMOVAL TO NORTHBOROUGH + +The cottage which Lord Milton set apart for Clare was situated at +Northborough, a village three miles from Helpstone, and thus +described by the author of "Rambles Roundabout":-- + +"Northborough is a large village, not in the sense of its number of +houses or its population, but of the space of ground which it +covers. The houses are mostly cottages, half-hidden in orchards and +luxuriant gardens, having a prodigality of ground. There is not an +eminence loftier than a molehill throughout, yet the spacious roads +and the wealth of trees and flowers make it a very picturesque and +happy-looking locality. Clare's cottage stands in the midst of ample +grounds." + +It has been generally supposed that the cottage was provided for +Clare rent-free, but that this was not the case is shown by the fact +that in one of his letters to Mrs. Emmerson he told her that he had +had to sub-let the piece of common for less than he was himself +paying for it. The rent was either L13 or L15 a year, but whether the +regular payment of that amount was insisted upon is very doubtful. To +the astonishment and even annoyance of many of Clare's friends, when +he was informed that the cottage was ready for its new tenants, he +showed the utmost reluctance to leave Helpstone. Mr. Martin gives the +following account of what took place:-- + +"Patty, radiant with joy to get away from the miserable little hut +into a beautiful roomy cottage, a palace in comparison with the old +dwelling, had all things ready for moving at the beginning of June, +yet could not persuade her husband to give his consent to the final +start. Day after day he postponed it, offering no excuse save that he +could not bear to part from his old home. Day after day he kept +walking through fields and woods among his old haunts, with wild, +haggard look, muttering incoherent language. The people of the +village began to whisper that he was going mad. At Milton Park they +heard of it, and Artis and Henderson hurried to Helpstone to look +after their friend. They found him sitting on a moss-grown stone, at +the end of the village nearest the heath. Gently they took him by the +arm, and, leading him back to the hut, told Mrs. Clare that it would +be best to start at once to Northborough, the Earl being dissatisfied +that the removal had not taken place. Patty's little caravan was soon +ready, and the poet, guided by his friends, followed in the rear, +walking mechanically, with eyes half shut, as if in a dream. His look +brightened for a moment when entering his new dwelling place, a truly +beautiful cottage, with thatched roof, casemented windows, wild roses +over the porch, and flowery hedges all round. Yet before many hours +were over he fell back into deep melancholy, from which he was +relieved only by a new burst of song. His feelings found vent in the +touching verses beginning 'I've left my own old home of homes.'" + +Shortly after removing to Northborough Clare made another ineffectual +attempt to induce his trustees to draw out a portion of his fund +money. Writing in connection with this subject Mr. Emmerson says:-- + +"Mrs. Emmerson and myself take a lively interest in your welfare, and +we shall be glad to know exactly how you stand in your affairs, what +debts you owe, and what stock you require for your present pursuit: +by stock, I mean a cow or cows, pigs, &c. Pray give me an early reply +to all these particulars, that we may see if anything can be done +here to serve you." + +Clare replied at once, and in a few days Mrs. Emmerson wrote as +follows:-- + +"We have consulted with Mr. Taylor. Mr. Emmerson went to him +yesterday on the receipt of your letter, and informed him of its +contents, and it was concluded to set on foot a private friendly +subscription to help Farmer John in his concerns. E. L. E. will give +L10, which must be laid out in the purchase of a cow, which she begs +may be called by the poetic name of Rose or Blossom, or May. Mr. +Taylor will kindly give L5 to purchase two pigs, and I dare say we +shall succeed in getting another L5 to buy a butter churn and a few +useful tools for husbandry, so that you may all set to work and begin +to turn your labour to account, and by instalments pay off the +various little debts which have accumulated in your own +neighbourhood. Your garden, and orchard, and dairy will soon release +you from these demands, I hope; at any rate you will thus have a +beginning, and with the blessing of Providence, and health on your +side, and care and industry on the part of your wife and children, I +hope my dear Clare will sit down happy ere long in his new abode, +rather than have cause to regret leaving his 'own old home of homes.' +It is a very natural and tender lament." + +Clare had not lived long at Northborough when he was waited upon by +the editor of a London magazine who wormed from him an account of his +private affairs, and having dressed up that account in what would now +be called a sensational style, published it to the world. The article +contained many unjust insinuations against Clare's patrons and +publishers, and Mr. Taylor commenced actions, afterwards abandoned, +against the magazine in which it originally appeared, the "Alfred," +and also against a Stamford paper, into which the article was copied. +Clare indignantly protested against the use to which his conversation +with his meddlesome visitor had been put, but it is impossible +entirely to acquit him of blame. Mr. Taylor remonstrated with him +upon his indiscretion, but with a consideration for his inexperience +which it is very pleasant to notice, refrained from a severity of +rebuke to which Clare had no doubt exposed himself. "I have been much +hurt," he says, "at finding that my endeavours to do you service have +ended no better than they have, but if you supposed that I had been +benefited by it, or that I had withheld from you anything you were +entitled to--any profit whatever on any of your works--you have been +grievously mistaken." Mr. Taylor was constant to the end, for after +this he promoted Clare's interests by every means in his power, +conferring with Dr. Darling on his behalf, discharging in conjunction +with Mrs. Emmerson a heavy account sent in by a local medical man, +advising him in all his troubles, offering him a home whenever he +chose to come to London to see Dr. Darling, editing his last volume +of poems, although it was brought out by a house with which he had no +connection, and, finally, contributing to his maintenance when it +became necessary to send him to a private asylum. Among the +indications which Clare gave of the approaching loss of reason were +frequent complaints that he was haunted by evil spirits, and that he +and his family were bewitched. Writing on this subject in February, +1833, Mr. Taylor said:-- + +"As for evil spirits, depend upon it, my dear friend, that there are +none, and that there is no such thing as witchcraft. But I am sure +that our hearts naturally are full of evil thoughts, and that God has +intended to set us free from the dominion of such thoughts by his +good Spirit. You will not expect me to say much on this subject, +knowing that I never press it upon my friends. I must, however, so +far depart from my custom as to say, that I am perfectly certain a +man may be happy even in this life if he will listen to the Word +which came down from heaven, and be as a little child in his +obedience and willingness to do what it requires of him. I am sure of +this, that if we receive the Spirit of God in our hearts we shall +never die. We shall go away from this scene, and our bodies will be +consigned to the grave, but with less pain than we have often felt in +life we shall be carried through what seem to be the pangs of death, +and then we shall be with that holy and blessed company at once who +have died fully believing in Christ, and who shall never again be +separated from him and happiness. + +Farewell, my dear Clare. + +Believe me ever most sincerely yours, + +JOHN TAYLOR." + + + + +"THE RURAL MUSE" + +In 1832 Clare projected a new volume of poems, and with the +assistance of his friends obtained in a few months two hundred +subscribers. Mr. Taylor having represented that as publisher to the +London University poetry was no longer in his line of business, Mr. +Emmerson undertook the task of finding another publisher, and opened +a correspondence with Mr. How, a gentleman connected with the house +of Whittaker & Co. A large number of manuscript poems and of fugitive +pieces from the annuals were submitted to Mr. How, who was requested +by Mr. Emmerson to make the poet an offer. The negotiation was +successful, for on the 8th of March, 1834, Mr. Emmerson was enabled +to write to Clare as follows:-- + +"My very dear Clare,-- + +At length with great pleasure, although after great anxiety and +trouble, I have brought your affair with Mr. How to a conclusion. I +have enclosed a receipt for your signature, and if you will write +your name at the bottom of it and return it enclosed in a letter to +me, I shall have the L40 in ready money for you immediately. You will +perceive by the receipt that I have sold only the copyright of the +first edition, and that Mr. How stipulates shall consist of only 750 +copies, or at the utmost 1000. And now, with the license of a friend, +I am about to talk to you about your affairs. This money has been +hardly earned by your mental labour, and with difficulty obtained by +me for you, only by great perseverance. We are therefore most anxious +it should be the means of freeing you from all debt or incumbrance, +in order that your mind may be once more at ease, and that you may +revel with your muse at will, regardless of all hauntings save hers, +and when she troubles you can pay her off in her own coin. The sum +you stated some time since I think was L35 as sufficient to clear all +your debts, and thus you will be able to start fairly with the world +again." + +While the "Rural Muse" was in the press, Mr. How, one of the very few +of Clare's earlier friends who are still living, suggested to him the +advisableness of his applying to the committee of the Literary Fund +for a grant, and promising to exert himself to the utmost to secure +the success of the application. Clare applied for L50, and obtained +it, whereupon Mrs. Emmerson, to whose heart there was no readier way +than that of showing kindness to poor Clare, writes:-- + +"In my last, I told you I had written to Mr. How on the subject of +the Literary Fund, &c. Yesterday morning the good little man came to +communicate to me the favourable result of the application. The +committee have nobly presented you with fifty pounds. Blessings on +them! for giving you the means to do honour to every engagement, and +leave you, I hope, a surplus to fly to when needed. Mr. How is just +the sort of man for my own nature. He is willing to do his best for +Clare. He has shown himself in the recent event as one of the few who +perform what they promise. God bless him for his kindly exertions to +emancipate you from your thraldom!" + +"The Rural Muse" was published in July, and was cordially received by +the "Athenaeum," "Blackwood's Magazine," the "Literary Gazette," and +other leading periodicals. It was well printed and embellished with +engravings of Northborough Church and the poet's cottage. It has been +already intimated that the poems included within this volume, while +retaining all the freshness and simplicity of Clare's earlier works, +exhibit traces of the mental cultivation to which for years so large +a portion of his time had been devoted. The circle of subjects is +greatly expanded, the passages to which exception may be taken on the +score of carelessness or obscurity are few, and the diction is often +refined and elevated to a degree of which the poet had not before +shown himself capable. The following extracts are made almost at +random:-- + + +AUTUMN + + Syren of sullen moods and fading hues, + Yet haply not incapable of joy, + Sweet Autumn! I thee hail + With welcome all unfeigned; + + And oft as morning from her lattice peeps + To beckon up the sun, I seek with thee + To drink the dewy breath + Of fields left fragrant then, + + In solitudes, where no frequented paths + But what thine own foot makes betray thine home, + Stealing obtrusive there + To meditate thy end; + + By overshadowed ponds, in woody nooks, + With ramping sallows lined, and crowding sedge, + Which woo the winds to play, + And with them dance for joy; + + And meadow pools, torn wide by lawless floods, + Where waterlilies spread their oily leaves, + On which, as wont, the fly + Oft battens in the sun; + + Where leans the mossy willow half way o'er, + On which the shepherd crawls astride to throw + His angle, clear of weeds + That crown the water's brim; + + Or crispy hills and hollows scant of sward, + Where step by step the patient, lonely boy, + Hath cut rude flights of stairs + To climb their steepy sides; + + * * * * * + + Now filtering winds thin winnow through the woods + With tremulous noise, that bids, at every breath, + Some sickly cankered leaf + Let go its hold and die. + + And now the bickering storm, with sudden start, + In flirting fits of anger carps aloud, + Thee urging to thine end, + Sore wept by troubled skies. + + And yet, sublime in grief, thy thoughts delight + To show me visions of most gorgeous dyes, + Haply forgetting now + They but prepare thy shroud; + + Thy pencil dashing its excess of shades, + Improvident of wealth, till every bough + Burns with thy mellow touch + Disorderly divine. + + Soon must I view thee as a pleasant dream + Droop faintly, and so reckon for thine end, + As sad the winds sink low + In dirges for their queen; + + While in the moment of their weary pause, + To cheer thy bankrupt pomp, the willing lark + Starts from his shielding clod, + Snatching sweet scraps of song. + + Thy life is waning now, and Silence tries + To mourn, but meets no sympathy in sounds, + As stooping low she bends, + Forming with leaves thy grave; + + To sleep inglorious there mid tangled woods, + Till parch-lipped Summer pines in drought away; + Then from thine ivied trance + Awake to glories new. + + + + +MAY + + Now comes the bonny May, dancing and skipping + Across the stepping-stones of meadow streams, + Bearing no kin to April showers a-weeping, + But constant Sunshine as her servant seems. + Her heart is up--her sweetness, all a-maying, + Streams in her face, like gems on Beauty's breast; + The swains are sighing all, and well-a-daying, + Lovesick and gazing on their lovely guest. + The Sunday paths, to pleasant places leading, + Are graced by couples linking arm in arm, + Sweet smiles enjoying or some book a-reading, + Where Love and Beauty are the constant charm; + For while the bonny May is dancing by, + Beauty delights the ear, and Beauty fills the eye. + + Birds sing and build, and Nature scorns alone + On May's young festival to be a widow; + The children, too, have pleasures all their own, + In gathering lady-smocks along the meadow. + The little brook sings loud among the pebbles, + So very loud, that water-flowers, which lie + Where many a silver curdle boils and dribbles, + Dance too with joy as it goes singing by. + Among the pasture mole-hills maidens stoop + To pluck the luscious marjoram for their bosoms; + The greensward's littered o'er with buttercups, + And whitethorns, they are breaking down with blossoms. + 'T is Nature's livery for the bonny May, + Who keeps her court, and all have holiday. + + Princess of Months (so Nature's choice ordains,) + And Lady of the Summer still she reigns. + In spite of April's youth, who charms in tears, + And rosy June, who wins with blushing face; + July, sweet shepherdess, who wreathes the shears + Of shepherds with her flowers of winning grace; + And sun-tanned August, with her swarthy charms, + The beautiful and rich; and pastoral, gay + September, with her pomp of fields and farms; + And wild November's sybilline array;-- + In spite of Beauty's calendar, the Year + Garlands with Beauty's prize the bonny May. + Where'er she goes, fair Nature hath no peer, + And months do love their queen when she's away. + + + + +MEMORY + + I would not that my memory all should die, + And pass away with every common lot: + I would not that my humble dust should lie + In quite a strange and unfrequented spot, + By all unheeded and by all forgot, + With nothing save the heedless winds to sigh, + And nothing but the dewy morn to weep + About my grave, far hid from the world's eye: + I fain would have some friend to wander nigh + And find a path to where my ashes sleep-- + Not the cold heart that merely passes by, + To read who lies beneath, but such as keep + Past memories warm with deeds of other years, + And pay to friendship some few friendly tears. + + +"The Rural Muse" sold tolerably well for some months, and Mr. +Whittaker told Mr. Emmerson that "he thought they would get off" the +first edition. But the time was rapidly approaching when literary +fame or failure, the constancy or fickleness of friends, the pangs of +poverty or the joys of competence were to be alike matters of +indifference to John Clare. He began to write in a piteous strain to +Mrs. Emmerson, Mr. Taylor, and Dr. Darling, all of whom assured him +of their deep sympathy, and promised assistance. Mrs. Emmerson, +although completely prostrated by repeated and serious attacks of +illness, sent him cheering letters so long as she could hold her pen, +while Mr. Taylor wrote:-- + +"If you think that you can now come here for the advice of Dr. +Darling I shall be very happy to see you, and any one who may attend +you." The attacks of melancholy from which he had suffered +occasionally for many years became more frequent and more intense, +his language grew wild and incoherent, and at length he failed to +recognize his own wife and children and became the subject of all +kinds of hallucinations. There were times when he was perfectly +rational, and he returned to work in his garden or in his little +study with a zest which filled his family and neighbours with eager +anticipations of his recovery, but every succeeding attack of his +mental malady was more severe than that which preceded it. Of all +that followed little need be said, for it is too painful to be dwelt +upon, and the story of Clare's life hurries therefore to its close. +His lunacy having been duly certified, Mr. Taylor and other of +Clare's old friends in London charged themselves with the +responsibility of removing him to the private asylum of Dr. Allen at +High Beech, in Epping Forest. Mr. Taylor sending a trustworthy person +to Northborough to accompany him to London and take care of him on +the road. This was in June or July, 1837, and Clare remained under +Mr. Allen's care for four years. Allan Cunningham, Mr. S. C. Hall, +and others of Clare's literary friends energetically appealed to the +public on behalf of the unhappy bard. Mr. Hall in the "Book of Gems" +for 1838 wrote:-- + +"It is not yet too late: although he has given indications of a brain +breaking up, a very envied celebrity may be obtained by some wealthy +and good Samaritan who would rescue him from the Cave of Despair," +adding, "Strawberry Hill might be gladly sacrificed for the fame of +having saved Chatterton." + +This appeal brought Mr. Hall a letter from the Marquis of +Northampton, whose name is now for the first time associated with +that of the poet. The Marquis informed Mr. Hall that he was not one +of Clare's exceeding admirers, but he was struck and shocked by what +that gentleman had said about "our county poet," and thought it would +be "a disgrace to the county," to which Clare was "a credit," if he +were left in a state of poverty. The county was neither very wealthy +nor very literary, but his lordship thought that a collection of +Clare's poems might be published by subscription, and if that +suggestion were adopted he would take ten or twenty copies, or he +would give a donation of money, if direct assistance of that kind +were preferred. Mr. Hall says in his "Memories,":-- + +"The plan was not carried out, and if the Marquis gave any aid of any +kind to the peasant-poet the world, and I verily believe the poet +himself, remained in ignorance of the amount." + + + + +AT HIGH BEECH ASYLUM + +All that was possible was done for Clare at the house of Dr. Allen, +one of the early reformers of the treatment of lunatics. He was kept +pretty constantly employed in the garden, and soon grew stout and +robust. After a time he was allowed to stroll beyond the grounds of +the asylum and to ramble about the forest. He was perfectly harmless, +and would sometimes carry on a conversation in a rational manner, +always, however, losing himself in the end in absolute nonsense. In +March, 1841, he wrote a long and intelligible letter to Mrs. Clare, +almost the only peculiarity in which is that every word is begun with +a capital letter. There is no doubt that at this time he was +possessed with the idea that he had two wives--Patty, whom he called +his second wife, and his life-long ideal, Mary Joyce. In the letter +just referred to he begins "My dear wife Patty," and in a postscript +says, "Give my love to the dear boy who wrote to me, and to her who +is never forgotten." He wrote verses which he told Dr. Allen were for +his wife Mary, and that he intended to take them to her. He made +several unsuccessful attempts to escape in the early part of 1841, +but in July of that year he contrived to evade both watchers and +pursuers, and reached Peterborough after being four days and three +nights on the road in a penniless condition, and being so near to +dying of starvation that he was compelled to eat grass like the +beasts of the field. The day after his return to Northborough he +wrote what he called an account of his journey, prefacing the +narrative by this remark, "Returned home out of Essex and found no +Mary." Mr. Martin gives this extraordinary document in his "Life of +Clare." It is a weird, pathetic and pitiful story, "a tragedy all too +deep for tears." Having finished the journal of his escape he +addressed it with a letter to "Mary Clare, Glinton." In this letter +he says:-- + +"I am not so lonely as I was in Essex, for here I can see Glinton +Church, and feeling that my Mary is safe, if not happy I am +gratified. Though my home is no home to me, my hopes are not entirely +hopeless while even the memory of Mary lives so near to me. God bless +you, my dear Mary! Give my love to our dear beautiful family and to +your mother, and believe me, as ever I have been and ever shall be, +my dearest Mary, your affectionate husband, John Clare." Truly, + +"Love's not Time's fool: though rosy lips and cheeks +Within his bending sickle's compass come, +Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, +But bears it out e'en to the edge of doom." + + + + +AT NORTHAMPTON + +Clare remained for a short time at Northborough, and was then removed +under medical advice to the County Lunatic Asylum at Northampton, of +which establishment he continued an inmate until his death in 1864. +During the whole of that time the charge made by the authorities of +the Asylum for his maintenance was paid either by Earl Fitzwilliam or +by his son, the Hon. G. W. Fitzwilliam. It is to the credit of the +managers of the institution that although the amount paid on his +behalf was that usually charged for patients of the humbler classes, +Clare was always treated in every respect as a "gentleman patient." +He had his favourite window corner in the common sitting room, +commanding a view of Northampton and the valley of the Nen, and books +and writing materials were provided for him. Unless the Editor's +memory is at fault, he was always addressed deferentially as "Mr. +Clare," both by the officers of the Asylum and the townspeople; and +when Her Majesty passed through Northampton, in 1844, in her progress +to Burleigh, a seat was specially reserved for the poet near one of +the triumphal arches. There was something very nearly akin to +tenderness in the kindly sympathy which was shown for him, and his +most whimsical utterances were listened to with gravity, lest he +should feel hurt or annoyed. He was classified in the Asylum books +among the "harmless," and for several years was allowed to walk in +the fields or go into the town at his own pleasure. His favourite +resting place at Northampton was a niche under the roof of the +spacious portico of All Saints' Church, and here he would sometimes +sit for hours, musing, watching the children at play, or jotting down +passing thoughts in his pocket note-book. + + + + +THE APPROACHING END + +In course of time it was found expedient not to allow him to wander +beyond the Asylum grounds. He wrote occasionally to his son Charles, +but appears never to have been visited by either relatives or +friends. The neglect of his wife and children is inexplicable. It was +no doubt while smarting under this treatment that he penned the lines +given below, of which an eloquent critic has said that "in their +sublime sadness and incoherence they sum up, with marvellous effect, +the one great misfortune of the poet's life--his mental isolation-- +his inability to make his deepest character and thoughts intelligible +to others. They read like the wail of a nature cut off from all +access to other minds, concentrated at its own centre, and conscious +of the impassable gulf which separates it from universal humanity:"-- + + + 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. + +Clare's physical powers slowly declined, and at length he had to be +wheeled about the Asylum grounds in a Bath chair. As he felt his end +approaching he would frequently say "I have lived too long," or "I +want to go home." Until within three days of his death he managed to +reach his favourite seat in the window, but was then seized with +paralysis, and on the afternoon of the 20th of May, 1864, without a +struggle or a sigh his spirit passed away. He was taken home. + +In accordance with Clare's own wish, his remains were interred in the +churchyard at Helpstone, by the side of those of his father and +mother, under the shade of a sycamore tree. The expenses of the +funeral were paid by the Hon. G. W. Fitzwilliam. Two or three years +afterwards a coped monument of Ketton stone was erected over Clare's +remains. It bears this inscription:-- + +"Sacred to the Memory of John Clare, the Northamptonshire Peasant +Poet. Born July 13, 1793. Died May 20th, 1864. A Poet is born, not +made." + +In 1869, another memorial was erected in the principal street of +Helpstone. The style is Early English, and it bears suitable +inscriptions from Clare's Works. + + + + +CONCLUSION + +In looking back upon such a life as Clare's, so prominent are the +human interests which confront us, that those of poetry, as one of +the fine arts, are not unlikely to sink for a time completely out of +sight. The long and painful strain upon our sympathy to which we are +subject as we read the story is such perhaps as the life of no other +English poet puts upon us. The spell of the great moral problems by +which the lives of so many of our poets seem to have been more or +less surrounded makes itself felt in every step of Clare's career. We +are tempted to speak in almost fatalistic language of the disastrous +gift of the poetic faculty, and to find in that the source of all +Clare's woe. The well-known lines-- + + We poets in our youth begin in gladness, + But thereof come in the end despondency and madness-- + +ring in our ears, and we remember that these are the words of a poet +endowed with a well-balanced mind, and who knew far less than Clare +the experience of + + Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills. + +In Clare's case we are tempted to say that the Genius of Poetry laid +her fearful hand upon a nature too weak to bear her gifts and at the +same time to master the untoward circumstances in which his lot was +cast. But too well does poor Clare's history illustrate that +interpretation of the myth which pictures Great Pan secretly busy +among the reeds and fashioning, with sinister thought, the fatal pipe +which shall "make a poet out of a man." And yet it may be doubted +whether, on the whole, Clare's lot in life, and that of the wife and +family who were dependent upon him, was aggravated by the poetic +genius which we are thus trying to make the scapegoat for his +misfortunes. It may be that the publicity acquired by the +Northamptonshire Peasant Poet simply brings to the surface the +average life of the English agricultural labourer in the person of +one who was more than usually sensitive to suffering. Unhappily there +is too good reason to believe that the privations to which Clare and +his household were subject cannot be looked upon as exceptional in +the class of society to which both husband and wife belonged, +although they naturally acquire a deeper shade from the prospect of +competency and comfort which Clare's gifts seemed to promise. In this +light, while the miseries of the poet are none the less real and +claim none the less of our sympathy, the moral problem of Clare's +woes belongs rather to humanity at large than to poets in particular. +We are at liberty to hope, then, that the world is all the richer, +and that Clare's lot was none the harder, by reason of that +dispensation of Providence which has given to English literature such +a volume as "The Rural Muse." How many are there who not only fail, +as Clare failed, to rise above their circumstances, but who, in +addition, leave nothing behind them to enrich posterity! We are +indeed the richer for Clare, but with what travail of soul to himself +only true poets can know. + + + + +ASYLUM POEMS + +'TIS SPRING, MY LOVE, 'TIS SPRING + + 'T is Spring, my love, 'tis Spring, + And the birds begin to sing: + If 'twas Winter, left alone with you, + Your bonny form and face + Would make a Summer place, + And be the finest flower that ever grew. + + 'T is 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 love's young dream. + + + + +LOVE OF NATURE + + I love thee, Nature, with a boundless love! + The calm of earth, the storm of roaring woods! + The winds breathe happiness where'er I rove! + There's life's own music in the swelling floods! + My heart is in the thunder-melting clouds, + The snow-cap't mountain, and the rolling sea! + And hear ye not the voice where darkness shrouds + The heavens? There lives happiness for me! + + My pulse beats calmer while His lightnings play! + My eye, with earth's delusions waxing dim, + Clears with the brightness of eternal day! + The elements crash round me! It is He! + Calmly I hear His voice and never start. + From Eve's posterity I stand quite free, + Nor feel her curses rankle round my heart. + + Love is not here. Hope is, and at His voice-- + The rolling thunder and the roaring sea-- + My pulses leap, and with the hills rejoice; + Then strife and turmoil are at end for me. + No matter where life's ocean leads me on, + For Nature is my mother, and I rest, + When tempests trouble and the sun is gone, + Like to a weary child upon her breast. + + + + +THE INVITATION + + Come hither, my dear one, my choice one, and rare one, + And let us be walking the meadows so fair, + Where on pilewort and daisies the eye fondly gazes, + And the wind plays so sweet in thy bonny brown hair. + + Come with thy maiden eye, lay silks and satins by; + Come in thy russet or grey cotton gown; + Come to the meads, dear, where flags, sedge, and reeds appear, + Rustling to soft winds and bowing low down. + + Come with thy parted hair, bright eyes, and forehead bare; + Come to the whitethorn that grows in the lane; + To banks of primroses, where sweetness reposes, + Come, love, and let us be happy again. + + Come where the violet flowers, come where the morning showers + Pearl on the primrose and speedwell so blue; + Come to that clearest brook that ever runs round the nook + Where you and I pledged our first love so true. + + + + +TO THE LARK + + Bird of the morn, + When roseate clouds begin + To show the opening dawn + Thou gladly sing'st it in, + And o'er the sweet green fields and happy vales + Thy pleasant song is heard, mixed with the morning gales. + + Bird of the morn, + What time the ruddy sun + Smiles on the pleasant corn + Thy singing is begun, + Heartfelt and cheering over labourers' toil, + Who chop in coppice wild and delve the russet soil. + + Bird of the sun, + How dear to man art thou! + When morning has begun + To gild the mountain's brow, + How beautiful it is to see thee soar so blest, + Winnowing thy russet wings above thy twitchy nest. + + Bird of the Summer's day, + How oft I stand to hear + Thee sing thy airy lay, + With music wild and clear, + Till thou becom'st a speck upon the sky, + Small as the clods that crumble where I lie. + + Thou bird of happiest song, + The Spring and Summer too + Are thine, the months along, + The woods and vales to view. + If climes were evergreen thy song would be + The sunny music of eternal glee. + + + + +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. + + + + +BONNIE LASSIE O! + + O the evening's for the fair, bonny lassie O! + To meet the cooler air and join an angel there, + With the dark dishevelled hair, + Bonny lassie O! + + The bloom's on the brere, bonny lassie O! + Oak apples on the tree; and wilt thou gang to see + The shed I've made for thee, + Bonny lassie O! + + 'T is agen the running brook, bonny lassie O! + In a grassy nook hard by, with a little patch of sky, + And a bush to keep us dry, + Bonny lassie O! + + There's the daisy all the year, bonny lassie O! + There's the king-cup bright as gold, and the speedwell never cold, + And the arum leaves unrolled, + Bonny lassie O! + + O meet me at the shed, bonny lassie O! + With the woodbine peeping in, and the roses like thy skin + Blushing, thy praise to win, + Bonny lassie O! + + I will meet thee there at e'en, bonny lassie O! + When the bee sips in the beau, and grey willow branches lean, + And the moonbeam looks between, + Bonny lassie O! + + + + +PHOEBE OF THE SCOTTISH GLEN + + Agen I'll take my idle pen + And sing my bonny mountain maid-- + Sweet Phoebe of the Scottish glen, + Nor of her censure feel afraid. + I'll charm her ear with beauty's praise, + And please her eye with songs agen-- + The ballads of our early days-- + To Phoebe of the Scottish glen. + + There never was a fairer thing + All Scotland's glens and mountains through. + The siller gowans of the Spring, + Besprent with pearls of mountain dew, + The maiden blush upon the brere, + Far distant from the haunts of men, + Are nothing half so sweet or dear + As Phoebe of the Scottish glen. + + How handsome is her naked foot, + Moist with the pearls of Summer dew: + The siller daisy's nothing to 't, + Nor hawthorn flowers so white to view, + She's sweeter than the blooming brere, + That blossoms far away from men: + No flower in Scotland's half so dear + As Phoebe of the Scottish glen. + + + + +MAID OF THE WILDERNESS + + Maid of the wilderness, + Sweet in thy rural dress, + Fond thy rich lips I press + Under this tree. + + Morning her health bestows, + Sprinkles dews on the rose, + That by the bramble grows: + Maid happy be. + Womanhood round thee glows, + Wander with me. + + The restharrow blooming, + The sun just a-coming, + Grass and bushes illuming, + And the spreading oak tree; + + Come hither, sweet Nelly, + * * * + The morning is loosing + Its incense for thee. + The pea-leaf has dews on; + Love wander with me. + + We'll walk by the river, + And love more than ever; + There's nought shall dissever + My fondness from thee. + + Soft ripples the water, + Flags rustle like laughter, + And fish follow after; + Leaves drop from the tree. + Nelly, Beauty's own daughter, + Love, wander with me. + + + + +MARY BATEMAN + + My love she wears a cotton plaid, + A bonnet of the straw; + Her cheeks are leaves of roses spread, + Her lips are like the haw. + In truth she is as sweet a maid + As true love ever saw. + + Her curls are ever in my eyes, + As nets by Cupid flung; + Her voice will oft my sleep surprise, + More sweet than ballad sung. + O Mary Bateman's curling hair! + I wake, and there is nothing there. + + I wake, and fall asleep again, + The same delights in visions rise; + There's nothing can appear more plain + Than those rose cheeks and those bright eyes. + I wake again, and all alone + Sits Darkness on his ebon throne. + + All silent runs the silver Trent, + The cobweb veils are all wet through, + A silver bead's on every bent, + On every leaf a bleb of dew. + I sighed, the moon it shone so clear: + Was Mary Bateman walking here? + + + + +WHEN SHALL WE MEET AGAIN? + + How many times Spring blossoms meek + Have faded on the land + Since last I kissed that pretty cheek, + Caressed that happy hand. + Eight time the green's been painted white + With daisies in the grass + Since I looked on thy eyes so bright, + And pressed my bonny lass. + + The ground lark sung about the farms, + The blackbird in the wood, + When fast locked in each other's arms + By hedgerow thorn we stood. + It was a pleasant Sabbath day, + The sun shone bright and round, + His light through dark oaks passed, and lay + Like gold upon the ground. + + How beautiful the blackbird sung, + And answered soft the thrush; + And sweet the pearl-like dew-drops hung + Upon the white thorn bush. + O happy day, eight years ago! + We parted without pain: + The blackbird sings, primroses blow; + When shall we meet again? + + + + +THE LOVER'S INVITATION + + Now the wheat is in the ear, and the rose is on the brere, + And bluecaps so divinely blue, with poppies of bright scarlet hue, + Maiden, at the close o' eve, wilt thou, dear, thy cottage leave, + And walk with one that loves thee? + + When the even's tiny tears bead upon the grassy spears, + And the spider's lace is wet with its pinhead blebs of dew, + Wilt thou lay thy work aside and walk by brooklets dim descried, + Where I delight to love thee? + + While thy footfall lightly press'd tramples by the skylark's nest, + And the cockle's streaky eyes mark the snug place where it lies, + Mary, put thy work away, and walk at dewy close o' day + With me to kiss and love thee. + + There's something in the time so sweet, when lovers in the evening + meet, + The air so still, the sky so mild, like slumbers of the cradled + child, + The moon looks over fields of love, among the ivy sleeps the dove: + To see thee is to love thee. + + + + +NATURE'S DARLING + + Sweet comes the morning + In Nature's adorning, + And bright shines the dew on the buds of the thorn, + Where Mary Ann rambles + Through the sloe trees and brambles; + She's sweeter than wild flowers that open at morn; + She's a rose in the dew; + She's pure and she's true; + She's as gay as the poppy that grows in the corn. + + Her eyes they are bright, + Her bosom's snow white, + And her voice is like songs of the birds in the grove. + She's handsome and bonny, + And fairer than any, + And her person and actions are Nature's and love. + She has the bloom of all roses, + She's the breath of sweet posies, + She's as pure as the brood in the nest of the dove. + + Of Earth's fairest daughters, + Voiced like falling waters, + She walks down the meadows, than blossoms more fair. + O her bosom right fair is, + And her rose cheek so rare is, + And parted and lovely her glossy black hair. + Her bosom's soft whiteness! + The sun in its brightness + Has never been seen so bewilderingly fair. + + The dewy grass glitters, + The house swallow twitters, + And through the sky floats in its visions of bliss; + The lark soars on high, + On cowslips dews lie, + And the last days of Summer are nothing like this. + When Mary Ann rambles + Through hedgerows and brambles, + The soft gales of Spring are the seasons of bliss. + + + + +I'LL DREAM UPON THE DAYS TO COME + + I'll lay me down on the green sward, + Mid yellowcups and speedwell blue, + And pay the world no more regard, + But be to Nature leal and true. + Who break the peace of hapless man + But they who Truth and Nature wrong? + I'll hear no more of evil's plan, + But live with Nature and her song. + + Where Nature's lights and shades are green, + Where Nature's place is strewn with flowers. + Where strife and care are never seen, + There I'll retire to happy hours, + And stretch my body on the green, + And sleep among the flowers in bloom, + By eyes of malice seldom seen, + And dream upon the days to come. + + I'll lay me by the forest green, + I'll lay me on the pleasant grass; + My life shall pass away unseen; + I'll be no more the man I was. + The tawny bee upon the flower, + The butterfly upon the leaf, + Like them I'll live my happy hour, + A life of sunshine, bright and brief. + + In greenwood hedges, close at hand, + Build, brood, and sing the little birds, + The happiest things in the green land, + While sweetly feed the lowing herds, + While softly bleat the roving sheep. + Upon the green grass will I lie, + A Summer's day, to think and sleep. + Or see the clouds sail down the sky. + + + + +TO ISABEL + + Arise, my Isabel, arise! + The sun shoots forth his early ray, + The hue of love is in the skies, + The birds are singing, come away! + O come, my Isabella, come, + With inky tendrils hanging low; + Thy cheeks like roses just in bloom, + That in the healthy Summer glow. + + That eye it turns the world away + From wanton sport and recklessness; + That eye beams with a cheerful ray, + And smiles propitiously to bless. + O come, my Isabella, dear! + O come, and fill these longing arms! + Come, let me see thy beauty here, + And bend in worship o'er thy charms. + + O come, my Isabella, love! + My dearest Isabella, come! + Thy heart's affection, let me prove, + And kiss thy beauty in its bloom. + My Isabella, young and fair, + Thou darling of my home and heart, + Come, love, my bosom's truth to share, + And of its being form a part. + + + + +THE SHEPHERD'S DAUGHTER + + How sweet is every lengthening day, + And every change of weather, + When Summer comes, on skies blue grey, + And brings her hosts together, + Her flocks of birds, her crowds of flowers, + Her sunny-shining water! + I dearly love the woodbine bowers, + That hide the Shepherd's Daughter-- + In gown of green or brown or blue, + The Shepherd's Daughter, leal and true. + + How bonny is her lily breast! + How sweet her rosy face! + She'd give my aching bosom rest, + Where love would find its place. + While earth is green, and skies are blue, + And sunshine gilds the water, + While Summer's sweet and Nature true, + I'll love the Shepherd's Daughter-- + Her nut brown hair, her clear bright eye, + My daily thought, my only joy. + + She's such a simple, sweet young thing, + Dressed in her country costume. + My wits had used to know the Spring, + Till I saw, and loved, and lost 'em. + How quietly the lily lies + Upon the deepest water! + How sweet to me the Summer skies! + And so's the Shepherd's Daughter-- + With lily breast and rosy face + The sweetest maid in any place. + + My singing bird, my bonny flower, + How dearly could I love thee! + To sit with thee one pleasant hour, + If thou would'st but approve me! + I swear by lilies white and yellow, + That flower on deepest water, + Would'st thou but make me happy fellow, + I'd wed the Shepherd's Daughter! + By all that's on the earth or water, + I more than love the Shepherd's Daughter. + + + + +LASSIE, I LOVE THEE + + Lassie, I love thee! + The heavens above thee + Look downwards to move thee, + And prove my love true. + My arms round thy waist, love, + My head on thy breast, love; + By a true man caressed love, + Ne'er bid me adieu. + + Thy cheek's full o' blushes, + Like the rose in the bushes, + While my love ardent gushes + With over delight. + Though clouds may come o'er thee, + Sweet maid, I'll adore thee, + As I do now before thee: + I love thee outright. + + It stings me to madness + To see thee all gladness, + While I'm full of sadness + Thy meaning to guess. + Thy gown is deep blue, love, + In honour of true love: + Ever thinking of you, love, + My love I'll confess. + + My love ever showing, + Thy heart worth the knowing, + It is like the sun glowing, + And hid in thy breast. + Thy lover behold me; + To my bosom I'll fold thee, + For thou, love, thou'st just told me, + So here thou may'st rest. + + + +THE GIPSY LASS + + Just like the berry brown is my bonny lassie O! + And in the smoky camp lives my bonny lassie O! + Where the scented woodbine weaves + Round the white-thorn's glossy leaves: + The sweetest maid on earth is my gipsy lassie O! + + The brook it runs so clear by my bonny lassie O! + And the blackbird singeth near my bonny lassie O! + And there the wild briar rose + Wrinkles the clear stream as it flows + By the smoky camp of my bonny lassie O! + + The groundlark singeth high o'er my bonny lassie O! + The nightingale lives nigh my gipsy lassie O! + They're with her all the year, + By the brook that runs so clear, + And there's none in all the world like my gipsy lassie O! + + With a bosom white as snow is my gipsy lassie O! + With a foot like to the roe is my bonny lassie O! + Like the sweet birds she will sing, + While echo it will ring: + Sure there's none in the world like my bonny lassie O! + + + + +AT THE FOOT OF CLIFFORD HILL + + Who loves the white-thorn tree, + And the river running free? + There a maiden stood with me + In Summer weather. + Near a cottage far from town, + While the sun went brightly down + O'er the meadows green and brown, + We loved together. + + How sweet her drapery flowed, + While the moor-cock oddly crowed; + I took the kiss which love bestowed, + Under the white-thorn tree. + Soft winds the water curled, + The trees their branches furled; + Sweetest nook in all the world + Is where she stood with me. + + Calm came the evening air, + The sky was sweet and fair, + In the river shadowed there, + Close by the hawthorn tree. + Round her neck I clasped my arms, + And kissed her rosy charms; + O'er the flood the hackle swarms, + Where the maiden stood with me. + + O there's something falls so dear + On the music of the ear, + Where the river runs so clear, + And my lover met with me. + At the foot of Clifford Hill + Still I hear the clacking mill, + And the river's running still + Under the trysting tree. + + + + +TO MY WIFE--A VALENTINE + + O once I had a true love, + As blest as I could be: + Patty was my turtle dove, + And Patty she loved me. + We walked the fields together, + By roses and woodbine, + In Summer's sunshine weather, + And Patty she was mine. + + We stopped to gather primroses, + And violets white and blue, + In pastures and green closes + All glistening with the dew. + We sat upon green mole-hills, + Among the daisy flowers, + To hear the small birds' merry trills, + And share the sunny hours. + + The blackbird on her grassy nest + We would not scare away, + Who nuzzling sat with brooding breast + On her eggs for half the day. + The chaffinch chirruped on the thorn, + And a pretty nest had she; + The magpie chattered all the morn + From her perch upon the tree. + + And I would go to Patty's cot, + And Patty came to me; + Each knew the other's very thought + Under the hawthorn tree. + And Patty had a kiss to give, + And Patty had a smile, + To bid me hope and bid me love, + At every stopping stile. + + We loved one Summer quite away, + And when another came, + The cowslip close and sunny day, + It found us much the same. + We both looked on the selfsame thing, + Till both became as one; + The birds did in the hedges sing, + And happy time went on. + + The brambles from the hedge advance, + In love with Patty's eyes: + On flowers, like ladies at a dance, + Flew scores of butterflies. + I claimed a kiss at every stile, + And had her kind replies. + The bees did round the woodbine toil, + Where sweet the small wind sighs. + + Then Patty was a slight young thing; + Now she's long past her teens; + And we've been married many springs, + And mixed in many scenes. + And I'll be true for Patty's sake, + And she'll be true for mine; + And I this little ballad make, + To be her valentine. + + + + +MY TRUE LOVE IS A SAILOR + + 'T was somewhere in the April time, + Not long before the May, + A-sitting on a bank o' thyme + I heard a maiden say, + "My true love is a sailor, + And ere he went away + We spent a year together, + And here my lover lay. + + The gold furze was in blossom, + So was the daisy too; + The dew-drops on the little flowers + Were emeralds in hue. + On this same Summer morning, + Though then the Sabbath day, + He crop't me Spring pol'ant'uses, + Beneath the whitethorn may. + + He crop't me Spring pol'ant'uses, + And said if they would keep + They'd tell me of love's fantasies, + For dews on them did weep. + And I did weep at parting, + Which lasted all the week; + And when he turned for starting + My full heart could not speak. + + The same roots grow pol'ant'us' flowers + Beneath the same haw-tree; + I crop't them in morn's dewy hours, + And here love's offerings be. + O come to me my sailor beau + And ease my aching breast; + The storms shall cease to rave and blow, + And here thy life find rest." + + + + +THE SAILOR'S RETURN + + The whitethorn is budding and rushes are green, + The ivy leaves rustle around the ash tree, + On the sweet sunny bank blue violets are seen, + That tremble beneath the wild hum of the bee. + The sunbeams they play on the brook's plashy ripples, + Like millions of suns in each swirl looking on; + The rush nods and bows till its tasseled head tipples + Right into the wimpled flood, kissing the stones. + + 'T was down in the cow pasture, just at the gloaming, + I met a young woman sweet tempered and mild, + I said "Pretty maiden, say, where are you roving?" + "I'm walking at even," she answered, and smiled. + "Here my sweetheart and I gathered posies at even; + It's eight years ago since they sent him to sea. + Wild flowers hung with dew are like angels from heaven: + They look up in my face and keep whispering to me. + + They whisper the tales that were told by my true love; + In the evening and morning they glisten with dew; + They say (bonny blossoms) 'I'll ne'er get a new love; + I love her; she's kindly.' I say, 'I love him too.'" + The passing-by stranger's a stranger no longer; + He kissed off the teardrop which fell from her e'e; + With blue-jacket and trousers he is bigger and stronger; + 'T is her own constant Willy returned from the sea. + + + + +BIRDS, WHY ARE YE SILENT? + + Why are ye silent, Birds? + Where do ye fly? + Winter's not violent, + With such a Spring sky. + The wheatlands are green, snow and frost are away, + Birds, why are ye silent on such a sweet day? + + By the slated pig-stye + The redbreast scarce whispers: + Where last Autumn's leaves lie + The hedge sparrow just lispers. + And why are the chaffinch and bullfinch so still, + While the sulphur primroses bedeck the wood hill? + + The bright yellow-hammers + Are strutting about, + All still, and none stammers + A single note out. + From the hedge starts the blackbird, at brook side to drink: + I thought he'd have whistled, but he only said "prink." + + The tree-creeper hustles + Up fir's rusty bark; + All silent he bustles; + We needn't say hark. + There's no song in the forest, in field, or in wood, + Yet the sun gilds the grass as though come in for good. + + How bright the odd daisies + Peep under the stubbs! + How bright pilewort blazes + Where ruddled sheep rubs + The old willow trunk by the side of the brook, + Where soon for blue violets the children will look! + + By the cot green and mossy + Feed sparrow and hen: + On the ridge brown and glossy + They cluck now and then. + The wren cocks his tail o'er his back by the stye, + Where his green bottle nest will be made by and bye. + + Here's bunches of chickweed, + With small starry flowers, + Where red-caps oft pick seed + In hungry Spring hours. + And blue cap and black cap, in glossy Spring coat, + Are a-peeping in buds without singing a note. + + Why silent should birds be + And sunshine so warm? + Larks hide where the herds be + By cottage and farm. + If wild flowers were blooming and fully set in the Spring + May-be all the birdies would cheerfully sing. + + + + +MEET ME TO-NIGHT + + O meet me to-night by the bright starlight, + Now the pleasant Spring's begun. + My own dear maid, by the greenwood shade, + In the crimson set of the sun, + Meet me to-night. + + The sun he goes down with a ruby crown + To a gold and crimson bed; + And the falling dew, from heaven so blue, + Hangs pearls on Phoebe's head. + Love, leave the town. + + Come thou with me; 'neath the green-leaf tree + We'll crop the bonny sweet brere. + O come, dear maid, 'neath the hazlewood shade, + For love invites us there. + Come then with me. + + The owl pops, scarce seen, from the ivy green, + With his spectacles on I ween: + See the moon's above and the stars twinkle, love; + Better time was never seen. + O come, my queen. + + The fox he stops, and down he drops + His head beneath the grass. + The birds are gone; we're all alone; + O come, my bonny lass. + Come, O come! + + + + +YOUNG JENNY + + The cockchafer hums down the rut-rifted lane + Where the wild roses hang and the woodbines entwine, + And the shrill squeaking bat makes his circles again + Round the side of the tavern close by the sign. + The sun is gone down like a wearisome queen, + In curtains the richest that ever were seen. + + The dew falls on flowers in a mist of small rain, + And, beating the hedges, low fly the barn owls; + The moon with her horns is just peeping again, + And deep in the forest the dog-badger howls; + In best bib and tucker then wanders my Jane + By the side of the woodbines which grow in the lane. + + On a sweet eventide I walk by her side; + In green hoods the daisies have shut up their eyes. + Young Jenny is handsome without any pride; + Her eyes (O how bright!) have the hue of the skies. + O 'tis pleasant to walk by the side of my Jane + At the close of the day, down the mossy green lane. + + We stand by the brook, by the gate, and the stile, + While the even star hangs out his lamp in the sky; + And on her calm face dwells a sweet sunny smile, + While her soul fondly speaks through the light of her eye. + Sweet are the moments while waiting for Jane; + 'T is her footsteps I hear coming down the green lane. + + + + +ADIEU! + + "Adieu, my love, adieu! + Be constant and be true + As the daisies gemmed with dew, + Bonny maid." + The cows their thirst were slaking, + Trees the playful winds were shaking; + Sweet songs the birds were making + In the shade. + + The moss upon the tree + Was as green as green could be, + The clover on the lea + Ruddy glowed; + Leaves were silver with the dew, + Where the tall sowthistles grew, + And I bade the maid adieu + On the road. + + Then I took myself to sea, + While the little chiming bee + Sung his ballad on the lea, + Humming sweet; + And the red-winged butterfly + Was sailing through the sky, + Skimming up and bouncing by + Near my feet. + + I left the little birds, + And sweet lowing of the herds, + And couldn't find out words, + Do you see, + To say to them good bye, + Where the yellow cups do lie; + So heaving a deep sigh, + Took to sea. + + + + +MY BONNY ALICE AND HER PITCHER + + There's a bonny place in Scotland, + Where a little spring is found; + There Nature shows her honest face + The whole year round. + Where the whitethorn branches, full of may, + Hung near the fountain's rim, + Where comes sweet Alice every day + And dips her pitcher in; + A gallon pitcher without ear, + She fills it with the water clear. + + My bonny Alice she is fair; + There's no such other to be found. + Her rosy cheek and dark brown hair-- + The fairest maid on Scotland's ground. + And there the heather's pinhead flowers + All blossom over bank and brae, + While Alice passes by the bowers + To fill her pitcher every day; + The pitcher brown without an ear + She dips into the fountain clear. + + O Alice, bonny, sweet, and fair, + With roses on her cheeks! + The little birds come drinking there, + The throstle almost speaks. + He dips his wings and wimples makes + Upon the fountain clear, + Then vanishes among the brakes + For ever singing near; + While Alice, listening, stands to hear, + And dips her pitcher without ear. + + O Alice, bonny Alice, fair, + Thy pleasant face I love; + Thy red-rose cheek, thy dark brown hair, + Thy soft eyes, like a dove. + I see thee by the fountain stand, + With the sweet smiling face; + There's not a maid in all the land + With such bewitching grace + As Alice, who is drawing near, + To dip the pitcher without ear. + + + + +THE MAIDEN I LOVE + + How sweet are Spring wild flowers! They grow past the counting. + How sweet are the wood-paths that thread through the grove! + But sweeter than all the wild flowers of the mountain + Is the beauty that walks here--the maiden I love. + Her black hair in tangles + The rose briar mangles; + Her lips and soft cheeks, + Where love ever speaks: + O there's nothing so sweet as the maiden I love. + + It was down in the wild flowers, among brakes and brambles, + I met the sweet maiden so dear to my eye, + In one of my Sunday morn midsummer rambles, + Among the sweet wild blossoms blooming close by. + Her hair it was coal black, + Hung loose down her back; + In her hand she held posies + Of blooming primroses, + The maiden who passed on the morning of love. + + Coal black was her silk hair that shaded white shoulders; + Ruby red were her ripe lips, her cheeks of soft hue; + Her sweet smiles, enchanting the eyes of beholders, + Thrilled my heart as she rambled the wild blossoms through. + Like the pearl, her bright eye; + In trembling delight I + Kissed her cheek, like a rose + In its gentlest repose. + O there's nothing so sweet as the maiden I love! + + + + +TO JENNY LIND + + I cannot touch the harp again, + And sing another idle lay, + To cool a maddening, burning brain, + And drive the midnight fiend away. + Music, own sister to the soul. + Bids roses bloom on cheeks all pale; + And sweet her joys and sorrows roll + When sings the Swedish Nightingale. + + * * * * * + + I cannot touch the harp again; + No chords will vibrate on the string; + Like broken flowers upon the plain, + My heart e'en withers while I sing. + Aeolian harps have witching tones, + On morning or the evening gale; + No melody their music owns + As sings the Swedish nightingale. + + + + +LITTLE TROTTY WAGTAIL + + Little trotty wagtail he went in the rain, + And twittering, tottering sideways he ne'er got straight again. + He stooped to get a worm, and looked up to get a fly, + And then he flew away ere his feathers they were dry. + + Little trotty wagtail he waddled in the mud, + And left his little footmarks, trample where he would. + He waddled in the water-pudge, and waggle went his tail, + And chirrupt up his wings to dry upon the garden rail. + + Little trotty wagtail, you nimble all about, + And in the dimpling water-pudge you waddle in and out; + Your home is nigh at hand, and in the warm pig-stye, + So, little Master Wagtail, I'll bid you a good bye. + + + + +THE FOREST MAID + + O once I loved a pretty girl, and dearly love her still; + I courted her in happiness for two short years or more. + And when I think of Mary it turns my bosom chill, + For my little of life's happiness is faded and is o'er. + O fair was Mary Littlechild, and happy as the bee, + And sweet was bonny Mary as the song of forest bird; + And the smile upon her red lips was very dear to me, + And her tale of love the sweetest that my ear has ever heard. + + O the flower of all the forest was Mary Littlechild; + There's few could be so dear to me and none could be so fair. + While many love the garden flowers I still esteem the wild, + And Mary of the forest is the fairest blossom there. + She's fairer than the may flowers that bloom among the thorn, + She's dearer to my eye than the rose upon the brere; + Her eye is brighter far than the bonny pearls of morn, + And the name of Mary Littlechild is to me ever dear. + + O once I loved a pretty girl. The linnet in its mirth + Was never half so blest as I with Mary Littlechild-- + The rose of the creation, and the pink of all the earth, + The flower of all the forest, and the best for being wild. + O sweet are dews of morning, ere the Autumn blows so chill,-- + And sweet are forest flowers in the hawthorn's mossy shade, + But nothing is so fair, and nothing ever will + Bloom like the rosy cheek of my bonny Forest Maid. + + + + +BONNY MARY O! + + The morning opens fine, bonny Mary O! + The robin sings his song by the dairy O! + Where the little Jenny wrens cock their tails among the hens, + Singing morning's happy songs with Mary O! + + The swallow's on the wing, bonny Mary O! + Where the rushes fringe the spring, bonny Mary O! + Where the cowslips do unfold, shaking tassels all of gold, + Which make the milk so sweet, bonny Mary O! + + There's the yellowhammer's nest, bonny Mary O! + Where she hides her golden breast, bonny Mary O! + On her mystic eggs she dwells, with strange writing on their + shells, + Hid in the mossy grass, bonny Mary O! + + There the spotted cow gets food, bonny Mary O! + And chews her peaceful cud, bonny Mary O! + In the molehills and the bushes, and the clear brook fringed with + rushes, + To fill the evening pail, bonny Mary O! + + Where the gnat swarms fall and rise under evenings' mellow skies, + And on flags sleep dragon flies, bonny Mary O! + And I will meet thee there, bonny Mary O! + When a-milking you repair, bonny Mary O! + And I'll kiss thee on the grass, my buxom, bonny lass, + And be thine own for aye, bonny Mary O! + + + + +LOVE'S EMBLEM + + Go rose, my Chloe's bosom grace: + How happy should I prove, + Could I supply that envied place + With never-fading love. + + Accept, dear maid, now Summer glows, + This pure, unsullied gem, + Love's emblem in a full-blown rose, + Just broken from the stem. + + Accept it as a favourite flower + For thy soft breast to wear; + 'Twill blossom there its transient hour, + A favourite of the fair. + + Upon thy cheek its blossom glows, + As from a mirror clear, + Making thyself a living rose, + In blossom all the year. + + It is a sweet and favourite flower + To grace a maiden's brow, + Emblem of love without its power-- + A sweeter rose art thou. + + The rose, like hues of insect wing, + May perish in an hour; + 'T is but at best a fading thing, + But thou'rt a living flower. + + The roses steeped in morning dews + Would every eye enthrall, + But woman, she alone subdues; + Her beauty conquers all. + + + + +THE MORNING WALK + + The linnet sat upon its nest, + By gales of morning softly prest, + His green wing and his greener breast + Were damp with dews of morning: + The dog-rose near the oaktree grew, + Blush'd swelling 'neath a veil of dew, + A pink's nest to its prickles grew, + Right early in the morning. + + The sunshine glittered gold, the while + A country maiden clomb the stile; + Her straw hat couldn't hide the smile + That blushed like early morning. + The lark, with feathers all wet through, + Looked up above the glassy dew, + And to the neighbouring corn-field flew, + Fanning the gales of morning. + + In every bush was heard a song, + On each grass blade, the whole way long, + A silver shining drop there hung, + The milky dew of morning. + Where stepping-stones stride o'er the brook + The rosy maid I overtook. + How ruddy was her healthy look, + So early in the morning! + + I took her by the well-turned arm, + And led her over field and farm, + And kissed her tender cheek so warm, + A rose in early morning. + The spiders' lacework shone like glass, + Tied up to flowers and cat-tail grass; + The dew-drops bounced before the lass, + Sprinkling the early morning. + + Her dark curls fanned among the gales, + The skylark whistled o'er the vales, + I told her love's delightful tales + Among the dews of morning. + She crop't a flower, shook oft' the dew, + And on her breast the wild rose grew; + She blushed as fair, as lovely, too-- + The living rose of morning. + + + + +TO MISS C..... + + Thy glance is the brightest, + Thy voice is the sweetest, + Thy step is the lightest, + Thy shape the completest: + Thy waist I could span, dear, + Thy neck's like a swan's, dear, + And roses the sweetest + On thy cheeks do appear. + + The music of Spring + Is the voice of my charmer. + When the nightingales sing + She's as sweet; who would harm her? + Where the snowdrop or lily lies + They show her face, but her eyes + Are the dark clouds, yet warmer, + From which the quick lightning flies + O'er the face of my charmer. + + Her faith is the snowdrop, + So pure on its stem; + And love in her bosom + She wears as a gem; + She is young as Spring flowers, + And sweet as May showers, + Swelling the clover buds, and bending the stem, + She's the sweetest of blossoms, she love's favourite gem. + + + + +I PLUCK SUMMER BLOSSOMS + + I pluck Summer blossoms, + And think of rich bosoms-- + The bosoms I've leaned on, and worshipped, and won. + The rich valley lilies, + The wood daffodillies, + Have been found in our rambles when Summer begun. + + Where I plucked thee the bluebell, + 'T was where the night dew fell, + And rested till morn in the cups of the flowers; + I shook the sweet posies, + Bluebells and brere roses, + As we sat in cool shade in Summer's warm hours. + + Bedlam-cowslips and cuckoos, + With freck'd lip and hooked nose, + Growing safe near the hazel of thicket and woods, + And water blobs, ladies' smocks, + Blooming where haycocks + May be found, in the meadows, low places, and floods. + + And cowslips a fair band + For May ball or garland, + That bloom in the meadows as seen by the eye; + And pink ragged robin, + Where the fish they are bobbing + Their heads above water to catch at the fly. + + Wild flowers and wild roses! + 'T is love makes the posies + To paint Summer ballads of meadow and glen. + Floods can't drown it nor turn it, + Even flames cannot burn it; + Let it bloom till we walk the green meadows again. + + + + +THE MARCH NOSEGAY + + The bonny March morning is beaming + In mingled crimson and grey, + White clouds are streaking and creaming + The sky till the noon of the day; + The fir deal looks darker and greener, + And grass hills below look the same; + The air all about is serener, + The birds less familiar and tame. + + Here's two or three flowers for my fair one, + Wood primroses and celandine too; + I oft look about for a rare one + To put in a posy for you. + The birds look so clean and so neat, + Though there's scarcely a leaf on the grove; + The sun shines about me so sweet, + I cannot help thinking of love. + + So where the blue violets are peeping, + By the warm sunny sides of the woods, + And the primrose, 'neath early morn weeping, + Amid a large cluster of buds, + (The morning it was such a rare one, + So dewy, so sunny, and fair,) + I sought the wild flowers for my fair one, + To wreath in her glossy black hair. + + + + +LEFT ALONE + + Left in the world alone, + Where nothing seems my own, + And everything is weariness to me, + 'T is a life without an end, + 'T is a world without a friend, + And everything is sorrowful I see. + + There's the crow upon the stack, + And other birds all black, + While bleak November's frowning wearily; + And the black cloud's dropping rain, + Till the floods hide half the plain, + And everything is dreariness to me. + + The sun shines wan and pale, + Chill blows the northern gale, + And odd leaves shake and quiver on the tree, + While I am left alone, + Chilled as a mossy stone, + And all the world is frowning over me. + + + + +TO MARY + + Mary, I love to sing + About the flowers of Spring, + For they resemble thee. + In the earliest of the year + Thy beauties will appear, + And youthful modesty. + + Here's the daisy's silver rim, + With gold eye never dim, + Spring's earliest flower so fair. + Here the pilewort's golden rays + Set the cow green in a blaze, + Like the sunshine in thy hair. + + Here's forget-me-not so blue; + Is there any flower so true? + Can it speak my happy lot? + When we courted in disguise + This flower I used to prize, + For it said "Forget-me-not." + + Speedwell! And when we meet + In the meadow paths so sweet, + Where the flowers I gave to thee + All grew beneath the sun, + May thy gentle heart be won, + And I be blest with thee. + + + + +THE NIGHTINGALE + + This is the month the nightingale, clod brown, + Is heard among the woodland shady boughs: + This is the time when in the vale, grass-grown, + The maiden hears at eve her lover's vows, + What time the blue mist round the patient cows + Dim rises from the grass and half conceals + Their dappled hides. I hear the nightingale, + That from the little blackthorn spinney steals + To the old hazel hedge that skirts the vale, + And still unseen sings sweet. The ploughman feels + The thrilling music as he goes along, + And imitates and listens; while the fields + Lose all their paths in dusk to lead him wrong, + Still sings the nightingale her soft melodious song. + + + + +THE DYING CHILD + + He could not die when trees were green, + For he loved the time too well. + His little hands, when flowers were seen, + Were held for the bluebell, + As he was carried o'er the green. + + His eye glanced at the white-nosed bee; + He knew those children of the Spring: + When he was well and on the lea + He held one in his hands to sing, + Which filled his heart with glee. + + Infants, the children of the Spring! + How can an infant die + When butterflies are on the wing, + Green grass, and such a sky? + How can they die at Spring? + + He held his hands for daisies white, + And then for violets blue, + And took them all to bed at night + That in the green fields grew, + As childhood's sweet delight. + + And then he shut his little eyes, + And flowers would notice not; + Bird's nests and eggs caused no surprise, + He now no blossoms got: + They met with plaintive sighs. + + When Winter came and blasts did sigh, + And bare were plain and tree, + As he for ease in bed did lie + His soul seemed with the free, + He died so quietly. + + + + +MARY + + The skylark mounts up with the morn, + The valleys are green with the Spring, + The linnets sit in the whitethorn, + To build mossy dwellings and sing; + I see the thornbush getting green, + I see the woods dance in the Spring, + But Mary can never be seen, + Though the all-cheering Spring doth begin. + + I see the grey bark of the oak + Look bright through the underwood now; + To the plough plodding horses they yoke, + But Mary is not with her cow. + The birds almost whistle her name: + Say, where can my Mary be gone? + The Spring brightly shines, and 'tis shame + That she should be absent alone. + + The cowslips are out on the grass, + Increasing like crowds at a fair; + The river runs smoothly as glass, + And the barges float heavily there; + The milkmaid she sings to her cow, + But Mary is not to be seen; + Can Nature such absence allow + At milking on pasture and green? + + When Sabbath-day comes to the green, + The maidens are there in their best, + But Mary is not to be seen, + Though I walk till the sun's in the west. + I fancy still each wood and plain, + Where I and my Mary have strayed, + When I was a young country swain, + And she was the happiest maid. + + But woods they are all lonely now, + And the wild flowers blow all unseen; + The birds sing alone on the bough, + Where Mary and I once have been. + But for months she now keeps away. + And I am a sad lonely hind; + Trees tell me so day after day, + As slowly they wave in the wind. + + Birds tell me, while swaying the bough, + That I am all threadbare and old; + The very sun looks on me now + As one dead, forgotten, and cold. + Once I'd a place where I could rest. + And love, for then I was free; + That place was my Mary's dear breast + And hope was still left unto me. + + The Spring comes brighter day by day, + And brighter flowers appear, + And though she long has kept away + Her name is ever dear. + Then leave me still the meadow flowers, + Where daffies blaze and shine; + Give but the Spring's young hawthorn bower, + For then sweet Mary's mine. + + + + +CLOCK-A-CLAY + + In the cowslip pips I lie, + Hidden from the buzzing fly, + While green grass beneath me lies, + Pearled with dew like fishes' eyes, + Here I lie, a clock-a-clay. + Waiting for the time o' day. + + While the forest quakes surprise, + And the wild wind sobs and sighs, + My home rocks as like to fall, + On its pillar green and tall; + When the pattering rain drives by + Clock-a-clay keeps warm and dry. + + Day by day and night by night, + All the week I hide from sight; + In the cowslip pips I lie, + In the rain still warm and dry; + Day and night, and night and day, + Red, black-spotted clock-a-clay. + + My home shakes in wind and showers, + Pale green pillar topped with flowers, + Bending at the wild wind's breath, + Till I touch the grass beneath; + Here I live, lone clock-a-clay, + Watching for the time of day. + + + + +SPRING + + Come, gentle Spring, and show thy varied greens + In woods, and fields, and meadows, by clear brooks; + Come, gentle Spring, and bring thy sweetest scenes, + Where peace, with solitude, the loveliest looks; + Where the blue unclouded sky + Spreads the sweetest canopy, + And Study wiser grows without her books. + + Come hither, gentle May, and with thee bring + Flowers of all colours, and the wild briar rose; + Come in wind-floating drapery, and bring + Fragrance and bloom, that Nature's love bestows-- + Meadow pinks and columbines, + Kecksies white and eglantines, + And music of the bee that seeks the rose. + + Come, gentle Spring, and bring thy choicest looks, + Thy bosom graced with flowers, thy face with smiles; + Come, gentle Spring, and trace thy wandering brooks, + Through meadow gates, o'er footpath crooked stiles; + Come in thy proud and best array, + April dews and flowers of May, + And singing birds that come where heaven smiles. + + + + +EVENING + + In the meadow's silk grasses we see the black snail, + Creeping out at the close of the eve, sipping dew, + While even's one star glitters over the vale, + Like a lamp hung outside of that temple of blue. + I walk with my true love adown the green vale, + The light feathered grasses keep tapping her shoe; + In the whitethorn the nightingale sings her sweet tale, + And the blades of the grasses are sprinkled with dew. + + If she stumbles I catch her and cling to her neck, + As the meadow-sweet kisses the blush of the rose: + Her whisper none hears, and the kisses I take + The mild voice of even will never disclose. + Her hair hung in ringlets adown her sweet cheek, + That blushed like the rose in the hedge hung with dew; + Her whisper was fragrance, her face was so meek-- + The dove was the type on't that from the bush flew. + + + + +THE SWALLOW + + Swift goes the sooty swallow o'er the heath, + Swifter than skims the cloud-rack of the skies; + As swiftly flies its shadow underneath, + And on his wing the twittering sunbeam lies, + As bright as water glitters in the eyes + Of those it passes; 'tis a pretty thing, + The ornament of meadows and clear skies: + With dingy breast and narrow pointed wing, + Its daily twittering is a song to Spring. + + + + +JOCKEY AND JENNY + + "Will Jockey come to-day, mither? + Will Jockey come to-day? + He's taen sic likings to my brither + He's sure to come the day." + "Haud yer tongue, lass, mind your rockie; + But th'other day ye wore a pockie. + What can ye mean to think o' Jockey? + Ye've bin content the season long, + Ye'd best keep to your harmless song." + + "Ye'll soon see falling tears, mither, + If love's a sin in youth; + He leuks to me, and talks wi' brither, + But I know the secret truth. + He's courted me the year, mither; + Judge not the matter queer, mither; + Ye're a' the while as dear, mither, + As ye've been the Summer long. + I cannot sing my song. + + I'll hear nae farder preaching, mither; + I'se bin a child ower lang; + He led me frae the teaching, mither, + Ann wherefore did he wrang? + I ken he often tauks wi' brither; + I neither look at ane or 'tither; + You ken as well as I, mither, + There's nae love in my song, + Though I've sang the Summer long." + + "Nae, dinna be sae saucy, lassie, + I may be kenned ye ill. + If love has taen the hold, lassie, + There's nae cure i' the pill." + "Nae, I dinna want a pill, mither; + He leuks at me and tauks to ither; + And twice we've bin at kirk thegither. + I'm 's well now as a' Summer long, + But somehew cauna sing a song. + + He comes and talks to brither, mither, + But leuks his thoughts at me; + He always says gude neet to brither, + And looks gude neet to me." + "Lassie, ye seldom vexed yer mither; + Ye're ower too fair a flower to wither; + So be ye are to come thegither, + I'll be nae damp to yer new claes; + Cheer up and sing o'er 'Loggan braes.'" + + Jockey comes o' Sabbath days, + His face is not a face o'er brassy; + Her mither sits to praise the claes; + Holds him her box; to win the lassie + He taks a pinch, and greets wi' granny, + And helps his chair up nearer Jenny, + And vows he loves her muir than any. + She thinks her mither seldom wrong, + And "Loggan braes" is her daily song. + + + + +THE FACE I LOVE SO DEARLY + + Sweet is the violet, th' scented pea, + Haunted by red-legged, sable bee, + But sweeter far than all to me + Is she I love so dearly; + Than perfumed pea and sable bee, + The face I love so dearly. + + Sweeter than hedgerow violets blue, + Than apple blossoms' streaky hue, + Or black-eyed bean-flower blebbed with dew + Is she I love so dearly; + Than apple flowers or violets blue + Is she I love so dearly. + + Than woodbine upon branches thin, + The clover flower, all sweets within, + Which pensive bees do gather in, + Three times as sweet, or nearly, + Is the cheek, the eye, the lip, the chin + Of her I love so dearly. + + + + +THE BEANFIELD + + A beanfield full in blossom smells as sweet + As Araby, or groves of orange flowers; + Black-eyed and white, and feathered to one's feet, + How sweet they smell in morning's dewy hours! + When seething night is left upon the flowers, + And when morn's sun shines brightly o'er the field, + The bean bloom glitters in the gems of showers, + And sweet the fragrance which the union yields + To battered footpaths crossing o'er the fields. + + + + +WHERE SHE TOLD HER LOVE + + I saw her crop a rose + Right early in the day, + And I went to kiss the place + Where she broke the rose away; + And I saw the patten rings + Where she o'er the stile had gone, + And I love all other things + Her bright eyes look upon. + If she looks upon the hedge or up the leafing tree, + That whitethorn or the brown oak are made dearer things to me. + + I have a pleasant hill + Which I sit upon for hours, + Where she crop't some sprigs of thyme + And other little flowers; + And she muttered as she did it + As does beauty in a dream, + And I loved her when she hid it + On her breast, so like to cream, + Near the brown mole on her neck that to me a diamond shone; + Then my eye was like to fire, and my heart was like to stone. + + There is a small green place + Where cowslips early curled, + Which on Sabbath day I traced, + The dearest in the world. + A little oak spreads o'er it, + And throws a shadow round, + A green sward close before it, + The greenest ever found: + There is not a woodland nigh nor is there a green grove, + Yet stood the fair maid nigh me and told me all her love. + + + + +MILKING O' THE KYE + + Young Jenny wakens at the dawn, + Fresh as carnations newly blown, + And o'er the pasture every morn + Goes milking o' the kye. + She sings her songs of happy glee, + While round her swirls the humble bee; + The butterfly, from tree to tree, + Goes gaily flirting by. + + Young Jenny was a bonny thing + As ever wakened in the Spring, + And blythe she to herself could sing + At milking o' the kye. + She loved to hear the old crows croak + Upon the ash tree and the oak, + And noisy pies that almost spoke + At milking o' the kye. + + She crop't the wild thyme every night, + Scenting so sweet the dewy light, + And hid it in her breast so white + At milking o' the kye. + I met and clasped her in my arms, + The finest flower on twenty farms; + Her snow-white breast my fancy warms + At milking o' the kye. + + + + +A LOVER'S VOWS + + Scenes of love and days of pleasure, + I must leave them all, lassie. + Scenes of love and hours of leisure, + All are gone for aye, lassie. + No more thy velvet-bordered dress + My fond and longing een shall bless, + Thou lily in the wilderness; + And who shall love thee then, lassie? + Long I've watched thy look so tender, + Often clasped thy waist so slender: + Heaven, in thine own love defend her, + God protect my own lassie. + + By all the faith I've shown afore thee, + I'll swear by more than that, lassie: + By heaven and earth I'll still adore thee, + Though we should part for aye, lassie! + By thy infant years so loving, + By thy woman's love so moving, + That white breast thy goodness proving, + I'm thine for aye, through all, lassie! + By the sun that shines for ever, + By love's light and its own Giver, + Who loveth truth and leaveth never, + I'm thine for aye, through all, lassie! + + + + +THE FALL OF THE YEAR + + The Autumn's come again, + And the clouds descend in rain, + And the leaves are fast falling in the wood; + The Summer's voice is still, + Save the clacking of the mill + And the lowly-muttered thunder of the flood. + + There's nothing in the mead + But the river's muddy speed, + And the willow leaves all littered by its side. + Sweet voices are all still + In the vale and on the hill, + And the Summer's blooms are withered in their pride. + + Fled is the cuckoo's note + To countries far remote, + And the nightingale is vanished from the woods; + If you search the lordship round + There is not a blossom found, + And where the hay-cock scented is the flood. + + My true love's fled away + Since we walked 'mid cocks of hay, + On the Sabbath in the Summer of the year; + And she's nowhere to be seen + On the meadow or the green, + But she's coming when the happy Spring is near. + + When the birds begin to sing, + And the flowers begin to spring, + And the cowslips in the meadows reappear, + When the woodland oaks are seen + In their monarchy of green, + Then Mary and love's pleasures will be here. + + + + +AUTUMN + + I love the fitful gust that shakes + The casement all the day, + And from the glossy elm tree takes + The faded leaves away, + Twirling them by the window pane + With thousand others down the lane. + + I love to see the shaking twig + Dance till the shut of eve, + The sparrow on the cottage rig, + Whose chirp would make believe + That Spring was just now flirting by, + In Summer's lap with flowers to lie. + + I love to see the cottage smoke + Curl upwards through the trees, + The pigeons nestled round the cote + On November days like these; + The cock upon the dunghill crowing, + The mill sails on the heath a-going. + + The feather from the raven's breast + Falls on the stubble lea, + The acorns near the old crow's nest + Drop pattering down the tree; + The grunting pigs, that wait for all, + Scramble and hurry where they fall. + + + + +EARLY LOVE + + The Spring of life is o'er with me, + And love and all gone by; + Like broken bough upon yon tree, + I'm left to fade and die. + Stern ruin seized my home and me, + And desolate's my cot: + Ruins of halls, the blasted tree, + Are emblems of my lot. + + I lived and loved, I woo'd and won, + Her love was all to me, + But blight fell o'er that youthful one, + And like a blasted tree + I withered, till I all forgot + But Mary's smile on me; + She never lived where love was not, + And I from bonds was free. + + The Spring it clothed the fields with pride, + When first we met together; + And then unknown to all beside + We loved in sunny weather; + We met where oaks grew overhead, + And whitethorns hung with may; + Wild thyme beneath her feet was spread, + And cows in quiet lay. + + I thought her face was sweeter far + Than aught I'd seen before-- + As simple as the cowslips are + Upon the rushy moor: + She seemed the muse of that sweet spot, + The lady of the plain, + And all was dull where she was not, + Till we met there again. + + + + +EVENING + + 'T is evening: the black snail has got on his track, + And gone to its nest is the wren, + And the packman snail, too, with his home on his back, + Clings to the bowed bents like a wen. + + The shepherd has made a rude mark with his foot + Where his shadow reached when he first came, + And it just touched the tree where his secret love cut + Two letters that stand for love's name. + + The evening comes in with the wishes of love, + And the shepherd he looks on the flowers, + And thinks who would praise the soft song of the dove, + And meet joy in these dew-falling hours. + + For Nature is love, and finds haunts for true love, + Where nothing can hear or intrude; + It hides from the eagle and joins with the dove, + In beautiful green solitude. + + + + +A VALENTINE + + Here's a valentine nosegay for Mary, + Some of Spring's earliest flowers; + The ivy is green by the dairy, + And so are these laurels of ours. + Though the snow fell so deep and the winter was dreary, + The laurels are green and the sparrows are cheery. + + The snowdrops in bunches grow under the rose, + And aconites under the lilac, like fairies; + The best in the bunches for Mary I chose, + Their looks are as sweet and as simple as Mary's. + The one will make Spring in my verses so bare, + The other set off as a braid thy dark hair. + + Pale primroses, too, at the old parlour end, + Have bloomed all the winter 'midst snows cold and dreary, + Where the lavender-cotton kept off the cold wind, + Now to shine in my valentine nosegay for Mary; + And appear in my verses all Summer, and be + A memento of fondness and friendship for thee. + + Here's the crocus half opened, that spreads into gold, + Like branches of sunbeams left there by a fairy: + I place them as such in these verses so cold, + But they'll bloom twice as bright in the presence of Mary, + These garden flowers crop't, I will go to the field, + And see what the valley and pasture land yield. + + Here peeps the pale primrose from the skirts of the wild wood, + And violet blue 'neath the thorn on the green; + The wild flowers we plucked in the days of our childhood, + On the very same spot, as no changes have been-- + In the very same place where the sun kissed the leaves, + And the woodbine its branches of thorns interweaves. + + And here in the pasture, all swarming with rushes, + Is a cowslip as blooming and forward as Spring; + And the pilewort like sunshine grows under the bushes, + While the chaffinch there sitting is trying to sing; + And the daisies are coming, called "stars of the earth," + To bring to the schoolboy his Springtime of mirth. + + Here, then, is the nosegay: how simple it shines! + It speaks without words to the ear and the eye; + The flowers of the Spring are the best valentines; + They are young, fair, and simple, and pleasingly shy. + That you may remain so and your love never vary, + I send you these flowers as a valentine, Mary. + + + + +TO LIBERTY + + O spirit of the wind and sky, + Where doth thy harp neglected lie? + Is there no heart thy bard to be, + To wake that soul of melody? + Is liberty herself a slave? + No! God forbid it! On, ye brave! + + I've loved thee as the common air, + And paid thee worship everywhere: + In every soil beneath the sun + Thy simple song my heart has won. + And art thou silent? Still a slave? + And thy sons living? On, ye brave! + + Gather on mountain and on plain! + Make gossamer the iron chain! + Make prison walls as paper screen, + That tyrant maskers may be seen! + Let earth as well as heaven be free! + So, on, ye brave, for liberty! + + I've loved thy being from a boy: + The Highland hills were once my joy: + Then morning mists did round them lie, + Like sunshine in the happiest sky. + The hills and valley seemed my own, + When Scottish land was freedom's throne + + And Scottish land is freedom's still: + Her beacon fires, on every hill, + Have told, in characters of flame, + Her ancient birthright to her fame. + A thousand hills will speak again, + In fire, that language ever plain + + To sychophants and fawning knaves, + That Scotland ne'er was made for slaves! + Each fruitful vale, each mountain throne, + Is ruled by Nature's laws alone; + And nought but falsehood's poisoned breath + Will urge the claymore from its sheath. + + O spirit of the wind and sky, + Where doth thy harp neglected lie? + Is there no harp thy bard to be, + To wake that soul of melody? + Is liberty herself a slave? + No! God forbid it! On, ye brave! + + + + +APPROACH OF WINTER + + The Autumn day now fades away, + The fields are wet and dreary; + The rude storm takes the flowers of May, + And Nature seemeth weary; + The partridge coveys, shunning fate, + Hide in the bleaching stubble, + And many a bird, without its mate, + Mourns o'er its lonely trouble. + + On hawthorns shine the crimson haw, + Where Spring brought may-day blossoms: + Decay is Nature's cheerless law-- + Life's Winter in our bosoms. + The fields are brown and naked all, + The hedges still are green, + But storms shall come at Autumn's fall, + And not a leaf be seen. + + Yet happy love, that warms the heart + Through darkest storms severe, + Keeps many a tender flower to start + When Spring shall re-appear. + Affection's hope shall roses meet, + Like those of Summer bloom, + And joys and flowers shall be as sweet + In seasons yet to come. + + + + +MARY DOVE + + Sweet Summer, breathe your softest gales + To charm my lover's ear: + Ye zephyrs, tell your choicest tales + Where'er she shall appear; + And gently wave the meadow grass + Where soft she sets her feet, + For my love is a country lass, + And bonny as she's sweet. + + The hedges only seem to mourn, + The willow boughs to sigh, + Though sunshine o'er the meads sojourn, + To cheer me where I lie: + The blackbird in the hedgerow thorn + Sings loud his Summer lay; + He seems to sing, both eve and morn, + "She wanders here to-day." + + The skylark in the summer cloud + One cheering anthem sings, + And Mary often wanders out + To watch his trembling wings. + + * * * * * + + I'll wander down the river way, + And wild flower posies make, + For Nature whispers all the day + She can't her promise break. + The meads already wear a smile, + The river runs more bright, + For down the path and o'er the stile + The maiden comes in sight. + + The scene begins to look divine; + We'll by the river walk. + Her arm already seems in mine, + And fancy hears her talk. + A vision, this, of early love: + The meadow, river, rill, + Scenes where I walked with Mary Dove, + Are in my memory still. + + + + +SPRING'S NOSEGAY + + The prim daisy's golden eye + On the fallow land doth lie, + Though the Spring is just begun: + Pewits watch it all the day, + And the skylark's nest of hay + Is there by its dried leaves in the sun. + + There the pilewort, all in gold, + 'Neath the ridge of finest mould, + Blooms to cheer the ploughman's eye: + There the mouse his hole hath made, + And 'neath the golden shade + Hides secure when the hawk is prowling by. + + Here's the speedwell's sapphire blue: + Was there anything more true + To the vernal season still? + Here it decks the bank alone, + Where the milkmaid throws a stone + At noon, to cross the rapid, flooded rill. + + Here the cowslip, chill with cold, + On the rushy bed behold, + It looks for sunshine all the day. + Here the honey bee will come, + For he has no sweets at home; + Then quake his weary wing and fly away. + + And here are nameless flowers, + Culled in cold and rawky hours + For my Mary's happy home. + They grew in murky blea, + Rush fields and naked lea, + But suns will shine and pleasing Spring will come. + + + + +THE LOST ONE + + I seek her in the shady grove, + And by the silent stream; + I seek her where my fancies rove, + In many a happy dream; + I seek her where I find her not, + In Spring and Summer weather: + My thoughts paint many a happy spot, + But we ne'er meet together. + + The trees and bushes speak my choice, + And in the Summer shower + I often hear her pleasant voice, + In many a silent hour: + I see her in the Summer brook, + In blossoms sweet and fair; + In every pleasant place I look + My fancy paints her there. + + The wind blows through the forest trees, + And cheers the pleasant day; + There her sweet voice is sure to be + To lull my cares away. + The very hedges find a voice, + So does the gurgling rill; + But still the object of my choice + Is lost and absent still. + + + + +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 + 'T would 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. + + + + +THE SKYLARK + + Although I'm in prison + Thy song is uprisen, + Thou'rt singing away to the feathery cloud, + In the blueness of morn, + Over fields of green corn, + With a song sweet and trilling, and rural and loud. + + When the day is serenest, + When the corn is the greenest, + Thy bosom mounts up and floats in the light, + And sings in the sun, + Like a vision begun + Of pleasure, of love, and of lonely delight. + + The daisies they whiten + Plains the sunbeams now brighten, + And warm thy snug nest where thy russet eggs lie, + From whence thou'rt now springing, + And the air is now ringing, + To show that the minstrel of Spring is on high. + + The cornflower is blooming, + The cowslip is coming, + And many new buds on the silken grass lie: + On the earth's shelt'ring breast + Thou hast left thy brown nest, + And art towering above it, a speck in the sky. + + Thou'rt the herald of sunshine, + And the soft dewy moonshine + Gilds sweetly the sleep of thy brown speckled breast: + Thou'rt the bard of the Spring, + On thy brown russet wing, + And of each grassy close thou'rt the poet and guest. + + There's the violet confiding, + In the mossy wood riding, + And primrose beneath the old thorn in the glen, + And the daisies that bed + In the sheltered homestead-- + Old friends with old faces, I see them again. + + And thou, feathered poet, + I see thee, and know it-- + Thou'rt one of the minstrels that cheered me last Spring: + With Nature thou'rt blest, + And green grass round thy nest + Will keep thee still happy to mount up and sing. + + + + +POETS LOVE NATURE--A FRAGMENT + + Poets love Nature, and themselves are love. + Though scorn of fools, and mock of idle pride. + The vile in nature worthless deeds approve, + They court the vile and spurn all good beside. + Poets love Nature; like the calm of Heaven, + Like Heaven's own love, her gifts spread far and wide: + In all her works there are no signs of leaven + * * * * + + Her flowers * * * * + They are her very Scriptures upon earth, + And teach us simple mirth where'er we go. + Even in prison they can solace me, + For where they bloom God is, and I am free. + + + + +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; + 'T was pleasure e'en to weep; + 'T was 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? + + + + +MY SCHOOLBOY DAYS + + The Spring is come forth, but no Spring is for me + Like the Spring of my boyhood on woodland and lea, + When flowers brought me heaven and knew me again, + In the joy of their blooming o'er mountain and plain. + My thoughts are confined and imprisoned: O when + Will freedom find me my own valleys again? + + The wind breathes so sweet, and the day is so calm; + In the woods and the thicket the flowers look so warm; + And the grass is so green, so delicious and sweet; + O when shall my manhood my youth's valleys meet-- + The scenes where my children are laughing at play-- + The scenes that from memory are fading away? + + The primrose looks happy in every field; + In strange woods the violets their odours will yield, + And flowers in the sunshine, all brightly arrayed, + Will bloom just as fresh and as sweet in the shade, + But the wild flowers that bring me most joy and content + Are the blossoms that glow where my childhood was spent. + + The trees are all naked, the bushes are bare, + And the fields are as brown as if Winter was there; + But the violets are there by the dykes and the dell, + Where I played "hen and chickens" and heard the church bell, + Which called me to prayer-book and sermons in vain: + O when shall I see my own valleys again? + + The churches look bright as the sun at noon-day; + There the meadows look green ere the winter's away; + There the pooty still lies for the schoolboy to find, + And a thought often brings these sweet places to mind; + Where trees waved and wind moaned; no music so well: + There nought sounded harsh but the school-calling bell. + + There are spots where I played, there are spots where I loved, + There are scenes where the tales of my choice where approved, + As green as at first, and their memory will be + The dearest of life's recollections to me. + The objects seen there, in the care of my heart, + Are as fair as at first, and will never depart. + + Though no names are mentioned to sanction my themes, + Their hearts beat with mine, and make real my dreams; + Their memories with mine their diurnal course run, + True as night to the stars and as day to the sun; + And as they are now so their memories will be, + While sense, truth, and reason remain here with me. + + + + +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: + 'T is happiness of healthy dreams: + Eve's dews may weep, + But love delightful seems. + + 'T is seen in flowers, + And in the morning's pearly dew; + In earth's green hours, + And in the heaven's eternal blue. + + 'T is heard in Spring, + When light and sunbeams, warm and kind, + On angel's wing + 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 red-breast from the sweetbriar bush + Drop't down to pick the worm; + On the horse-chestnut 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. + + + + +MARY APPLEBY + + I look upon the hedgerow flower, + I gaze upon the hedgerow tree, + I walk alone the silent hour, + And think of Mary Appleby. + I see her in the brimming streams, + I see her in the gloaming hour, + I hear her in my Summer dreams + Of singing bird and blooming flower. + + For Mary is the dearest bird, + And Mary is the sweetest flower, + That in Spring bush was ever heard-- + That ever bloomed on bank or bower. + O bonny Mary Appleby! + The sun did never sweeter shine + Than when in youth I courted thee, + And, dreaming, fancied you'd be mine. + + The lark above the meadow sings, + Wood pigeons coo in ivied trees, + The butterflies, on painted wings, + Dance daily with the meadow bees. + All Nature is in happy mood, + The sueing breeze is blowing free. + And o'er the fields, and by the wood, + I think of Mary Appleby. + + O bonny Mary Appleby; + My once dear Mary Appleby! + A crown of gold thy own should be, + My handsome Mary Appleby! + Thy face is like the Summer rose, + Its maiden bloom is all divine, + And more than all the world bestows + I'd give had Mary e'er been mine. + + + + +AMONG THE GREEN BUSHES + + Among the green bushes the songs of the thrushes + Are answering each other in music and glee, + While the magpies and rooks, in woods, hedges, near brooks, + Mount their Spring dwellings on every high tree. + There meet me at eve, love, we'll on grassy banks lean love, + And crop a white branch from the scented may tree, + Where the silver brook wimples and the rosy cheek dimples, + Sweet will the time of that courting hour be. + + We'll notice wild flowers, love, that grow by thorn bowers, love, + Though sinful to crop them now beaded with dew; + The violet is thine, love, the primrose is mine, love, + To Spring and each other so blooming and true. + With dewdrops all beaded, the feather grass seeded, + The cloud mountains turn to dark woods in the sky; + The daisy bud closes, while sleep the hedge roses; + There's nothing seems wakeful but you love and I. + + Larks sleep in the rushes, linnets perch on the bushes, + While mag's on her nest with her tail peeping out; + The moon it reveals her, yet she thinks night conceals her, + Though birdnesting boys are not roving about. + The night winds won't wrong her, nor aught that belong her, + For night is the nurse of all Nature in sleep; + The moon, love, is keeping a watch o'er the sleeping, + And dews for real pleasure do nothing but weep. + + Among the green bushes we'll sit with the thrushes, + And blackbirds and linnets, an hour or two long, + That are up at the dawning, by times in the morning, + To cheer thee when milking with music and song. + Then come at the eve, love, and where the banks lean, love, + By the brook that flows on in its dribbles of song; + While the moon looks so pale, love, and the trees look so hale, + love, + I will tell thee a tale, love, an hour or two long. + + + + +TO JANE + + The lark's in the sky, love, + The flowers on the lea, + The whitethorn's in bloom, love, + To please thee and me; + 'Neath its shade we can rest, love, + And sit on the hill, + And as last we met, love, + Enjoy the Spring still. + + The Spring is for lovers, + The Spring is for joy: + O'er the moor, where the plovers + Whirr, startled, and cry, + We'll seek the white hawthorn, love, + And sit on the hill; + In the sweet sunny morn, love, + We'll be lovers still; + + Where the partridge is craking + From morning to e'en, + In the wheat lands awaking, + The sprouts young and green, + Where the brook dribbles past, love, + Down the willowy glen, + And as we met last, love, + Be lovers again. + + The lark's in the grass, love, + A-building her nest; + And the brook's running fast, love, + 'Neath the carrion-crow's nest: + There the wild woodbines twine, love; + And, till the day's gone, + Sun's set, and stars shine, love, + I'll call thee my own. + + + + +THE OLD YEAR + + The Old Year's gone away + To nothingness and night: + We cannot find him all the day, + Nor hear him in the night: + He left no footstep, mark, or place, + In either shade or sun: + The last year he'd a neighbour's face, + In this he's known by none. + + All nothing everywhere: + Mists we on mornings see + Have more of substance when they're here + And more of form than he. + He was a friend by every fire, + In every cot and hall-- + A guest to every heart's desire, + And now he's nought at all. + + Old papers thrown away, + Old garments cast aside, + The talk of yesterday, + Are things identified; + But time once torn away + No voices can recall: + The eve of New Year's Day + Left the Old Year lost to all. + + + + +MISCELLANEOUS POEMS + + + + +MAYING; OR, A LOVE OF FLOWERS + + Upon a day, a merry day, + When summer in her best, + Like Sunday belles, prepares for play, + And joins each merry guest, + A maid, as wild as is a bird + That never knew a cage, + Went out her parents' kine to herd, + And Jocky, as her page, + + Must needs go join her merry toils; + A silly shepherd he, + And little thought the aching broils + That in his heart would be; + For he as yet knew nought of love, + And nought of love knew she; + Yet without learning love can move + The wildest to agree. + + The wind, enamoured of the maid, + Around her drapery swims, + And moulds in luscious masquerade + Her lovely shape and limbs. + Smith's "Venus stealing Cupid's bow" + In marble hides as fine; + But hers were life and soul, whose glow + Makes meaner things divine. + + In sooth she was a lovely toy-- + A worship-moving thing + As ever brought the season joy, + Or beautified the Spring; + So sweet a thing no heart might hurt, + Gay as a butterfly; + Tho' Cupid chased 'twas half in sport-- + He meant not to destroy. + + When speaking, words with breathing grace + Her sweet lips seeming wooed, + Pausing to leave so sweet a place + Ere they could part for good-- + Those lips that pouted from her face, + As the wild rose bursts the bud + Which June, so eager to embrace, + Tempts from beneath its hood. + + Her eyes, like suns, did seem to light + The beauties of her face, + Suffusing all her forehead white + And cheeks of rosy grace, + Her bosom swelled to pillows large, + Till her so taper waist + Scarce able seemed to bear the charge + Of each lawn-bursting breast. + + A very flower! how she did shine. + Her beauty all displaying! + In truth this modern Proserpine + Might set the angels maying, + As, like a fairy mid the flowers, + She flew to this, now that; + And some she braided in her hair-- + Some wreathed within her hat. + + Then oft she skipt, in bowers to hide, + By Cupid led, I ween, + Putting her bosom's lawn aside, + To place some thyme at ween. + The shepherd saw her skin so white-- + Two twin suns newly risen: + Tho' love had chained him there till night, + Who would have shunned the prison? + + Then off again she skipt, and flew + With foot so light and little + That Cinderella's fancy shoe + Had fit her to a tittle. + The shepherd's heart, like playing coal, + Beat as 't would leave the socket: + He sighed, but thought it, silly fool, + The watch within his pocket. + + But bold in love grow silly sheep, + And so right bold grew he; + He ran; she fled; and at bo-peep + She met him round a tree. + A thorn, enamoured like the swain. + Caught at her lily arm. + And then good faith, to ease her pain, + Love had a double charm. + + She sighed; he wished it well, I wis; + The place was sadly swollen; + And then he took a willing kiss, + And made believe 't was stolen; + Then made another make-believe, + Till thefts grew past concealing, + For when love once begins to thieve + There grows no end to stealing. + + They played and toyed till down the skies + The sun had taken flight, + And still a sun was in her eyes + To keep away the night; + And there he talked of love so well, + Or else he talked so ill, + That soon the priest was sought to tell + The story better still. + + + + +TWO SONNETS TO MARY + +I + + I met thee like the morning, though more fair, + And hopes 'gan travel for a glorious day; + And though night met them ere they were aware, + Leading the joyous pilgrims all astray, + Yet know I not, though they did miss their way, + That joyed so much to meet thee, if they are + To blame or bless the fate that bade such be. + Thou seem'dst an angel when I met thee first, + Nor has aught made thee otherwise to me: + Possession has not cloyed my love, nor curst + Fancy's wild visions with reality. + Thou art an angel still; and Hope, awoke + From the fond spell that early raptures nurst, + Still feels a joy to think that spell ne'er broke. + +II + + The flower that's gathered beauty soon forsakes; + The bliss grows feeble as we gain the prize; + Love dreams of joy, and in possession wakes, + Scarce time enough to hail it ere it dies: + Life intermingles, with its cares and sighs, + And rapture's dreams are ended. Heavenly flower! + It is not so with thee! Still fancy's power + Throws rainbow halos round thee, and thine eyes, + That once did steal their sapphire blue from even, + Are beaming on; thy cheeks' bewitching dye, + Where partial roses all their blooms had given, + Still in fond memory with the rose can vie; + And thy sweet bosom, which to view was heaven, + No lily yet a fairer hue supplies. + + + + +THE VANITIES OF LIFE + +[The reader has been made acquainted with the circumstances under +which this poem was written. It was included by Mr. J. H. Dixon in +his "Ballads and Songs of the Peasantry of England" (edited by Robert +Bell), with the following prefatory note:-- + +"The poem was, probably, as Clare supposes, written about the +commencement of the 18th century, and the unknown author appears to +have been deeply imbued with the spirit of the popular devotional +writers of the preceding century, as Herbert, Quarles, &c., but seems +to have modelled his smoother and more elegant versification after +that of the poetic school of his own times." + +Montgomery's criticism on publishing it in the "Sheffield Iris" was +as follows:-- + +"Long as the poem appears to the eye, it will abundantly repay the +trouble of perusal, being full of condensed and admirable thought, as +well as diversified with exuberant imagery, and embellished with +peculiar felicity of language. The moral points in the closing +couplets of the stanzas are often powerfully enforced."] + +"Vanity of vanities, all is vanity."--Solomon. + + 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 the mind is bent: + See if this chaff of life + Is worth the trouble spent. + + Is pomp thy heart's desire? + Is power thy climbing aim? + Is love thy folly's fire? + Is wealth thy restless game? + Pomp, power, love, wealth, and all + Time's touchstone shall destroy, + And, like base coin, prove all + Vain substitutes for joy. + + Dost think that pride exalts + Thyself in other's eyes, + And hides thy folly's faults, + Which reason will despise? + Dost strut, and turn, and stride, + Like a walking weathercock? + The shadow by thy side + Will be thy ape, and mock. + + 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 the display? + --The county 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, + Like toys of golden glow + Oft 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 her 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, + Think what thy God would do, + And know thyself a fool, + Nor, tyrant-like, pursue + Where He alone can rule. + + 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: + Of this world weigh the gain, + Insurance safe is thine. + + Dost think life's peace secure + In houses and in land? + Go, read the fairy lure, + And twist a cord in 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 slipping 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 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: + Know such is beauty's reign. + + Look on the brightest eye, + Nor teach it to be proud; + View next the clearest sky, + And thou shalt find a cloud; + Nor call each face ye meet + An angel's, 'cause it's fair, + But look beneath your feet, + And think of what ye are. + + Who thinks that love doth live + In beauty's tempting show, + Shall find his hopes ungive, + 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 pleasures grasp? + Judge not they'll bring thee joy: + Their flowers but hide the asp, + Whose poison will 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 thee wrong, + Think wrong alone is 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 e'er they quit the cost: + And if they still possess + Thy mind, as worthy things, + Pick 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, + But thou canst easy try; + The lesson how to live + Is but to learn to die. + + + + +MARCH + +[From HONE'S "Year Book"] + + The insect world, now sunbeams higher climb, + Oft dream of Spring, and wake before their time: + Bees stroke their little legs across their wings, + And venture short flights where the snow-drop hings + Its silver bell, and winter aconite + Its buttercup-like flowers that shut at night, + With green leaf furling round its cup of gold, + Like tender maiden muffled from the cold: + They sip and find their honey-dreams are vain, + Then feebly hasten to their hives again. + The butterflies, by eager hopes undone, + Glad as a child come out to greet the sun, + Beneath the shadows of a sunny shower + Are lost, nor see to-morrow's April flower. + + + + +THE OLD MAN'S LAMENT + + Youth has no fear of ill, by no cloudy days annoyed, + But the old man's all hath fled, and his hopes have met their doom: + The bud hath burst to flower, and the flower been long destroyed, + The root also is withered; I no more can look for bloom. + So I have said my say, and I have had my day, + And sorrow, like a young storm, creeps dark upon my brow; + Hopes, like to summer clouds, have all blown far away, + And the world's sunny side is turned over with me now, + And I am left a lame bird upon a withered bough. + + I look upon the past: 't is as black as winter days, + But the worst is not yet over; there are blacker, days to come. + O, I would I had but known of the wide world's many ways, + But youth is ever blind, so I e'en must meet my doom. + Joy once gave brightest forecasts of prospects that are past, + But now, like a looking glass that's turned to the wall, + Life is nothing but a blank, and the sunny shining past + Is overcast in glooms that my every hope enthrall, + While troubles daily thicken in the wind ere they fall. + + Life smiled upon me once, as the sun upon the rose; + My heart, so free and open, guessed in every face a friend: + Though the sweetest flower must fade, and the sweetest season + close, + Yet I never gave it thought that my happiness would end, + Till the warmest-seeming friends grew the coldest at the close, + As the sun from lonely night hides its haughty shining face, + Yet I could not think them gone, for they turned not open foes, + While memory fondly mused, former favours to retrace, + So I turned, but only found that my shadow kept its place. + + And this is nought but common life, which everybody finds + As well as I, or more's the luck of those that better speed. + I'll mete my lot to bear with the lot of kindred minds, + And grudge not those who say they for sorrow have no need. + Why should I, when I know that it will not aid a nay? + For Summer is the season; even then the little fly + Finds friends enow, indeed, both for leisure and for play; + But on the winter window it must crawl alone to die: + Such is life, and such am I--a wounded, stricken fly. + + + + +SPRING FLOWERS + + Bowing adorers of the gale, + Ye cowslips delicately pale, + Upraise your loaded stems; + Unfold your cups in splendour; speak! + Who decked you with that ruddy streak + And gilt your golden gems? + + Violets, sweet tenants of the shade, + In purple's richest pride arrayed, + Your errand here fulfil; + Go, bid the artist's simple stain + Your lustre imitate--in vain-- + And match your Maker's skill. + + Daisies, ye flowers of lowly birth, + Embroiderers of the carpet earth, + That stud the velvet sod, + Open to Spring's refreshing air, + In sweetest smiling bloom declare + Your Maker and your God. + + + + +POEM ON DEATH + +[This poem, like that entitled "The Vanities of Life," is an +imitation. In his Diary, Clare says-- + +"Wednesday, July 27, 1825. + +Received the 28th No. (June the 28th) of the 'Every-Day Book,' in +which is inserted a poem of mine which I sent under the assumed name +of James Gilderoy, from Sunfleet, as being the production of Andrew +Marvell, and printed in the 'Miscellanies' of the Spalding +Antiquaries (the members of the Spalding Club). I shall venture again +under another name after a while." + +Hone accepted the contribution without detecting the disguise, but +Clare's next venture of the same description, "A Farewell and +Defiance to Love," which he says in his Diary, he "fathered on Sir +John Harrington," was unsuccessful.] + + Why should man's high aspiring mind + Burn in him with so proud a breath, + When all his haughty views can find + In this world yields to Death? + The fair, the brave, the vain, the wise, + The rich, the poor, and great, and small, + Are each but worm's anatomies + To strew his quiet hall. + + Power may make many earthly gods, + Where gold and bribery's guilt prevails, + But Death's unwelcome, honest odds + Kick o'er the unequal scales. + The flatter'd great may clamours raise + Of power, and their own weakness hide, + But Death shall find unlooked-for ways + To end the farce of pride. + + An arrow hurtel'd e'er so high, + With e'en a giant's sinewy strength, + In Time's untraced eternity + Goes but a pigmy length; + Nay, whirring from the tortured string, + With all its pomp of hurried flight, + 'T is by the skylark's little wing + Outmeasured in its height. + + Just so man's boasted strength and power + Shall fade before Death's lightest stroke, + Laid lower than the meanest flower, + Whose pride o'er-top't the oak; + And he who, like a blighting blast, + Dispeopled worlds with war's alarms + Shall be himself destroyed at last + By poor despised worms. + + Tyrants in vain their powers secure, + And awe slaves' murmurs with a frown, + For unawed Death at last is sure + To sap the Babels down. + A stone thrown upward to the skye + Will quickly meet the ground agen; + So men-gods of earth's vanity + Shall drop at last to men; + + And Power and Pomp their all resign, + Blood-purchased thrones and banquet halls. + Fate waits to sack Ambition's shrine + As bare as prison walls, + Where the poor suffering wretch bows down + To laws a lawless power hath passed; + And pride, and power, and king, and clown + Shall be Death's slaves at last. + + Time, the prime minister of Death! + There's nought can bribe his honest will. + He stops the richest tyrant's breath + And lays his mischief still. + Each wicked scheme for power all stops, + With grandeurs false and mock display, + As eve's shades from high mountain tops + Fade with the rest away. + + Death levels all things in his march; + Nought can resist his mighty strength; + The palace proud, triumphal arch, + Shall mete its shadow's length. + The rich, the poor, one common bed + Shall find in the unhonoured grave, + Where weeds shall grow alike o'er head + Of tyrant and of slave. + + + + +THE WANTON CHLOE--A PASTORAL + + Young Chloe looks sweet as the rose, + And her love might be reckoned no less, + But her bosom so freely bestows + That all may a portion possess. + Her smiles would be cheering to see, + But so freely they're lavished abroad + That each silly swain, like to me, + Can boast what the wanton bestowed. + + Her looks and her kisses so free + Are for all, like the rain and the sky; + As the blossom love is to the bee, + Each swain is as welcome as I. + And though I my folly can see, + Yet still must I love and adore, + Though I know the love whispered to me + Has been told to so many before. + + 'T is sad that a bosom so fair, + And soft lips so seemingly sweet, + Should study false ways, to ensnare, + And breathe in their kisses deceit. + But beauty's no guide to the best: + The rose, that out-blushes the morn, + While it tempts the glad eye to its breast, + Will pierce the fond hand with a thorn. + + Yet still must I love, silly swain! + And put up with all her deceit, + And try to be jealous, in vain, + For I cannot help thinking her sweet. + I see other swains in her bower, + And I sigh, and excuse what I see, + While I say to myself, "Is the flower + Any worse when it's kissed by the bee?" + + + + +THE OLD SHEPHERD + + 'T is pleasant to bear recollections in mind + Of joys that time hurries away-- + To look back on smiles that have passed like the wind, + And compare them with frowns of to-day. + 'T was the constant delight of Old Robin, forsooth, + On the past with clear vision to dwell-- + To recount the fond loves and the raptures of youth, + And tales of lost pleasures to tell. + + "'T is now many years," like a child, he would say, + "Since I joined in the sports of the green-- + Since I tied up the flowers for the garland of May, + And danced with the holiday queen. + My memory looks backward in sorrowful pride, + And I think, till my eyes dim with tears, + Of the past, where my happiness withered and died, + And the present dull, desolate years. + + I love to be counting, while sitting alone, + With many a heart-aching sigh, + How many a season has rapidly flown, + And springs, with their summers, gone by, + Since Susan the pride of the village was deemed, + To whom youth's affections I gave; + Whom I led to the church, and beloved and esteemed, + And followed in grief to the grave. + + Life's changes for many hours musings supply; + Both the past and the present appear; + I mark how the years that remain hurry by, + And feel that my last must be near. + The youths that with me to man's summer did bloom + Have dwindled away to old men, + And maidens, like flowers of the Spring, have made room + For many new blossoms since then. + + I have lived to see all but life's sorrows pass by, + Leaving changes, and pains, and decay, + Where nought is the same but the wide-spreading sky, + And the sun that awakens the day. + The green, where I tended my sheep when a boy, + Has yielded its pride to the plough; + And the shades where my infancy revelled in joy + The axe has left desolate now. + + Yet a bush lingers still, that will urge me to stop-- + (What heart can such fancies withstand?) + Where Susan once saw a bird's nest on the top, + And I reached her the eggs with my hand: + And so long since the day I remember so well, + It has stretched to a sizable tree, + And the birds yearly come in its branches to dwell, + As far from a giant as me. + + On a favourite spot, by the side of a brook, + When Susan was just in her pride, + A ripe bunch of nuts from her apron she took, + To plant as she sat by my side. + They have grown up with years, and on many a bough + Cluster nuts like their parents agen, + Where shepherds no doubt have oft sought them ere now, + To please other Susans since then. + + The joys that I knew when my youth was in prime, + Like a dream that's half ended, are o'er; + And the faces I knew in that changeable time + Are met with the living no more. + I have lived to see friends that I loved pass away + With the pleasures their company gave: + I have lived to see love, with my Susan, decay, + And the grass growing green on her grave." + + + + +TO A ROSEBUD IN HUMBLE LIFE + + Sweet, uncultivated blossom, + Reared in Spring's refreshing dews, + Dear to every gazer's bosom, + Fair to every eye that views;-- + Opening bud, whose youth can charm us, + Thine be many a happy hour: + Spreading rose, whose beauties warm us-- + Flourish long, my lovely flower. + + Though pride look disdainful on thee, + Scorning scenes so mean as thine, + Although fortune frown upon thee, + Lovely blossom, ne'er repine: + Health unbought is ever with thee, + Which their wealth can never gain; + Innocence doth garments give thee, + Such as fashion apes in vain. + + When fit time and reason grant thee + Leave to quit the parent tree, + May some happy hand transplant thee + To a station suiting thee. + On some lover's faithful bosom + May'st thou then thy sweets resign; + And may each unfolding blossom + Open charms as sweet as thine. + + Till that time may joys unceasing + Thy bard's every wish fulfil. + When that's come may joys increasing + Make thee blest and happier still. + Flourish fair, thou flower of Jessies, + Pride of each admiring swain-- + Envy of despairing lasses-- + Queen of Walkherd's lovely plain. + + + + +THE TRIUMPHS OF TIME + +[From "The Champion"] + + Emblazoned Vapour! Half-eternal Shade! + That gathers strength from ruin and decay;-- + Emperor of empires! (for the world hath made + No substance that dare take thy shade away;) + Thy banners nought but victories display: + In undisturbed success thou'rt grown sublime: + Kings are thy subjects, and their sceptres lay + Round thy proud footstool: tyranny and crime + Thy serving vassals are. Then hail, victorious Time! + + The elements that wreck the marble dome + Proud with the polish of the artisan-- + Bolts that crash shivering through the humble home, + Traced with the insignificance of man-- + Are architects of thine, and proudly plan + Rich monuments to show thy growing prime: + Earthquakes that rend the rocks with dreadful span, + Lightnings that write in characters sublime, + Inscribe their labours all unto the praise of Time. + + Thy palaces are kingdoms lost to power; + The ruins of ten thousand thrones thy throne; + Thy crown and sceptre the dismantled tower, + A place of kings, yet left to be unknown, + Now with triumphing ivy overgrown-- + Ivy oft plucked on Victory's brow to shine-- + That fades in crowns of kings, preferring stone; + It only prospers where they most decline, + To flourish o'er their fate, and live alone in thine. + + Thy dwellings are in ruins made sublime. + Impartial Monitor, no dream of fear, + No dread of treason for a royal crime, + Deters thee from thy purpose: everywhere + Thy power is shown: thou art arch-emperor here: + Thou soil'st the very crowns with stains and rust; + On royal robes thy havoc doth appear; + The little moth, to thy proud summons just, + Dares scarlet pomp to scorn, and eats it into dust. + + Old shadows of magnificence, where now-- + Where now and what your grandeur? Come and see + Busts broken and thrown down, with wreathless brow, + Walls stained with colours, not of paint, but thee. + Moss, lichens, ferns, and lonely elder tree; + That upon ruins gladly climb to bloom, + And add a beauty where't is vain to be, + Like to the soft moonlight in a prison's gloom, + Or lovely maid in youth death-smitten for the tomb. + + Pride may build palaces and splendid halls; + Power may display its victories and be brave; + The eye finds weakest spots in strongest walls, + And meets no strength that can out-wear the grave. + Nature, thy handmaid and imperial slave, + The pomp of splendour's finery never heeds: + Kings reign and die: pride may no respite crave; + Nature in barrenness ne'er mourns thy deeds: + Graves, poor and rich alike, she overruns with weeds. + + In thy proud eye, imperial Arbiter, + An insect small to prize appeareth man; + His pomp and honours have o'er thee no spell, + To win thy purpose from the little span + Allotted unto life in Nature's plan; + Trifles to him thy favour can engage; + High he looks up, and soon his race is run; + While the small daisy upon Nature's page, + On which he sets his foot, gains endless heritage. + + Look at the farces played in every age + By puny empires, vaunting vain display, + And blush to read the historian's fulsome page, + Where kings are worshipped like to gods in clay. + Their pride the earth disdained and swept away, + By thee, a shadow, worsted of their all-- + Legions of soldiers, battle's dread array-- + Kings' speeches--golden bribes--nought saved their fall; + All 'neath thy feet are laid, thy robe their funeral pall. + + How feeble and how vain, compared to thine, + The glittering pageantry of earthly kings, + Though in their little light they would outshine + Thy splendid sun: yet soon thy vengeance flings + Its gloom around their crowns, poor puny things. + What then remains of all that great hath been? + A tattered state, that as a mockery clings + To greatness, and concludes the idle scene-- + In life how mighty thought, and found in death how mean. + + Thus Athens lingers on, a nest of slaves, + And Babylon's an almost doubted name: + Thou with thy finger writ'st upon their graves, + On one obscurity, the other shame. + The richest greatness or the proudest fame + Thy sport concludeth as a farce at last: + They were and would be, but are not the same: + Tyrants, that made all subject where they passed, + Become a common jest for laughter at the last. + + Here where I stand thy voice breathes from the ground + A buried tale of sixteen hundred years, + And many a Roman fragment, littered round, + In each new-rooted mole-hill reappears. + Ah! what is fame, that honour so reveres? + And what is Victory's laurel-crowned event + When thy unmasked intolerance interferes? + A Caesar's deeds are left to banishment, + Indebted e'en to moles to show us where he went. + + A mighty poet them, and every line + Thy grand conception traces is sublime: + No language doth thy god-like works confine; + Thy voice is earth's grand polyglot, O Time! + Known of all tongues, and read in every clime, + Changes of language make no change in thee: + Thy works have worsted centuries of their prime, + Yet new editions every day we see-- + Ruin thy moral theme, its end eternity. + + A satirist, too, thy pen is deadly keen; + Thou turnest things that once did wonder claim + To jests ridiculous and memories mean;-- + The Egyptian pyramids, without a name, + Stand monuments to chaos, not to fame-- + Stone jests of kings which thou in sport did'st save, + As towering satires of pride's living shame-- + Beacons to prove thy overbearing wave + Will make all fame at last become its owner's grave. + + Mighty survivors! Thou shalt see the hour + When all the grandeur that the earth contains-- + Its pomp, its splendour, and its hollow power-- + Shall waste like water from its weakened veins, + And not a shadow or a myth remain-- + When names and fames of which the earth is full, + And books, with all their knowledge urged in vain-- + When dead and living shall be void and null, + And Nature's pillow be at last a human skull. + + E'en temples raised to worship and to prayer, + Sacred from ruin in all eyes but thine, + Are laid as level, and are left as bare, + As spots with no pretensions to resign; + Nor lives one relic that was deemed divine. + By thee, great sacrilegious Shade, all, all + Are swept away, and common weeds enshrine + That place of tombs and memories prodigal-- + Itself a tomb at last, the record of its fall. + + All then shall mingle fellowship with one, + And earth be strewn with wrecks of human things, + When tombs are broken up and memory's gone + Of proud aspiring mortals, crowned as kings, + Mere insects, sporting upon waxen wings + That melt at thy all-mastering energy; + And, when there's nought to govern, thy fame springs + To new existence, conquered, yet to be + An uncrowned partner still of dread eternity. + + 'T is done, o'erpowering Vision! And no more + My simple numbers chronicle thy fame; + 'T is gone: the spirit of my voice is o'er, + Adventuring praises to thy mighty name. + To thee an atom am I, and in shame + I shrink from these aspirings to my doom; + For all the world contains to praise or blame + Is but a garden hastening out of bloom + To fill up Nature's wreck-mere rubbish for the tomb. + + Imperial Moralist! Thy every page, + Like grand prophetic visions, doth instal + Truth for all creeds. The savage, saint, and sage + In unison may answer to thy call. + Thy voice as universal, speaks to all; + It tells us what all were and are to be; + That evil deeds will evil hearts enthral, + And God the just maintain the grand decree, + That whoso righteous lives shall win eternity. + + + + +TO JOHN MILTON + +"From his honoured Friend, William Davenant." + +[This poem appeared in the "Sheffield Iris" of May the 16th, 1826, +with this introductory note:-- + +"The following stanzas are supposed to have been addressed to Milton +by his friend and contemporary, Sir William Davenant. We cannot vouch +for their authenticity, but for their excellency we can. They have +been communicated to us by the late editor of the 'Iris,' who +received them from Mr. John Clare, the ingenious poet of +Northamptonshire."] + + 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. + + + + +THE BIRDS AND ST. VALENTINE + + Sorrow came with downcast eyes, + And stole the lyre of love away. + VAN DYK. + +[From ACKERMANN'S "Juvenile Forget-me-not"] + + Some two or three weeks before Valentine's day, + Sir Winter grew kind, and, minded to play, + Shook hands with Miss Flora, and woo'd her to spare + A few pretty snowdrops to stick in his hair, + Intending for truth, as he said, to resign + His throne to Miss Spring and her priest Valentine; + Which trifle he asked for before he set forth, + To remind him of all when he got in the North; + And this is the reason that snowdrops appear + 'Mid the cold of the Winter, so soon in the year. + + Flora complied, and, the instant she heard, + Flew away with the news to each bachelor bird, + Who in raptures half moved on Love's errand to start, + Their songs muttered over to get them by heart: + Nay, the Mavis at once sung aloud in his glee, + And looked for a spot where love's dwelling should be; + And ever since then, both in garden and grove, + The Mavis tunes first a short ditty to love, + While all the young gentlemen birds that were near + Fell to trimming their jackets anew for the year: + One and all they determined to seek for a mate, + And thought it a folly for seasons to wait, + So even agreed, before Valentine's day, + To join hearts in love; but the ladies said, Nay! + Yet each one consented at once to resign + Her heart unto Hymen on St. Valentine; + While Winter, who only pretended to go, + Lapt himself out of sight in some hillocks of snow, + That behind all the rest 'neath the wood hedges lay + So close that the sun could not drive them away: + Yet the gentlemen birds on their love errands flew, + Thinking all Flora told them was nothing but true, + Till out Winter came, and his frowns in a trice + Turned the lady birds' hearts all as hardened as ice. + + In vain might the gentles in love sue and plead-- + They heard, but not once did they notice or heed: + From Winter they crept, who, in tyranny proud, + Yoked his horses of storms to his coach of a cloud; + For on Valentine's morn he was raving so high, + Lady Spring for the life of her durst not come nigh; + While Flora's gay feet were so numbed with the snow + That she could not put on her best slippers to go. + + Then the Spring she fell ill, and, her health to regain, + On a sunbeam rode back to her South once again; + And, as both were the bridesmaids, their teasing delay + Made the lady birds put off their weddings till May. + Some sighed their excuses, and feared to catch cold; + And the Redcap, in mantle all bordered with gold, + Sore feared that the weather would spoil her fine clothes, + And nought but complaints through the forest arose. + + So St. Valentine came on his journey alone + In the coach of the Morn, for he'd none of his own, + And put on his cassock and band, and went in + To the temple of Hymen, the rites to begin, + Where the Mavis Thrush waited along with his bride, + Nor in the whole place was a lady beside. + The gentlemen they came alone to the saint, + And instead of being married, each made a complaint + Of Sir Winter, whose folly had caused the delay, + And forced Love to put off the wedding till May; + So the priest shook his head, and unrobed to be gone, + As he had no day for his leisure but one. + + And when the May came with Miss Flora and Spring, + They had nought but old cares and new sorrows to sing; + For some of the lady birds ceased to be kind + To their old loves, and changed for new-comers their mind; + And some had resolved to keep single that year, + Until St. Valentine with the next should appear. + + The birds sung their sorrows the whole Summer long, + And the Robin first mixed up his ills with his song: + He sung of his griefs--how in love he'd been crossed, + And gave up his heart as eternally lost; + 'T was burnt to a coal, as sly Cupid let fall + A spark that scorched through both the feathers and all. + To cure it Time tried, but ne'er found out the way, + So the mark on his bosom he wears to this day: + And when birds are all silent, and not a leaf seen + On the trees, but the ivy and holly so green, + In frost and in snow little Robin will sing, + To put off the sorrow that ruffles his wing. + And that is the cause in our gardens we hear + The Robin's sweet note at the close of the year. + + The Wagtail, too, mourned in his doublet of grey, + As if powdered with rime on a dull winter's day; + He twittered of love--how he courted a fair, + Who altered her mind, and so made him despair. + In a stone-pit he chose her a place for a nest, + But she, like a wanton, but made it a jest. + Though he dabbled in brooks to convince her how kind + He would feed her with worms which he laboured to find, + Till he e'en got the ague, still nought could prevail, + So ever since then he's been wagging his tail. + + In the whitethorn the Linnet bides lonely to sing + How his lady-love shunned his embraces in Spring, + Though he found out a bush that the sun had half drest + With leaves quite sufficient to shelter their nest; + And yet she forsook him, no more to be seen, + So that is the reason he dresses in green. + + Then aloud in his grief sings the gay speckled Thrush, + That changes his music on every bush-- + "My love she has left me to sorrow and mourn, + Yet I hope in my heart she'll repent and return;" + So he tries at all notes her approval to meet, + And that is the reason he singeth so sweet. + + And as sweet sang the Bullfinch, although he confest + That the anguish he felt was more deep than the rest, + And they all marvelled much how he'd spirits to sing, + When to show them his anguish he held up his wing; + From his throat to his tail not a feather was found + But what had been stained red with blood from the wound. + + And sad chirped the Sparrow of joys fled and gone, + Of his love being lost he so doted upon; + So he vowed constant silence for that very thing, + And this is the reason why Sparrows don't sing. + + Then next came the Rook and the sorrowful Crow, + To tell birds the cause why in mourning they go, + Ever since their old loves their embraces forsook; + And all seemed to pity the Crow and the Rook. + + The Jay he affected to hide his despair, + And rather than mourn he had spirits to wear + A coat of all colours, but in it some blue + Denoted his passion; though crossed, 't was true; + So now in lone woods he will hide him all day, + And aloud he scolds all that intrude in his way. + + The Magpie declared it should never be said + That he mourned for a lover, though fifty had fled; + Yet his heart all the while was so burnt and distrest, + That it turned all the feathers coal-black on his breast. + The birds they all marvelled, but still he denied, + And wore a black cap his deep blushes to hide; + So that is the reason himself and his kin + Wear hoods with the lappets quite under the chin. + + Then last came the Owl, grieving loud as he flew, + Saying how his false lover had bade him adieu; + And though he knew not where to find her or follow, + Yet round their old haunts he would still whoop and halloo, + For no sleep could he get in his sorrowful plight. + So that is the reason Owls halloo at night. + + And here ends the song of each woe-stricken bird. + Now was a more pitiful story e'er heard? + The rest were all coupled, and happy, and they + Sung the old merry songs which they sing at this day: + And good little boys, when this tale they read o'er, + Will ne'er have the heart to hurt birds any more, + And add to the griefs they already have sung + By robbing their nests of their eggs and their young; + But feel for their sufferings, and pity their pain, + Nor give them new cause of their lot to complain. + + + + +FAREWELL AND DEFIANCE TO LOVE + +[After Sir John Harrington] + +[From the "European Magazine" March, 1826] + + Love and thy vain employs, away + From this too oft deluded breast! + No longer will I court thy stay, + To be my bosom's teasing guest. + Thou treacherous medicine--reckon'd pure; + Thou quackery of the harass'd heart, + That kills what it pretends to cure, + Life's mountebank thou art. + + With nostrums vain of boasted powers, + That, ta'en, a worse disorder leave; + An asp hid in a group of flowers, + That bites and stings when few perceive; + Thou mock-peace to the troubled mind, + Leading it more in sorrow's way, + Freedom that leaves us more confined, + I bid thee hence away. + + Dost taunt, and deem thy power beyond + The resolution reason gave? + Tut! Falsity hath snapt each bond, + That kept me once thy quiet slave, + And made thy snare a spider's thread, + Which e'en my breath can break in twain; + Nor will I be, like Sampson, led + To trust thy wiles again. + + Tempt me no more with rosy cheeks, + Nor daze my reason with bright eyes; + I'm wearied with thy wayward freaks, + And sicken at such vanities: + Be roses fine as e'er they will, + They, with the meanest, fade and die, + And eyes, tho' thick with darts to kill. + Share all mortalities. + + Heed the young bard, who madly sips + His nectar-draughts from folly's flowers, + Bright eyes, fair cheeks, and ruby lips, + Till music melts to honey showers; + Lure him to thrum thy empty lays, + While flattery listens to the chimes, + Till words themselves grow sick with praise + And stop for want of rhymes. + + Let such be still thy paramours, + And chaunt love's old and idle tune, + Robbing the spring of all its flowers, + And heaven of all her stars and moon, + To gild with dazzling similes + Blind folly's vain and empty lay: + I'm sober'd from such phantasies, + So get thee hence away. + + Nor bid me sigh for mine own cost, + Nor count its loss, for mine annoy, + Nor say my stubbornness hath lost + A paradise of dainty joy: + I'll not believe thee, till I know + That reason turns thy pampered ape, + And acts thy harlequin, to show + That care's in every shape. + + Heart-achings, sighs, and grief-wrung tears, + Shame-blushes at betrayed distress, + Dissembled smiles, and jealous fears, + Are aught but real happiness: + Then will I mourn what now I brave, + And suffer Celia's quirks to be + (Like a poor fate-bewilder'd slave,) + The rulers of my destiny. + + I'll weep and sigh when e'er she wills + To frown--and when she deigns to smile + It will be cure for all my ills, + And, foolish still, I'll laugh the while; + But till that comes, I'll bless the rules + Experience taught, and deem it wise + To hold thee as the game of fools, + And all thy tricks despise. + + + + +THE GIPSY'S SONG + + The gipsy's life is a merry life, + And ranting boys we be; + We pay to none or rent or tax, + And live untith'd and free. + None care for us, for none care we, + And where we list we roam, + And merry boys we gipsies be, + Though the wild woods are our home. + + And come what will brings no dismay; + Our minds are ne'er perplext; + For if to-day is a swaly day, + We meet with luck the next. + And thus we sing and kiss our mates, + While our chorus still shall be,-- + Bad luck to tyrant magistrates, + And the gipsies' camp still free. + + To mend old pans and bottom chairs + Around the towns we tramp, + Then a day or two our purse repairs, + And plenty fills our camp; + And our song we sing, and our fiddles sound + Their catgut harmony, + While echo fills the woods around + With gipsy liberty. + + The green grass is our softest bed, + The sun our clock we call, + The nightly sky hangs over head, + Our curtains, house, and all. + Tho' houseless while the wild winds blow, + Our joys are uncontroll'd; + We barefoot dance through Winter's snow, + When others die with cold. + + Our maidens they are fond and free, + And lasting are their charms; + Brown as the berry on the tree, + No sun their beauty harms: + Their beauties are no garden blooms, + That fade before they flower; + Unshelter'd where the tempest comes, + They smile in sun and shower. + + And they are wild as the woodland hare, + That feeds on the evening lea; + And what care we for ladies fair, + Since ours are fond and free? + False hearts hide in a lily skin, + But ours are coarse and fond; + No parson's fetters link us in,-- + Our love's a stronger bond. + + Tho' wild woods are our house and home, + 'T is a home of liberty; + Free as the Summer clouds we roam, + And merry boys we be. + We dance and sing the year along, + And loud our fiddles play; + And no day goes without its song, + While every month is May. + + The hare that haunts the fallow ground, + And round the common feeds; + The fox that tracks the woodland bounds, + And in the thicket breeds; + These are the neighbours where we dwell, + And all the guests we see, + That share and love the quiet well + Of gipsy liberty. + + The elements are grown our friends, + And leave our huts alone; + The thunder-bolt, that shakes and rends + The cotter's house of stone, + Flies harmless by the blanket roof, + Where the winds may burst and blow, + For our camps, tho' thin, are tempest proof, + We reck not rain and snow. + + May the lot we've met our lives befall, + And nothing worse attend; + So here's success to gipsies all, + And every gipsy's friend. + And while the ass that bears our camp + Can find a common free, + Around old England's heaths we'll tramp + In gipsy liberty. + + + + +PEGGY BAND + + O it was a lorn and a dismal night, + And the storm beat loud and high; + Not a friendly light to guide me right + Was there shining in the sky, + When a lonely hut my wanderings met, + Lost in a foreign land, + And I found the dearest friend as yet + In my lovely Peggy Band. + + "O, father, here's a soldier lad, + And weary he seems to be." + "Then welcome in," the old man said, + And she gave her seat to me. + The fire she trimmed, and my clothes she dried + With her own sweet lily hand, + And o'er the soldier's lot she sighed, + While I blest my Peggy Band. + + When I told the tale of my wandering years, + And the nights unknown to sleep, + She made excuse to hide her tears, + And she stole away to weep. + A pilgrim's blessing I seemed to share, + As saints of the Holy Land, + And I thought her a guardian angel there, + Though he called her his Peggy Band. + + The night it passed, and the hour to part + With the morning winged away, + And I felt an anguish at my heart + That vainly bid to stay. + I thanked the old man for all he did, + And I took his daughter's hand, + But my heart was full, and I could not bid + Farewell to my Peggy Band. + + A blessing on that friendly cot, + Where the soldier found repose, + And a blessing be her constant lot + Who soothed the stranger's woes. + I turned a last look at the door, + As she held it in her hand, + And my heart ached sore, as I crossed the moor, + For to leave my Peggy Band. + + + + +TO A BROOK + + Sweet brook! I've met thee many a summer's day, + And ventured fearless in thy shallow flood, + And rambled oft thy sweet unwearied way, + 'Neath willows cool that on thy margin stood, + With crowds of partners in my artless play-- + Grasshopper, beetle, bee, and butterfly-- + That frisked about as though in merry mood + To see their old companion sporting by. + Sweet brook! life's glories then were mine and thine; + Shade clothed thy spring that now doth naked lie; + On thy white glistening sand the sweet woodbine + Darkened and dipt its flowers. I mark, and sigh, + And muse o'er troubles since we met the last, + Like two fond friends whose happiness is past. + + + + +PROSE FRAGMENTS + + + + +A CONFESSION OF FAITH + +My creed may be different from other creeds, but the difference is +nothing when the end is the same. If I did not expect and hope for +eternal happiness I should be ever miserable; and as every religion +is a rule leading to good by its professor, the religions of all +nations and creeds, where that end is the aim, ought rather to be +respected than scoffed at. A final judgment of men by their deeds and +actions in life is inevitable, and the only difference between an +earthly assize and the eternal one is, that the final one needs no +counsellors to paint the bad or good better or worse than they are. +The Judge knows the hearts of all men, and the sentence may be +expected to be just as well as final, whether it be for the worst or +the best. This ought to teach us to pause and think, and try to lead +our lives as well as we can. + + + + +ESSAY ON POPULARITY + + "Rumour and the popular voice + Some look to more than truth, and so confirm Opinions." + CARY'S Dante. + +Popularity is a busy talker: she catches hold of topics and offers +them to fame without giving herself time to reflect whether they are +true or false, and fashion is her favourite disciple who sanctions +and believes them as eagerly, and with the same faith, as a young +lady in the last century read a new novel and a tavern-haunter in +this reads the news. It is natural, with such foundations, to ask +whether popularity is fame, for it often happens that very slender +names come to be popular from many causes with which merit or genius +has no sort of connection or kindred. It may be some oddity in the +manner, or incident in the life, of the author that is whispered over +before his book comes out. This often macadamizes the way to +popularity, for gossip is a mighty spell in the literary world, and a +concealment of the author's name often creates an anxiety in the +public mind, for it leaves room for guesses and conjectures, and as +some are very fond of appearing wise in such matters by saying they +know from good authority that such a one is the author, it becomes +the talk of the card party and tea-table, and he gains a superficial +notoriety. Such was the case with the "Pursuits of Literature," a +leaden-footed satire that had as much claim to merit as the statue of +Pasquin in the Market-place of Rome, on which vulgar squibs were +pasted. Everybody knew the author, and nobody knew him. The first +names of the day were foisted into the concern, and when the secret +was found out that it belonged to one of the lowest, the book sank to +rise no more. Sometimes a pompous, pretending title hits the mark at +once and wins a name. Who among the lower orders of youth is ignorant +of the "Young Man's Best Companion" by Mr. Fisher, Accomptant, or the +"Book of Wisdom" by Mr. Penning, Philomath? They are almost as common +as bibles and prayer-books in a cottage library. + +A guess is not hazarded in believing that popularity is not the omen +of true fame. Sometimes the trifling and ridiculous grow into the +most extensive popularity, such as the share of it which a man gained +by wearing a high brimmed hat, and another that cut off the tails of +his coat and thereby branded his name on the remnant; and though the +spencers are out of fashion they have outlived many a poetical +popularity. These are instances of the ridiculous. The trifling are +full as extensive. Where is the poet who shares half the popularity +of Warren, Turner, or Day and Martin, whose ebony fames are spread +through every dirty little village in England? These instances of the +trifling and ridiculous made as much noise and stir in their day as +the best, and noise and bustle are the essence and soul of +popularity. + +The nearest akin to popularity is common fame. I mean names that are +familiar among the common people. It is not a very envious species, +for they seldom know how to value or appreciate what they are +acquainted with. The name of Chatterton is familiar to their ears as +an unfortunate poet, because they saw his history printed on pocket +handkerchiefs; and the name of Shakespeare as a great play writer, +because they have often seen him nominated as such on the bills of +strolling players, who make shift with barns for theatres. But this +sort of revelry makes a corresponding idea in their minds, for the +paltry ballad mongers, whose productions supply hawkers with their +wares, are poets with them, and they imagine one as great as the +other, common minds making no distinction in these common fames. On +the other hand there is something in it to wish for, because there +are things as old as England that have outlived centuries of +popularity, nay, left half its history in darkness, and they still +live on, as common in every memory as the seasons, and as familiar to +children even as the rain and Spring flowers. I allude to the old +superstitious fragments of legends and stories in rhyme that are said +to be Norman, or Saxon, or Danish. There are many desire this common +fame, and it is mostly met in a manner least expected. While some +affectations are striving for a lifetime to hit all tastes and always +miss the mark by a wide throw, an unconscious poet of little name +writes a trifle as he feels, without thinking of others, and he +becomes a common name. + +Unaffected simplicity is the everyday picture of Nature. Thus, little +children's favourites of "Cock Robin," "Little Red Riding Hood," and +"Babes in the Wood," have impressions at the core that grow up with +manhood and are always dear. Poets anxious after common fame, as some +of the "naturals" seem to be, imitate these things by affecting +simplicity, and become unnatural. These things found fame where the +greatest names are still oblivious. A literary man might enquire +after the names of Spenser and Milton in vain in half the villages in +England, even among what are called its gentry, but I believe it +would be difficult to find a corner in any county where the others +are not known, nor an old woman in any hamlet with whom they are not +familiar. + +In my days, some of the pieces of the modern poets have gained this +common popularity, which must be distinguished from fame as it may +only live for a season. + +Wordsworth's beautiful, simple ballad of "We are seven" I have seen +hawked about for a penny, and Tannahill's song of "Jessy" has met +with more popularity among the common people than all other songs, +English and Scottish, put together. Lord Byron's hasty fame may be +deemed a contradiction to the above opinion that popularity is not +true fame, though at its greatest extent it is but an exception, and +scarcely that, for his great and hurried popularity, that almost +trampled on its own heels in its haste, must drop into a less +bustling degree, and become cool and quiet, like the preaching of +Irving. Shakespeare was hardly noticed in his lifetime by popularity, +but he is known now, and Byron is hardly the tenth part of a +Shakespeare. Every storm must have its calm, and Byron took fame by +storm. By a desperate daring he over-swept petty control like a +rebellious flood, or a tempest worked up into madness by the quarrel +of the elements, and he seemed to value that daring as the attainment +of true fame. He looked upon Horace's "Art of Poetry" no doubt with +esteem as a reader, but he cared no more for it in the profession of +a poet than the weather does for an almanack. He looked upon critics +as the countryman does on a magistrate. He beheld them as a race of +petty tyrants that stood in the way of genius. They were in his eyes +more of stumbling-blocks than guides, and he treated them +accordingly. He let them know there was another road to Parnassus +without taking theirs, and being obliged to do them homage. Not +stooping to the impediments of their authorities, like the paths of a +besieged city encumbered with sentinels, he made a road for himself, +and, like Napoleon crossing the Alps, he let the world see that even +in the eye of a mortal their greatest obstacles were looked on "as +the dust in a balance." He gained the envied eminence of living +popularity by making a breach where it was thought impregnable. Where +others had laid siege for a lifetime, and lost their hopes and their +labour at last, he gained the heights of popularity by a single +stride, and looked down as a free-booter on the world below, scorning +the applause his labours had gained him, and scarcely returning a +compliment for the laurels which fashion so eagerly bound round his +brows, while he saw the alarm of his leaden-footed enemies, and +withered them to nothings with his sneer. He was an Oliver Cromwell +with the critics. He broke up their long-standing Parliament and +placed his own will in the Speaker's chair, and his will they humbly +accepted. They submitted to one that scorned to be shackled, and +champed the bit in his stead. They praised and respected him, nay, +they worshipped him. He was all in all in their mouths and in their +writings, but I suspect their hearts had as much love for him as the +peasantry had for witches in the last century, who spoke well of them +to their faces because they dared not do other-wise for fear of +meeting an injury. Whether Byron hath won true fame or not I cannot +say; my mind is too little to grasp that judgment. To say that he was +the first of his age in his way is saying nothing, but we have +sufficient illustration for the argument in saying that popularity is +not the forerunner of fame's eternity. Among all the bustle of +popularity there must be only a portion of it accepted as fame. Time +will sift it of its drossy puffs and praises. He has been with others +extolled as equal to Shakespeare, and I dare say the popular voice of +"readers" thought him superior. But three centuries will wither every +extravagance, and sober the picture of its glaring colours. He is no +doubt one of the eternals, but he is one of those of the 19th +century, and if all its elements be classed together in the next they +would make but a poor substitute for a Shakespeare. Eternity will not +rake the bottom of the sea of oblivion for puffs and praises, and +all their attendant rubbish, the feelings that the fashion of the day +created, and the flatteries uttered. Eternity will estimate things at +their proper value, and no other. She will not even seek for the +newspaper praise of Walter Scott. She will not look for Byron's +immortality in the company of Warren's blacking, Prince's kalydor, +and Atkinson's bear's grease. She looks for it in his own merit, and +her impartial judgment will be his best reward. + +Wordsworth has had little share of popularity, though he bids fair to +be as great in one species of poetry as Byron was in another, but to +acknowledge such an opinion in the world's ear would only pucker the +lips of fashion into a sneer against it. Yet his lack of living +praise is no proof of his lack of genius. The trumpeting clamour of +public praise is not to be relied on as the creditor of the future. +The quiet progress of a name gaining ground by gentle degrees in the +world's esteem is the best living shadow of fame to follow. The +simplest trifle and the meanest thing in nature is the same now as it +shall continue to be till the world's end. + + Men trample grass and prize the flowers in May, + But grass is green when flowers do fade away. + + + + +SCRAPS FOR AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM AND FASHION + +None need be surprised to see these two false prophets in partnership +or conjunction for an essay, as they may be called brothers, for the +one attests what it pleases and the other takes it for granted. +Criticism is grown a sort of book milliner, who cuts a book to any +pattern of abuse or praise, and Fashion readily wears the opinion. +How many productions whose milk-and-water merits, or unintelligible +stupidity, have been considered as novelties, have by that means +gained the admiration of Criticism and the praise of Fashion, until a +more absurd novelty pushed them from their preferments and caused +them to be as suddenly forgotten! The vulgar, tasteless jargon of +"Dr. Syntax," with all the above-mentioned excellencies to excite +public notice from the butterflies of fashion, soon found what it +sought, though some of the plates or illustrations possess the +disadvantageous merit of being good. Yet the letter-press doubly made +up for all, for it was prose trebly prosified into wire-drawn +doggrel, and consequently met with a publicity and sale +unprecedented. Edition multiplied on edition, till it was found +needless to number the title page, and it was only necessary to say +"A New Edition;" while the poems of Wordsworth scarcely found +admirers enough to ensure a second edition. What will the admirers of +poetry in the next age think of the taste of this, which has been +called "the Golden Age of criticism, poetry, taste, and genius"? + +* * * * * + +Fashion is like a new book "elegantly bound and lettered." It +cannot endure dust and cobwebs; but true criticism is like a +newly-planted laurel: it thrives with age and gathers strength from +antiquity, till it becomes a spreading tree and shelters the objects +of its praise under its shadow. Just Criticism is a stern but laudable +prophet, and Time and Truth are the only disciples who can discern +and appreciate his predictions. + + + + +SCRAPS FOR AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM + +Flowers must be sown and tended with care, like children, to grow up +to maturity, but weeds grow of themselves and multiply without any +attention, choking up those flowers that require it; and lies are +propagated as easily as weeds, and choke up the blossoms of truth in +the same manner. But the evils and misrepresentations of false +criticism, though great and many, are not lasting. + +* * * * * + +Upon its principles fashion and flattery have made many Shakespeares, +and these false prophets have flourished and will flourish for a +season, for truth, when she cannot be heard by the opposition of +falsehood, remains silent and leaves time to decide the difference, +who cometh quietly and impartially to her assistance, hurling without +ceremony, century after century, usurper after usurper from the +throne of the mighty, and erasing their names from his altar as +suddenly and as perfectly as the sunbeam passes over and washes away +the stains of a shadow on the wall. Fame hath weighed the false +criticisms and pretensions of centuries already, and found nothing as +yet but dust in the balance. Shadows of Shakespeare are cast away as +profane idols, and reality hath fallen short of even a trinity. She +acknowledges as sacred but one, and I fear that when she shall +calculate the claims of ten centuries she will find the number of the +mighty a unit. But why should fear be expressed for a repetition +which we neither hope for nor need? We have but one sun in our +firmament, and upwards of six thousand years have neither added to +nor diminished its splendour, neither have vain desires been +expressed for the existence of another. Needless wishes create +painful expectations. When a man is warm and comfortable on a cold +day he cannot wish for an excess that would burn him. Therefore we +need neither hope for more Shakespeares nor regret that there is but +one. When the Muses created him a poet they created him the sun of +the firmament of genius, and time has proved, and will prove, that +they glory in their creation, deeming it sufficient, without striving +to find or create another, for nature knows the impossibility. There +have been, both before and after, constellations of great and +wonderful beauty, and many in this age will be found in the number +who shine in their own light with becoming splendour, but whenever +flattery or vanity places them near the great luminary their little +lights lose their splendour and they vanish in his brightness as the +stars are lost at noon. + +* * * * * * + +The falling stars leave a stream of splendour behind them for a +moment; then utter darkness follows, and not a spark is left to show +where they fell. + +* * * * * * + +It is said that Byron is not to have a monument in Westminster Abbey. +To him it is no injury. Time is his monument, on whose scroll the +name of Byron shall be legible when the walls and tombs of +Westminster Abbey shall have mingled with the refuse of ruins, and +the sun, as in scorn, be left free again to smile upon the earth so +long darkened with the pompous shadows of bigotry and intolerance. + + + + +OLD SONGS AND BALLADS + +Respecting these compositions Clare says:-- + +"I commenced sometime ago with an intention of making a collection +of Old Ballads, but when I had sought after them in places where I +expected to find them, namely, the hayfield and the shepherd's hut +on the pasture, I found that nearly all those old and beautiful +recollections had vanished as so many old fashions, and those who +knew fragments seemed ashamed to acknowledge it, as old people who +sung old songs only sung to be laughed at; and those who were proud +of their knowledge in such things knew nothing but the senseless +balderdash that is bawled over and sung at country feasts, statutes +and fairs, where the most senseless jargon passes for the greatest +excellence, and rudest indecency for the finest wit. So the matter +was thrown by, and forgotten, until last winter, when I used to +spend the long evenings with my father and mother, and heard them by +accident hum over scraps of the following old melodies, which I have +collected and put into their present form." + +Two of the collection are omitted from this volume: the well-known +ballad of "Lord Randall," and a second the subject of which appeared +to render its inclusion inexpedient. + + + + +ADIEU TO MY FALSE LOVE FOREVER + + The week before Easter, the days long and clear, + So bright shone the sun and so cool blew the air, + I went in the meadow some flowers to find there, + But the meadow would yield me no posies. + + The weather, like love, did deceitful appear, + And I wandered alone when my sorrow was near, + For the thorn that wounds deeply doth bide the whole year, + When the bush it is naked of roses. + + I courted a girl that was handsome and gay, + I thought her as constant and true as the day, + Till she married for riches and said my love "Nay," + And so my poor heart got requited. + + I was bid to the bridal; I could not say "No:" + The bridemen and maidens they made a fine show; + I smiled like the rest but my heart it was low, + To think how its hopes they were blighted. + + The bride started gaily, the weather was fine, + Her parents looked after, and thought her divine; + She smiled in their faces, but looked not in mine, + Indeed I'd no heart to regard her. + + Though love like the poplar doth lift its head high, + The top it may fade and the root it may die, + And they may have heart-aches that now live in joy, + But Heaven I'll leave to reward her. + + When I saw my false love in the merry church stand, + With her ring on her finger and her love in her hand, + Smiling out in the joy of her houses and land, + My sighs I strove vainly to smother. + + When my false love for dinner did dainties partake, + I sat me down also, but nothing could eat; + I thought her sweet company better than meat, + Although she was tied to another. + + When my false love had gone to her bride bed at night, + My eyes filled with water which made double my sight; + I thought she was there when she'd bade us "Good night" + And her chair was put by till the morrow. + + I drank to her joy with a tear on my face, + And the wine glass as usual I pushed on the space, + Nor knew she was gone till I looked at the place, + Such a fool was I made of by sorrow. + + Now make me a bed in yon river so deep, + Let its waves be my mourners; nought living will weep, + And there let me lie and take a long sleep, + So adieu to my false love for ever. + + + + +O SILLY LOVE! O CUNNING LOVE! + + O silly love! O cunning love! + An old maid to trepan: + I cannot go about my work + For loving of a man. + I cannot bake, I cannot brew, + And, do the best I can, + I burn the bread and chill the mash, + Through loving of a man. + + Shrove Tuesday last I tried, and tried, + To turn the cakes in pan, + And dropt the batter on the floor, + Through thinking of a man. + My mistress screamed, my master swore, + Boys cursed me in a troop; + The cat was all the friends I had, + Who helped to clean it up. + + Last Christmas eve, from off the spit + I took the goose to table, + Or should have done, but teasing Love + Did make me quite unable; + And down slipt dish, and goose, and all + With din and clitter-clatter; + All but the dog fell foul on me; + He licked the broken platter. + + Although I'm ten years past a score, + Too old to play the fool, + My mistress says I must give o'er + My service for a school. + Good faith! What must I do, and do, + To keep my service still; + I'll give the winds my thoughts to love, + Indeed and so I will. + + And if the wind my love should lose, + Right foolish were the play, + For I should mourn what I had lost, + And love another day. + With crosses and with losses + Right double were the ill, + So I'll e'en bear with love and all, + Alack, and so I will. + + + + +NOBODY COMETH TO WOO + + On Martinmas eve the dogs did bark, + And I opened the window to see, + When every maiden went by with her spark, + But ne'er a one came to me. + And O dear what will become of me? + And O dear what shall I do, + When nobody whispers to marry me-- + Nobody cometh to woo? + + None's born for such troubles as I be: + If the sun wakens first in the morn, + "Lazy hussy" my parents both call me, + And I must abide by their scorn, + For nobody cometh to marry me, + Nobody cometh to woo, + So here in distress must I tarry me-- + What can a poor maiden do? + + If I sigh through the window when Jerry + The ploughman goes by, I grow bold; + And if I'm disposed to be merry, + My parents do nothing but scold; + And Jerry the clown, and no other, + E'er cometh to marry or woo; + They think me the moral of mother, + And judge me a terrible shrew. + + For mother she hateth all fellows, + And spinning's my father's desire, + While the old cat growls bass with the bellows + If e'er I hitch up to the fire. + I make the whole house out of humour, + I wish nothing else but to please, + Would fortune but bring a good comer + To marry, and make me at ease! + + When I've nothing my leisure to hinder, + I scarce get as far as the eaves; + Her head's instant out of the window, + Calling out like a press after thieves. + The young men all fall to remarking, + And laugh till they're weary to see 't, + While the dogs at the noise begin barking, + And I slink in with shame from the street. + + My mother's aye jealous of loving, + My father's aye jealous of play, + So what with them both there's no moving, + I'm in durance for life and a day. + O who shall I get for to marry me? + Who will have pity to woo? + 'T is death any longer to tarry me, + And what shall a poor maiden do? + + + + +FARE THEE WELL + +[Clare's note:--"Scraps from my father and mother, completed."] + + Here's a sad good bye for thee, my love, + To friends and foes a smile: + I leave but one regret behind, + That's left with thee the while, + But hopes that fortune is our friend + Already pays the toil. + + Force bids me go, your friends to please. + Would they were not so high! + But be my lot on land or seas, + It matters not where by, + For I shall keep a thought for thee, + In my heart's core to lie. + + Winter shall lose its frost and snow, + The spring its blossomed thorn, + The summer all its bloom forego, + The autumn hound and horn + Ere I will lose that thought of thee, + Or ever prove forsworn. + + The dove shall change a hawk in kind, + The cuckoo change its tune, + The nightingale at Christmas sing, + The fieldfare come in June-- + Ere I do change my love for thee + These things shall change as soon. + + So keep your heart at ease, my love, + Nor waste a joy for me: + I'll ne'er prove false to thee, my love, + Till fish drown in the sea, + And birds forget to fly, my love, + And then I'll think of thee. + + The red cock's wing may turn to grey, + The crow's to silver white, + The night itself may be for day, + And sunshine wake at night: + Till then--and then I'll prove more true + Than Nature, life, and light. + + Though you may break your fondest vow, + And take your heart from me, + And though my heart should break to hear + What I may never see, + Yet never can'st thou break the link + That binds my love to thee. + + So fare-thee-well, my own true love; + No vow from thee I crave, + But thee I never will forego, + Till no spark of life I have, + Nor will I ever thee forget + Till we both lie in the grave. + + + + +MARY NEELE + +[Notwithstanding the company in which it is found, this poem may +safely be attributed to Clare.] + + My love is tall and handsome; + All hearts she might command; + She's matchless for her beauty, + The queen of all the land. + She has my heart in keeping, + For which there's no repeal, + For the fairest of all woman kind + Is my love, Mary Neele. + + I felt my soul enchanted + To view this turtle dove, + That lately seems descended + From heavenly bowers of love; + And might I have the fortune + My wishes could reveal, + I'd turn my back on splendour + And fly to Mary Neele. + + She is the flower of nations, + The diamond of my eye; + All others are but gloworms + That in her splendour die. + As shining stars all vanish + When suns their light reveal, + So beauties shrink to shadows + At the feet of Mary Neele. + + I ask no better fortune + Than to embrace her charms; + Like Plato I would laugh at wealth + While she was in my arms; + And if I cannot gain her + From grief there's no appeal; + My joy, my pain, my life, my all + Are fixed with Mary Neele. + + The stone of vain philosophers, + That wonder-working toy, + The golden fleece of Jason, + That Helen stole from Troy, + The beauty and the riches + That all these fames unseal, + Are nothing all, and less than that, + Compared to Mary Neele. + + O if I cannot gain her + Right wretched must I be, + And caves and lonely mountains + Must be the life for me, + To pine in gloom and sorrow, + And hide the deaths I feel, + For light nor life I may not share + When lost to Mary Neele. + + + + +LOVE SCORNED BY PRIDE + + O far is fled the winter wind, + And far is fled the frost and snow, + But the cold scorn on my love's brow + Hath never yet prepared to go. + + More lasting than ten winters' wind, + More cutting than ten weeks of frost, + Is the chill frowning of thy mind, + Where my poor heart was pledged and lost. + + I see thee taunting down the street, + And by the frowning that I see + I might have known it long ere now, + Thy love was never meant for me. + + And had I known ere I began + That love had been so hard to win, + I would have filled my heart with pride, + Nor left one hope to let love in. + + I would have wrapped it in my breast, + And pinned it with a silver pin, + Safe as a bird within its nest, + And 'scaped the trouble I am in. + + I wish I was a happy bird, + And thou a true and timid dove: + O I would fly the land of grief, + And rest me in the land of love. + + O I would rest where I love best; + Where I love best I may not be: + A hawk doth on that rose-tree sit, + And drives young love to fear and flee. + + O would I were the goldfinch gay! + My richer suit had tempted strong. + O would I were the nightingale! + Thou then had'st listened to my song. + + Though deep my scorn I cannot hate, + Thy beauty's sweet though sour thy pride; + To praise thee is to love thee still, + And it doth cheer my heart beside. + + For I could swim the deepest lake, + And I could climb the highest tree, + The greatest danger face and brave, + And all for one kind kiss of thee. + + O love is here, and love is there: + O love is like no other thing: + Its frowns can make a king a slave, + Its smiles can make a slave a king. + + + + +BETRAYED + + Dream not of love, to think it like + What waking love may prove to be, + For I dreamed so and broke my heart, + When my false lover slighted me. + + Love, like to flowers, is sweet when green; + The rose in bud aye best appears; + And she that loves a handsome man + Should have more wit than she has years. + + I put my finger in a bush, + Thinking the sweeter rose to find; + I pricked my finger to the bone, + And left the sweetest rose behind. + + I threw a stone into the sea, + And deep it sunk into the sand, + And so did my poor heart in me + When my false lover left the land. + + I watched the sun an hour too soon + Set into clouds behind the town; + So my false lover left, and said + "Good night" before the day was down. + + I cropt a lily from the stalk, + And in my hand it died away; + So did my joy, so will my heart, + In false love's cruel grasp decay. + + + + +THE MAIDEN'S WELCOME + + Of all the swains that meet at eve + Upon the green to play, + The shepherd is the lad for me, + And I'll ne'er say him nay. + Though father glowers beneath his hat, + And mother talks of bed, + I'll take my cloak up, late or soon, + To meet my shepherd lad. + + Aunt Kitty loved a soldier lad, + Who left her love for war; + A sailor loved my sister Sue, + Whose jacket smelt of tar; + But my love's sweet as land new ploughed; + He is my heart's delight, + And he ne'er leaves his love so far + But he can come at night. + + So father he may glower and frown, + And mother scold about it; + The shepherd has my heart to keep, + And can I live without it? + I'm sure he will not part with it, + In spite of what they say, + And if he would as sure I am + It would not come away. + + So friends may frown, while I can smile + To know I'm loved by one + Who has my heart, and him to seek + What better can be done? + And be it Spring or Summer both, + Or be it Winter cold, + If pots should freeze upon the fire + I'd meet him at the fold. + + I'm fain to make my wedding gown, + Which he has bought for me, + But it will wake my mother's thoughts, + And evil they will be, + Although he has but stole my heart, + Which gives me nought of pain, + For bye and bye he'll buy the ring, + And bring my heart again. + + + + +THE FALSE KNIGHT'S TRAGEDY + +[Students of ballad literature will be reminded by the following poem +of the "May Colleen" and "The Outlandish Knight" of other +collections. The resemblance between the three ballads is general up +to a certain point, but a striking contrast occurs in the denouement, +for whereas in other versions the maiden contrives by a simple +stratagem to fling her false lover into the sea, where she leaves him +to his fate, in the following she falls a victim to his treachery. +His fitting end is, however, indicated in the remarkable stanza with +which the ballad closes.] + + A false knight wooed a maiden poor, + And his high halls left he + To stoop in at her cottage door, + When night left none to see. + + And, well-a-day, it is a tale + For pity too severe-- + A tale would melt the sternest eye, + And wake the deafest ear. + + He stole her heart, he stole her love, + 'T was all the wealth she had; + Her truth and fame likewise stole he, + + * * * * + + And they rode on, and they rode on; + Far on this pair did ride, + Till the maiden's heart with fear and love + Beat quick against her side. + + And on they rode till rocks grew high. + "Sir Knight, what have we here?" + "Unsaddle, maid, for here we stop:" + And death's tongue smote her ear. + + Some ruffian rude she took him now, + And wished she'd barred the door, + Nor was it one that she could read + Of having heard before. + + "Thou art not my true love," she said, + "But some rude robber loon; + He'd take me from the saddle bow, + Nor leave me to get down." + + "I ne'er was your true love," said he, + "For I'm more bold than true; + Though I'm the knight that came at dark + To kiss and toy with you." + + "I know you're not my love," said she, + "That came at night and wooed; + Although ye try and mock his speech + His way was ne'er so rude. + + He ne'er said word but called me dear, + And dear he is to me: + Ye spake as ye ne'er knew the word, + Rude ruffian as ye be. + + Ye never was my knight, I trow, + Ye pay me no regard, + But he would take my arm in his + If we but went a yard." + + "No matter whose true love I am; + I'm more than true to you, + For I'll ne'er wed a shepherd wench,-- + Although I came to woo." + + And on to the rock's top they walked, + Till they stood o'er the salt sea's brim. + "And there," said he, "'s your bridal bed, + Where you may sink or swim." + + A moonbeam shone upon his face, + The maid sunk at his feet, + For 't was her own false love she saw, + That once so fond did greet. + + "And did ye promise love for this? + Is the grave my priest to be? + And did ye bring this silken dress + To wed me with the sea?" + + "O never mind your dress," quoth he, + 'T is well to dress for sea: + Mermaids will love to see you fine; + Your bridesmaids they will be." + + "O let me cast this gown away, + It's brought no good to me, + And if my mother greets my clay + Too wretched will she be. + + For she, for my sad sake, would keep + This guilty bridal dress, + To break and tell her bursting heart + She had a daughter less." + + So off she threw her bridal gown, + Likewise her gold clasped shoon: + His looks frowned hard as any stone, + Hers pale turned as the moon. + + "O false, false knight you've wrapped me warm + Ere I was cold before, + And now you strip me unto death, + Although I'm out of door. + + O dash away those thistles rude, + That crowd about the shore; + They'll wound my tender feet, that ne'er + Went barefoot thus before. + + O dash those stinging nettles down, + And cut away the brier, + For deep they wound those lily arms + Which you did once admire." + + And he nor briers nor thistles cut, + Although she grieved full sore, + And he nor shed one single tear, + Nor kiss took evermore. + + She shrieked--and sank, and is at rest, + All in the deep, deep sea; + And home in base and scornful pride, + With haunted heart, rode he. + + Now o'er that rock there hangs a tree, + And chains do creak thereon; + And in those chains his memory hangs, + Though all beside is gone. + + + + +LOVE'S RIDDLE + + "Unriddle this riddle, my own Jenny love, + Unriddle this riddle for me, + And if ye unriddle the riddle aright, + A kiss your prize shall be, + And if ye riddle the riddle all wrong, + Ye're treble the debt to me: + + I'll give thee an apple without any core; + I'll give thee a cherry where stones never be; + I'll give thee a palace, without any door, + And thou shalt unlock it without any key; + I'll give thee a fortune that kings cannot give, + Nor any one take from thee." + + "How can there be apples without any core? + How can there be cherries where stones never be? + How can there be houses without any door? + Or doors I may open without any key? + How can'st thou give fortunes that kings cannot give, + When thou art no richer than me?" + + "My head is the apple without any core; + In cherries in blossom no stones ever be; + My mind is love's palace without any door, + Which thou can'st unlock, love, without any key. + My heart is the wealth, love, that kings cannot give, + Nor any one take it from thee. + + So there are love's riddles, my own Jenny love, + Ye cannot unriddle to me, + And for the one kiss you've so easily lost + I'll make ye give seven to me. + To kiss thee is sweet, but 't is sweeter by far + To be kissed, my dear Jenny, by thee. + + Come pay me the forfeit, my own Jenny love; + Thy kisses and cheeks are akin, + And for thy three sweet ones I'll give thee a score + On thy cheeks, and thy lips, and thy chin." + She laughed while he gave her, as much as to say, + "'T were better to lose than to win." + + + + +THE BANKS OF IVORY + + 'T was on the banks of Ivory, 'neath the hawthorn-scented shade, + Early one summer's morning, I met a lovely maid; + Her hair hung o'er her shoulders broad, her eyes like suns did + shine, + And on the banks of Ivory, O I wished the maid was mine. + + Her face it wore the beauty of heaven's own broken mould; + The world's first charm seemed living still; her curls like hanks + of gold + Hung waving, and her eyes glittered timid as the dew, + When by the banks of Ivory I swore I loved her true. + + "Kind sir," she said, "forsake me, while it is no pain to go, + For often after kissing and such wooing there comes woe; + And woman's heart is feeble; O I wish it were a stone; + So by the banks of Ivory I'd rather walk alone. + + For learned seems your gallant speech, and noble is your trim, + And thus to court an humble maid is just to please your whim; + So go and seek some lady fair, as high in pedigree, + Nor stoop so low by Ivory to flatter one like me." + + "In sooth, fair maid, you mock at me, for truth ne'er harboured + ill; + I will not wrong your purity; to love is all my will: + My hall looks over yonder groves; its lady you shall be, + For on the banks of Ivory I'm glad I met with thee." + + He put his hands unto his lips, and whistled loud and shrill, + And thirty six well-armed men came at their master's will, + Said he "I've flattered maids full long, but now the time is past, + And the bonny hills of Ivory a lady own at last. + + My steed's back ne'er was graced for a lady's seat before; + Fear not his speed; I'll guard thee, love, till we ride o'er the + moor, + To seek the priest, and wed, and love until the day we die." + So she that was but poor before is Lady Ivory. + + + + +ENDNOTES + +[1] +The Editor has pleasure in acknowledging the kindness of Miss James +of Theddingworth, and Miss Powell, of Thame. The former lady +obligingly sent him the manuscript of a lecture on "Dryden and Clare" +by her brother, the late Rev. T. James, of Theddingworth, and the +latter several letters written by Clare to Mr. Octavius Gilchrist. + +[2] +Among those who at this time or subsequently made Clare presents of +books were Lord Radstock, Bishop Marsh, Mrs. Emmerson, Sir Walter +Scott, Robert Bloomfield, Mr. Gilchrist, Lord Milton, Messrs. Taylor +& Ilessey, Messrs. Smith, Elder, & Co, Charles Lamb, Henry Eehnes, +Lady Sophia Pierrepoint, the Rev. H. P. Cary, E. V. Rippingille, +Allan Cunningham, Geo. Barley, Sir Charles A. Elton, William Gifford, +Mr. and Mrs. S. C. Hall, James Montgomery, E. Drury, Alaric A. Watts, +William Hone &c. + +Clare's little library, consisting of 500 volumes, was purchased from +his widow after his death, and placed in the Northampton Museum. + +[3] +Mr. S. C. Hall kindly informs me that Mrs. Emmerson "was a handsome, +graceful, and accomplished lady." Her letters show that she was +Clare's senior by eleven or twelve years.--ED. + +[4] +Coleridge's definition of watchmen. + +[5] +Mr. How's connection with the firm of Whittaker & Co. terminated +before the appearance of the "Rural Muse," but he brought out the +volume, through them, on his own account, and twenty years afterwards +transferred the copyright to Mr. Taylor, who, in 1854, contemplated +the re-issue of Clare's poems. + +[6] +The oft-repeated statements are incorrect, that the Northampton +County Lunatic Asylum is a "pauper asylum," that Clare was "a pauper +lunatic," and that Earl Fitzwilliam expressed the wish that he should +have "a pauper funeral." The Fitzwilliams have been kind and generous +friends of Clare and his family for nearly fifty years, and it is not +to be credited that any member of that house ever said anything of +the kind. It may be added that Earl Spencer continued his annuity of +L10 to Mrs. Clare until her death on Feb. 5th, 1871. In this +connection it should also be noted that the Rev. Charles Mossop, of +Etton, and Mr. and Mrs. Bellars, of Helpstone, took a lively interest +in the welfare of Mrs. Clare and her family, and in May, 1864, Mr. +Bellars purchased the poet's cottage at Helpstone and has set it +apart for charitable uses. Lastly, Mr. Joseph Whitaker, of London, in +whom is vested the copyright in Clare's poems, paid Mrs. Clare a +handsome annuity for the last six or seven years of her life. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Life and Remains of John Clare, by J. L. Cherry + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LIFE AND REMAINS OF JOHN CLARE *** + +This file should be named 9156.txt or 9156.zip + +Produced by Mark Sherwood, Delphine Lettau and Charles Aldarondo + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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