Gipsies
The snow falls deep; the forest lies alone;The boy goes hasty for his load of brakes,Then thinks upon the fire and hurries back;The gipsy knocks his hands and tucks them up,And seeks his squalid camp, half hid in snow,Beneath the oak which breaks away the wind,And bushes close in snow-like hovel warm;There tainted mutton wastes upon the coals,And the half-wasted dog squats close and rubs,Then feels the heat too strong, and goes aloof;He watches well, but none a bit can spare,And vainly waits the morsel thrown away.Tis thus they live—a picture to the place,A quiet, pilfering, unprotected race.
The Frightened Ploughman
I went in the fields with the leisure I got,The stranger might smile but I heeded him not,The hovel was ready to screen from a shower,And the book in my pocket was read in an hour.
The bird came for shelter, but soon flew away;The horse came to look, and seemed happy to stay;He stood up in quiet, and hung down his head,And seemed to be hearing the poem I read.
The ploughman would turn from his plough in the dayAnd wonder what being had come in his way,To lie on a molehill and read the day longAnd laugh out aloud when he'd finished his song.
The pewit turned over and stooped oer my headWhere the raven croaked loud like the ploughman ill-bred,But the lark high above charmed me all the day long,So I sat down and joined in the chorus of song.
The foolhardy ploughman I well could endure,His praise was worth nothing, his censure was poor,Fame bade me go on and I toiled the day longTill the fields where he lived should be known in my song.
Farewell
Farewell to the bushy clump close to the riverAnd the flags where the butter-bump hides in for ever;Farewell to the weedy nook, hemmed in by waters;Farewell to the miller's brook and his three bonny daughters;Farewell to them all while in prison I lie—In the prison a thrall sees nought but the sky.
Shut out are the green fields and birds in the bushes;In the prison yard nothing builds, blackbirds or thrushes,Farewell to the old mill and dash of the waters,To the miller and, dearer still, to his three bonny daughters.
In the nook, the large burdock grows near the green willow;In the flood, round the moorcock dashes under the billow;To the old mill farewell, to the lock, pens, and waters,To the miller himsel', and his three bonny daughters.
The Old Year
The Old Year's gone awayTo nothingness and night:We cannot find him all the dayNor hear him in the night:He left no footstep, mark or placeIn 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 seeHave more of substance when they're hereAnd 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 awayNo voices can recall:The eve of New Year's DayLeft the Old Year lost to all.
The Yellowhammer
When shall I see the white-thorn leaves agen,And yellowhammers gathering the dry bentsBy the dyke side, on stilly moor or fen,Feathered with love and nature's good intents?Rude is the tent this architect invents,Rural the place, with cart ruts by dyke side.Dead grass, horse hair, and downy-headed bentsTied to dead thistles—she doth well provide,Close to a hill of ants where cowslips bloomAnd shed oer meadows far their sweet perfume.In early spring, when winds blow chilly cold,The yellowhammer, trailing grass, will comeTo fix a place and choose an early home,With yellow breast and head of solid gold.
Autumn
The thistle-down's flying, though the winds are all still,On the green grass now lying, now mounting the hill,The spring from the fountain now boils like a pot;Through stones past the counting it bubbles red hot.
The ground parched and cracked is like overbaked bread,The greensward all wracked is, bents dried up and dead.The fallow fields glitter like water indeed,And gossamers twitter, flung from weed unto weed.
Hill tops like hot iron glitter bright in the sun,And the rivers we're eying burn to gold as they run;Burning hot is the ground, liquid gold is the air;Whoever looks round sees Eternity there.
Song
I peeled bits of straws and I got switches tooFrom the grey peeling willow as idlers do,And I switched at the flies as I sat all aloneTill my flesh, blood, and marrow was turned to dry bone.My illness was love, though I knew not the smart,But the beauty of love was the blood of my heart.Crowded places, I shunned them as noises too rudeAnd fled to the silence of sweet solitude.Where the flower in green darkness buds, blossoms, and fades,Unseen of all shepherds and flower-loving maids—The hermit bees find them but once and away.There I'll bury alive and in silence decay.
I looked on the eyes of fair woman too long,Till silence and shame stole the use of my tongue:When I tried to speak to her I'd nothing to say,So I turned myself round and she wandered away.When she got too far off, why, I'd something to tell,So I sent sighs behind her and walked to my cell.Willow switches I broke and peeled bits of straws,Ever lonely in crowds, in Nature's own laws—My ball room the pasture, my music the bees,My drink was the fountain, my church the tall trees.Who ever would love or be tied to a wifeWhen it makes a man mad all the days of his life?
The Winter's Come
Sweet chestnuts brown like soling leather turn;The larch trees, like the colour of the Sun;That paled sky in the Autumn seemed to burn,What a strange scene before us now does run—Red, brown, and yellow, russet, black, and dun;White thorn, wild cherry, and the poplar bare;The sycamore all withered in the sun.No leaves are now upon the birch tree there:All now is stript to the cold wintry air.
See, not one tree but what has lost its leaves—And yet the landscape wears a pleasing hue.The winter chill on his cold bed receivesFoliage which once hung oer the waters blue.Naked and bare the leafless trees repose.Blue-headed titmouse now seeks maggots rare,Sluggish and dull the leaf-strewn river flows;That is not green, which was so through the yearDark chill November draweth to a close.
Tis Winter, and I love to read indoors,When the Moon hangs her crescent up on high;While on the window shutters the wind roars,And storms like furies pass remorseless by.How pleasant on a feather bed to lie,Or, sitting by the fire, in fancy soarWith Dante or with Milton to regions high,Or read fresh volumes we've not seen before,Or oer old Burton's Melancholy pore.
Summer Winds
The wind waves oer the meadows greenAnd shakes my own wild flowersAnd shifts about the moving sceneLike the life of summer hours;The little bents with reedy head,The scarce seen shapes of flowers,All kink about like skeins of threadIn these wind-shaken hours.
All stir and strife and life and bustleIn everything around one sees;The rushes whistle, sedges rustle,The grass is buzzing round like bees;The butterflies are tossed aboutLike skiffs upon a stormy sea;The bees are lost amid the routAnd drop in [their] perplexity.
Wilt thou be mine, thou bonny lass?Thy drapery floats so gracefully;We'll walk along the meadow grass,We'll stand beneath the willow tree.We'll mark the little reeling beeAlong the grassy ocean rove,Tossed like a little boat at sea,And interchange our vows of love.
Bonny Lassie O!
O the evening's for the fair, bonny lassie O!To meet the cooler air and walk 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 seeThe shed I've made for thee,Bonny lassie O!
Tis 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 a woodbine peeping in, and the roses like thy skinBlushing, thy praise to win,Bonny lassie O!
I will meet thee there at e'en, bonny lassie O!When the bee sips in the bean, and grey willow branches lean,And the moonbeam looks between,Bonny lassie O!
Meet Me in the Green Glen
Love, meet me in the green glen,Beside the tall elm tree,Where the sweet briar smells so sweet agen;There come with me,Meet me in the green glen.
Meet me at the sunsetDown in the green glen,Where we've often metBy hawthorn tree and foxes' den,Meet me in the green glen.
Meet me in the green glen,By sweet briar bushes there;Meet me by your own sen,Where the wild thyme blossoms fair.Meet me in the green glen.
Meet me by the sweet briar,By the mole hill swelling there;When the West glows like a fireGod's crimson bed is there.Meet me in the green glen.
Love Cannot Die
In crime and enmity they lieWho sin and tell us love can die,Who say to us in slander's breathThat love belongs to sin and death.From heaven it came on angel's wingTo bloom on earth, eternal spring;In falsehood's enmity they lieWho sin and tell us love can die.
Twas born upon an angel's breast.The softest dreams, the sweetest rest,The brightest sun, the bluest sky,Are love's own home and canopy.The thought that cheers this heart of mineIs that of love; love so divineThey sin who say in slander's breathThat love belongs to sin and death.
The sweetest voice that lips contain,The sweetest thought that leaves the brain,The sweetest feeling of the heart—There's pleasure in its very smart.The scent of rose and cinnamonIs not like love remembered on;In falsehood's enmity they lieWho sin and tell us love can die.
Peggy
Peggy said good morning and I said good bye,When farmers dib the corn and laddies sow the rye.Young Peggy's face was common sense and I was rather shyWhen I met her in the morning when the farmers sow the rye.
Her half laced boots fit tightly as she tripped along the grass,And she set her foot so lightly where the early bee doth pass.Oh Peggy was a young thing, her face was common sense,I courted her about the spring and loved her ever thence.
Oh Peggy was the young thing and bonny as to size;Her lips were cherries of the spring and hazel were her eyes.Oh Peggy she was straight and tall as is the poplar tree,Smooth as the freestone of the wall, and very dear to me.
Oh Peggy's gown was chocolate and full of cherries white;I keep a bit on't for her sake and love her day and night.I drest myself just like a prince and Peggy went to woo,But she's been gone some ten years since, and I know not what to do.
The Crow Sat on the Willow
The crow sat on the willow treeA-lifting up his wings,And glossy was his coat to see,And loud the ploughman sings,"I love my love because I knowThe milkmaid she loves me";And hoarsely croaked the glossy crowUpon the willow tree."I love my love" the ploughman sung,And all the fields with music rung.
"I love my love, a bonny lass,She keeps her pails so bright,And blythe she trips the dewy grassAt morning and at night.A cotton dress her morning gown,Her face was rosy health:She traced the pastures up and downAnd nature was her wealth."He sung, and turned each furrow down,His sweetheart's love in cotton gown.
"My love is young and handsomeAs any in the town,She's worth a ploughman's ransomIn the drab cotton gown."He sang and turned his furrow oerAnd urged his team along,While on the willow as beforeThe old crow croaked his song:The ploughman sung his rustic layAnd sung of Phoebe all the day.
The crow he was in love no doubtAnd [so were] many things:The ploughman finished many a bout,And lustily he sings,"My love she is a milking maidWith red rosy cheek;Of cotton drab her gown was made,I loved her many a week."His milking maid the ploughman sungTill all the fields around him rung.
Now is Past
Nowis past—the happynowWhen we together rovedBeneath the wildwood's oak-tree boughAnd Nature said we loved.Winter's blastThenowsince then has crept between,And left us both apart.Winters that withered all the greenHave froze the beating heart.Now is past.
Nowis past since last we metBeneath the hazel bough;Before the evening sun was setHer shadow stretched below.Autumn's blastHas stained and blighted every bough;Wild strawberries like her lipsHave left the mosses green below,Her bloom's upon the hips.Now is past.
Nowis past, is changed agen,The woods and fields are painted new.Wild strawberries which both gathered then,None know now where they grew.The skys oercast.Wood strawberries faded from wood sides,Green leaves have all turned yellow;No Adelaide walks the wood rides,True love has no bed-fellow.Now is past.
Song
I wish I was where I would be,With love alone to dwell,Was I but her or she but me,Then love would all be well.I wish to send my thoughts to herAs quick as thoughts can fly,But as the winds the waters stirThe mirrors change and fly.
First Love
I ne'er was struck before that hourWith love so sudden and so sweet.Her face it bloomed like a sweet flowerAnd stole my heart away complete.My face turned pale as deadly pale,My legs refused to walk away,And when she looked "what could I ail?"My life and all seemed turned to clay.
And then my blood rushed to my faceAnd took my sight away.The trees and bushes round the placeSeemed midnight at noonday.I could not see a single thing,Words from my eyes did start;They spoke as chords do from the stringAnd blood burnt round my heart.
Are flowers the winter's choice?Is love's bed always snow?She seemed to hear my silent voiceAnd love's appeal to know.I never saw so sweet a faceAs that I stood before:My heart has left its dwelling-placeAnd can return no more.
Mary Bayfield
How beautiful the summer nightWhen birds roost on the mossy tree,When moon and stars are shining brightAnd home has gone the weary bee!Then Mary Bayfield seeks the glen,The white hawthorn and grey oak tree,And nought but heaven can tell me thenHow dear thy beauty is to me.
Dear is the dewdrop to the flower,The old wall to the weary bee,And silence to the evening hour,And ivy to the stooping tree.Dearer than these, than all beside,Than blossoms to the moss-rose tree,The maid who wanders by my side—Sweet Mary Bayfield is to me.
Sweet is the moonlight on the tree,The stars above the glassy lake,That from the bottom look at meThrough shadows of the crimping brake.Such are sweet things—but sweeter stillThan these and all beside I seeThe maid whose look my heart can thrill,My Mary Bayfield's look to me.
O Mary with the dark brown hair,The rosy cheek, the beaming eye,I would thy shade were ever near;Then would I never grieve or sigh.I love thee, Mary dearly love—There's nought so fair on earth I see,There's nought so dear in heaven above,As Mary Bayfield is to me.
The Maid of Jerusalem
Maid of Jerusalem, by the Dead Sea,I wandered all sorrowing thinking of thee,—Thy city in ruins, thy kindred deplored,All fallen and lost by the Ottoman's sword.
I saw thee sit there in disconsolate sighs,Where the hall of thy fathers a ruined heap lies.Thy fair finger showed me the place where they trod,In thy childhood where flourished the city of God.
The place where they fell and the scenes where they lie,In the tomb of Siloa—the tear in her eyeShe stifled: transfixed there it grew like a pearl,Beneath the dark lash of the sweet Jewish Girl.
Jerusalem is fallen! still thou art in bloom,As fresh as the ivy around the lone tomb,And fair as the lily of morning that wavesIts sweet-scented bells over desolate graves.
When I think of Jerusalem in kingdoms yet free,I shall think of its ruins and think upon thee;Thou beautiful Jewess, content thou mayest roam;A bright spot in Eden still blooms as thy home.
Song
I would not feign a single sighNor weep a single tear for thee:The soul within these orbs burns dry;A desert spreads where love should be.I would not be a worm to crawlA writhing suppliant in thy way;For love is life, is heaven, and allThe beams of an immortal day.
For sighs are idle things and vain,And tears for idiots vainly fall.I would not kiss thy face againNor round thy shining slippers crawl.Love is the honey, not the bee,Nor would I turn its sweets to gallFor all the beauty found in thee,Thy lily neck, rose cheek, and all.
I would not feign a single taleThy kindness or thy love to seek;Nor sigh for Jenny of the Vale,Her ruby smile or rosy cheek.I would not have a pain to ownFor those dark curls and those bright eyesA frowning lip, a heart of stone,False love and folly I despise.
Thou Flower of Summer
When in summer thou walkestIn the meads by the river,And to thyself talkest,Dost thou think of one ever—A lost and a lorn oneThat adores thee and loves thee?And when happy morn's gone,And nature's calm moves thee,Leaving thee to thy sleep like an angel at rest,Does the one who adores thee still live in thy breast?
Does nature eer give theeLove's past happy vision,And wrap thee and leave theeIn fancies elysian?Thy beauty I clung to,As leaves to the tree;When thou fair and young tooLooked lightly on me,Till love came upon thee like the sun to the westAnd shed its perfuming and bloom on thy breast.
The Swallow
Pretty swallow, once againCome and pass me in the rain.Pretty swallow, why so shy?Pass again my window by.
The horsepond where he dips his wings,The wet day prints it full of rings.The raindrops on his [ ] trackLodge like pearls upon his back.
Then again he dips his wingIn the wrinkles of the spring,Then oer the rushes flies again,And pearls roll off his back like rain.
Pretty little swallow, flyVillage doors and windows by,Whisking oer the garden palesWhere the blackbird finds the snails;
Whewing by the ladslove treeFor something only seen by thee;Pearls that on the red rose hingFall off shaken by thy wing.
On that low thatched cottage stop,In the sooty chimney pop,Where thy wife and familyEvery evening wait for thee.
The Sailor-Boy
Tis three years and a quarter since I left my own firesideTo go aboard a ship through love, and plough the ocean wide.I crossed my native fields, where the scarlet poppies grew,And the groundlark left his nest like a neighbour which I knew.
The pigeons from the dove cote cooed over the old lane,The crow flocks from the oakwood went flopping oer the grain;Like lots of dear old neighbours whom I shall see no moreThey greeted me that morning I left the English shore.
The sun was just a-rising above the heath of furze,And the shadows grow to giants; that bright ball never stirs:There the shepherds lay with their dogs by their side,And they started up and barked as my shadow they espied.
A maid of early morning twirled her mop upon the moor;I wished her my farewell before she closed the door.My friends I left behind me for other places new,Crows and pigeons all were strangers as oer my head they flew.
Trees and bushes were all strangers, the hedges and the lanes,The steeples and the houses and broad untrodden plains.I passed the pretty milkmaid with her red and rosy face;I knew not where I met her, I was strange to the place.
At last I saw the ocean, a pleasing sight to me:I stood upon the shore of a mighty glorious sea.The waves in easy motion went rolling on their way,English colours were a-flying where the British squadron lay.
I left my honest parents, the church clock and the village;I left the lads and lasses, the labour and the tillage;To plough the briny ocean, which soon became my joy—I sat and sang among the shrouds, a lonely sailor-boy.
The Sleep of Spring
O for that sweet, untroubled restThat 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 beenUpon my mother's breastSweet Nature's garb of verdant greenTo 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 glenThat blest my happiest hours.Here prison injures health and me:I love sweet freedom and the free.
The crows upon the swelling hills,The cows upon the lea,Sheep feeding by the pasture rills,Are ever dear to me,Because sweet freedom is their mate,While I am lone and desolate.
I loved the winds when I was young,When life was dear to me;I loved the song which Nature sung,Endearing liberty;I loved the wood, the vale, the stream,For there my boyhood used to dream.
There even toil itself was play;Twas pleasure een to weep;Twas joy to think of dreams by day,The beautiful of sleep.When shall I see the wood and plain,And dream those happy dreams again?
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 maidAs 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 then 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 plainThan those rose cheeks and those bright eyes.I wake again, and all aloneSits 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?
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 mole-hills and the bushes, and the clear brook fringed with rushesTo fill the evening pail, bonny Mary O!
The cowpond once agen, bonny Mary O!Lies dimpled like thy sen, bonny Mary O!Where the gnat swarms fall and rise under evening's 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!
Where She Told Her Love
I saw her crop a roseRight early in the day,And I went to kiss the placeWhere she broke the rose awayAnd I saw the patten ringsWhere she oer the stile had gone,And I love all other thingsHer bright eyes look upon.If she looks upon the hedge or up the leafing tree,The whitethorn or the brown oak are made dearer things to me.
I have a pleasant hillWhich I sit upon for hours,Where she cropt some sprigs of thymeAnd other little flowers;And she muttered as she did itAs does beauty in a dream,And I loved her when she hid itOn her breast, so like to cream,Near the brown mole on her neck that to me a diamond shoneThen my eye was like to fire, and my heart was like to stone.
There is a small green placeWhere cowslips early curled,Which on Sabbath day I trace,The dearest in the world.A little oak spreads oer 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.
Autumn
I love the fitful gust that shakesThe casement all the day,And from the glossy elm tree takesThe faded leaves away,Twirling them by the window paneWith thousand others down the lane.
I love to see the shaking twigDance till the shut of eve,The sparrow on the cottage rig,Whose chirp would make believeThat Spring was just now flirting byIn Summer's lap with flowers to lie.
I love to see the cottage smokeCurl upwards through the trees,The pigeons nestled round the coteOn November days like these;The cock upon the dunghill crowing,The mill sails on the heath a-going.
The feather from the raven's breastFalls on the stubble lea,The acorns near the old crow's nestDrop pattering down the tree;The grunting pigs, that wait for all,Scramble and hurry where they fall.
Invitation to Eternity
Say, wilt thou go with me, sweet maid,Say, maiden, wilt thou go with meThrough the valley-depths of shade,Of bright and dark obscurity;Where the path has lost its way,Where the sun forgets the day,Where there's nor light nor life to see,Sweet maiden, wilt thou go with me?
Where stones will turn to flooding streams,Where plains will rise like ocean's waves,Where life will fade like visioned dreamsAnd darkness darken into caves,Say, maiden, wilt thou go with meThrough this sad non-identityWhere parents live and are forgot,And sisters live and know us not?
Say, maiden, wilt thou go with meIn this strange death of life to be,To live in death and be the same,Without this life or home or name,At once to be and not to be—That was and is not—yet to seeThings pass like shadows, and the skyAbove, below, around us lie?
The land of shadows wilt thou trace,Nor look nor know each other's face;The present marred with reason gone,And past and present both as one?Say, maiden, can thy life be ledTo join the living and the dead?Then trace thy footsteps on with me:We are wed to one eternity.
The Maple Tree
The maple with its tassel flowers of green,That turns to red a staghorn-shaped seed,Just spreading out its scolloped leaves is seen,Of yellowish hue, yet beautifully green;Bark ribbed like corderoy in seamy screed,That farther up the stem is smoother seen,Where the white hemlock with white umbel flowersUp each spread stoven to the branches towers;And moss around the stoven spreads, dark green,And blotched leaved orchis, and the blue bell flowers;Thickly they grow and neath the leaves are seen;I love to see them gemmed with morning hours,I love the lone green places where they be,And the sweet clothing of the maple tree.
House or Window Flies
These little window dwellers, in cottages and halls, were always entertaining to me; after dancing in the window all day from sunrise to sunset they would sip of the tea, drink of the beer, and eat of the sugar, and be welcome all summer long. They look like things of mind or fairies, and seem pleased or dull as the weather permits. In many clean cottages and genteel houses, they are allowed every liberty to creep, fly, or do as they like; and seldom or ever do wrong. In fact they are the small or dwarfish portion of our own family, and so many fairy familiars that we know and treat as one of ourselves.
Dewdrops
The dewdrops on every blade of grass are so much like silver drops that I am obliged to stoop down as I walk to see if they are pearls, and those sprinkled on the ivy-woven beds of primroses underneath the hazels, whitethorns and maples are so like gold beads that I stooped down to feel if they were hard, but they melted from my finger. And where the dew lies on the primrose, the violet and whitethorn leaves they are emerald and beryl, yet nothing more than the dews of the morning on the budding leaves; nay, the road grasses are covered with gold and silver beads, and the further we go the brighter they seem to shine, like solid gold and silver. It is nothing more than the sun's light and shade upon them in the dewy morning; every thorn-point and every bramble-spear has its trembling ornament: till the wind gets a little brisker, and then all is shaken off, and all the shining jewelry passes away into a common spring morning full of budding leaves, primroses, violets, vernal speedwell, bluebell and orchis, and commonplace objects.
Fragment
The cataract, whirling down the precipice,Elbows down rocks and, shouldering, thunders through.Roars, howls, and stifled murmurs never cease;Hell and its agonies seem hid below.Thick rolls the mist, that smokes and falls in dew;The trees and greenwood wear the deepest green.Horrible mysteries in the gulph stare through,Roars of a million tongues, and none knows what they mean.
From "A Rhapsody"
Sweet solitude, what joy to be alone—In wild, wood-shady dell to stay for hours.Twould soften hearts if they were hard as stoneTo see glad butterflies and smiling flowers.Tis pleasant in these quiet lonely places,Where not the voice of man our pleasure mars,To see the little bees with coal black facesGathering sweets from little flowers like stars.
The wind seems calling, though not understood.A voice is speaking; hark, it louder calls.It echoes in the far-outstretching wood.First twas a hum, but now it loudly squalls;And then the pattering rain begins to fall,And it is hushed—the fern leaves scarcely shake,The tottergrass it scarcely stirs at all.And then the rolling thunder gets awake,And from black clouds the lightning flashes break.
The sunshine's gone, and now an April eveningCommences with a dim and mackerel sky.Gold light and woolpacks in the west are leaving,And leaden streaks their splendid place supply.Sheep ointment seems to daub the dead-hued sky,And night shuts up the lightsomeness of day,All dark and absent as a corpse's eye.Flower, tree, and bush, like all the shadows grey,In leaden hues of desolation fade away.
Tis May; and yet the March flower DandelionIs still in bloom among the emerald grass,Shining like guineas with the sun's warm eye on—We almost think they are gold as we pass,Or fallen stars in a green sea of grass.They shine in fields, or waste grounds near the town.They closed like painter's brush when even was.At length they turn to nothing else but down,While the rude winds blow off each shadowy crown.
Secret Love
I hid my love when young till ICouldn't bear the buzzing of a fly;I hid my love to my despiteTill I could not bear to look at light:I dare not gaze upon her faceBut left her memory in each place;Where eer I saw a wild flower lieI kissed and bade my love good bye.
I met her in the greenest dellsWhere dewdrops pearl the wood blue bellsThe lost breeze kissed her bright blue eye,The bee kissed and went singing by,A sunbeam found a passage there,A gold chain round her neck so fair;As secret as the wild bee's songShe lay there all the summer long.
I hid my love in field and townTill een the breeze would knock me down,The bees seemed singing ballads oer,The fly's bass turned a lion's roar;And even silence found a tongue,To haunt me all the summer long;The riddle nature could not proveWas nothing else but secret love.
Bantry Bay
On the eighteenth of October we lay in Bantry Bay,All ready to set sail, with a fresh and steady gale:A fortnight and nine days we in the harbour lay,And no breeze ever reached us or strained a single sail.Three ships of war had we, and the great guns loaded all;But our ships were dead and beaten that had never feared a foe.The winds becalmed around us cared for no cannon ball;They locked us in the harbour and would not let us go.
On the nineteenth of October, by eleven of the clock,The sky turned black as midnight and a sudden storm came on—Awful and sudden—and the cables felt the shock;Our anchors they all broke away and every sheet was gone.The guns fired off amid the strife, but little hope had we;The billows broke above the ship and left us all below.The crew with one consent cried "Bear further out to sea,"But the waves obeyed no sailor's call, and we knew not where to go.
She foundered on a rock, while we clambered up the shrouds,And staggered like a mountain drunk, wedged in the waves almost.The red hot boiling billows foamed in the stooping clouds,And in that fatal tempest the whole ship's crew were lost.Have pity for poor mariners, ye landsmen, in a storm.O think what they endure at sea while safe at home you stay.All ye that sleep on beds at night in houses dry and warm,O think upon the whole ship's crew, all lost at Bantry Bay.
Peggy's the Lady of the Hall
And will she leave the lowly clownsFor silk and satins gay,Her woollen aprons and drab gownsFor lady's cold array?And will she leave the wild hedge rose,The redbreast and the wren,And will she leave her Sunday beausAnd milk shed in the glen?And will she leave her kind friends allTo be the Lady of the Hall?
The cowslips bowed their golden drops,The white thorn white as sheets;The lamb agen the old ewe stops,The wren and robin tweets.And Peggy took her milk pails still,And sang her evening song,To milk her cows on Cowslip HillFor half the summer long.But silk and satins rich and rareAre doomed for Peggy still to wear.
But when the May had turned to haws,The hedge rose swelled to hips,Peggy was missed without a cause,And left us in eclipse.The shepherd in the hovel milks,Where builds the little wren,And Peggy's gone, all clad in silks—Far from the happy glen,From dog-rose, woodbine, clover, allTo be the Lady of the Hall.
I Dreamt of Robin
I opened the casement this morn at starlight,And, the moment I got out of bed,The daisies were quaking about in their whiteAnd the cowslip was nodding its head.The grass was all shivers, the stars were all bright,And Robin that should come at e'en—I thought that I saw him, a ghost by moonlight,Like a stalking horse stand on the green.
I went bed agen and did nothing but dreamOf Robin and moonlight and flowers.He stood like a shadow transfixed by a stream,And I couldn't forget him for hours.I'd just dropt asleep when I dreamed Robin spoke,And the casement it gave such a shake,As if every pane in the window was broke;Such a patter the gravel did make.
So I up in the morning before the cock crewAnd to strike me a light I sat down.I saw from the door all his track in the dewAnd, I guess, called "Come in and sit down."And one, sure enough, tramples up to the door,And who but young Robin his sen?And ere the old folks were half willing to stirWe met, kissed, and parted agen.
The Peasant Poet
He loved the brook's soft sound,The swallow swimming by.He loved the daisy-covered ground,The cloud-bedappled sky.To him the dismal storm appearedThe very voice of God;And when the evening rack was rearedStood Moses with his rod.And everything his eyes surveyed,The insects in the brake,Were creatures God Almighty made,He loved them for His sake—A silent man in life's affairs,A thinker from a boy,A peasant in his daily cares,A poet in his joy.
To John Clare
Well, honest John, how fare you now at home?The spring is come, and birds are building nests;The old cock robin to the stye is come,With olive feathers and its ruddy breast;And the old cock, with wattles and red comb,Struts with the hens, and seems to like some best,Then crows, and looks about for little crumbs,Swept out by little folks an hour ago;The pigs sleep in the stye; the bookman comes—The little boy lets home-close nesting go,And pockets tops and taws, where daisies bloom,To look at the new number just laid down,With lots of pictures, and good stories too,And Jack the Giant-killer's high renown.
Feb.10, 1860.
Early Spring
The Spring is come, and Spring flowers coming too,The crocus, patty kay, the rich hearts' ease;The polyanthus peeps with blebs of dew,And daisy flowers; the buds swell on the trees;While oer the odd flowers swim grandfather beesIn the old homestead rests the cottage cow;The dogs sit on their haunches near the pail,The least one to the stranger growls "bow wow,"Then hurries to the door and cocks his tail,To knaw the unfinished bone; the placid cowLooks oer the gate; the thresher's lumping flailIs all the noise the spring encounters now.
May28, 1860.
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 of 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 byClock-a-clay keeps warm and dry.
Day by day and night by night,All the week I hide from sigh;In the cowslip pips I lie,In rain and dew 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.
Little Trotty Wagtail
Little trotty wagtail he went in the rain,And tittering, tottering sideways he neer 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.
Graves of Infants
Infant' graves are steps of angels, whereEarth's brightest gems of innocence repose.God is their parent, and 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 an 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 oer them, and the gale gently sighs
Their lives were nothing but a sunny shower,Melting on flowers as tears melt from the eye.Their deaths were dew-drops on Heaven's amaranth bower,And tolled on flowers as Summer gales went by.They bowed and trembled, and they left no sigh,And the sun smiled to show their 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.
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 oer the green.
His eye glanced at the white-nosed bee;He knew those children of the Spring:When he was well and on the leaHe held one in his hands to sing,Which filled his heart with glee.
Infants, the children of the Spring!How can an infant dieWhen 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 nightThat in the green fields grew,As childhood's sweet delight.
And then he shut his little eyes,And flowers would notice not;Birds' 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 lieHis soul seemed with the free,He died so quietly.
Love Lives Beyond the Tomb
Love lives beyondThe tomb, the earth, which fades like dew!I love the fond,The faithful, and the true.
Love lives in sleep,The happiness of healthy dreams:Eve's dews may weep,But love delightful seems.
Tis seen in flowers,And in the morning's pearly dew;In earth's green hours,And in the heaven's eternal blue.
Tis heard in SpringWhen light and sunbeams, warm and kind,On angel's wingBring love and music to the mind.
And where is voice,So young, so beautiful, and sweetAs Nature's choice,Where Spring and lovers meet?
Love lives beyondThe tomb, the earth, the flowers, and dew.I love the fond,The faithful, young and true.
I Am
I AM: yet what I am none cares or knows,My friends forsake me like a memory lost;I am the self-consumer of my woes,They rise and vanish in oblivious host,Like shades in love and death's oblivion lost;And yet I am, and live with shadows tost
Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,Into the living sea of waking dreams,Where there is neither sense of life nor joys,But the vast shipwreck of my life's esteems;And een the dearest—that I loved the best—Are strange—nay, rather stranger than the rest.
I long for scenes where man has never trod;A place where woman never smiled or wept;There to abide with my Creator, GOD,And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept:Untroubling and untroubled where I lie;The grass below—above the vaulted sky.
Fragment
A Specimen of Clare's rough drafts
In a huge cloud of mountain hueThe sun sets dark nor shudders throughOne single beam to shine againTis night already in the lane
The settled clouds in ridges lieAnd some swell mountains calm and high
Clouds rack and drive before the windIn shapes and forms of every kindLike waves that rise without the roarsAnd rocks that guard untrodden shoresNow castles pass majestic byeAnd ships in peaceful havens lieThese gone ten thousand shapes ensueFor ever beautiful and new
The scattered clouds lie calm and stillAnd day throws gold on every hillTheir thousand heads in glorys runAs each were worlds and owned a sunThe rime it clings to every thingIt beards the early buds of springThe mossy pales the orchard sprayAre feathered with its silver grey
Rain drizzles in the face so smallWe scarce can say it rains at all
The cows turned to the pelting rainNo longer at their feed remainBut in the sheltering hovel hidesThat from two propping dotterels strides
The sky was hilled with red and blueWith lighter shadows waking throughTill beautiful and beaming dayShed streaks of gold for miles away
The linnet stopt her song to cleanHer spreading wings of yellow greenAnd turn his head as liking wellTo smooth the dropples as they fell
One scarce could keep one's path arightFrom gazing upward at the sight
The boys for wet are forced to passThe cuckoo flowers among the grassTo hasten on as well they mayFor hedge or tree or stack of hayWhere they for shelter can abideSafe seated by its sloping sideThat by the blackthorn thicket cowersA shelter in the strongest showers
The gardens golden gilliflowersAre paled with drops of amber showers
Dead leaves from hedges flirt aboutThe chaff from barn doors winnows outAnd down without a wing to flyeAs fast as bees goes sailing byeThe feather finds a wing to flyeAnd dust in wirl puffs winnows bye
When the rain at midday stopsSpangles glitter in the dropsAnd as each thread a sunbeam wasCobwebs glitter in the grass
The sheep all loaded with the rainTry to shake it off in vainAnd ere dryed by wind and sunThe load will scarcely let them run
The shepherds foot is sodden throughAnd leaves will clout his brushing shoeThe buttercups in gold alloyedAnd daiseys by the shower destroyed
The sun is overcast clouds lieAnd thicken over all the sky
Crows morn and eve will flock in crowdsTo fens and darken like the cloudsSo many is their cumberous flightThe dull eve darkens into night
Clouds curl and curdle blue and greyAnd dapple the young summers day
Through the torn woods the violent rainRoars and rattles oer the plainAnd bubbles up in every poolTill dykes and ponds are brimming full
The thickening clouds move slowly onTill all the many clouds are oneThat spreads oer all the face of dayAnd turns the sunny shine to grey
Now the meadow water smokesAnd hedgerows dripping oaksFitter patter all aroundAnd dimple the once dusty groundThe spinners threads about the weedsAre hung with little drops in beadsClover silver green becomesAnd purple blue surrounds the plumbsAnd every place breaths fresh and fairWhen morning pays her visit there
The day is dull the heron trailsOn flapping wings like heavy sailsAnd oer the mead so lowly swingsShe fans the herbage with her wings
The waterfowl with suthering wingsDive down the river splash and springUp to the very clouds againThat sprinkle scuds of coming rainThat flye and drizzle all the dayTill dripping grass is turned to grey
The various clouds that move or lyeLike mighty travellers in the skyAll mountainously ridged or curledThat may have travelled round the world
The water ruckles into wavesAnd loud the neighbouring woodland ravesAll telling of the coming stormThat fills the village with alarm
Ere yet the sun is two hours highWinds find all quarters of the skyWith sudden shiftings all aroundAnd now the grass upon the groundAnd now the leaves they wirl and wirlWith many a flirting flap and curlJOHN CLARE: A BIBLIOGRAPHICAL OUTLINE
Works
1
POEMS DESCRIPTIVE OF RURAL LIFE AND SCENERY. By John Clare, a Northamptonshire Peasant. London: Printed for Taylor and Hessey. 1820. 12mo. Pp. xxxii, 222. The second and third editions, 1820; excisions and alterations occur, but not in all copies. Fourth edition, 1821.
2
THE VILLAGE MINSTREL AND OTHER POEMS. Taylor and Hessey. 1821. Two volumes 12mo. Pp. xxviii, 216; vi, 211. Second edition, 1823. The two volumes were also, at a later date, bound in one cover lettered "Poetic Souvenir."
3
THE SHEPHERD'S CALENDAR; WITH VILLAGE STORIES, AND OTHER POEMS.Taylor. 1827. 12mo. Pp. viii, 238.
4
THE RURAL MUSE. London: Whittaker & Co. 1835. 12mo. Pp. x, 175.
Biographies and Selections
5
THE LIFE OF JOHN CLARE. By Frederick Martin, London and Cambridge:Macmillan & Co. 1865. Fcp. 8vo. Pp. viii, 301.
6
LIFE AND REMAINS OF JOHN CLARE. By J. L. Cherry. London: Frederick Warne & Co. Northampton: J. Taylor & Son. 1873. (Issued in theChandos Classics, 1873-1877.) Fcap. 8vo. Pp. xiii, 349.
7
POEMS BY JOHN CLARE, selected and introduced by Norman Gale. With aBibliography by C. Ernest Smith. Geo. E. Over, Rugby, 1901. Fcp. 8vo.Pp. 206.
8
POEMS BY JOHN CLARE, edited with an Introduction by Arthur Symons.Frowde, London, 1908. I2mo. Pp. 208.
9
NORTHAMPTONSHIRE BOTANOLOGIA. JOHN CLARE. By G. Claridge Druce. Pamphlet: no printer's name. 1912. (It includes a memoir, and a classification of the flowers described in Clare's poems.)
Miscellaneous Clare Volumes
10
FOUR LETTERS from the Rev. W. Allen, to the Right Honourable LordRadstock, G.C.B., on the Poems of John Clare, the NorthamptonshirePeasant. Hatchards' (1823). 12mo. Pp. 77.
11
THREE VERY INTERESTING LETTERS (two in curious rhyme) by the celebrated poets Clare, Cowper, and Bird. With an Appendix (Clare's "Familiar Epistle to a Friend"). ff.13. Charles Clarke's private press, Great Totham, 1837. 8vo. Only 25 copies printed. THE JOHN CLARE CENTENARY EXHIBITION CATALOGUE. Introduction by C. Dack. Peterborough Natural History Society, 1893. Pamphlet. Pp. viii, 28. An edition of 50 copies was printed on large paper.
Clare's Contributions to Periodicals
A detailed list of Clare's work in the magazines is a lengthy affair.His main connections were with the "London Magazine" (1821-1823),"European Magazine" (1825, 1826), "Literary Magnet" (1826, 1827),"Spirit and Manners of the Age" (1828, 1829), the publications ofWilliam Hone, "Athenaeum" (1831), "Englishman's Magazine" (1831),"Literary Receptacle" (1835). He contributed once or twice to the"Sheffield Iris," "Morning Post," and the "Champion"; and much of hisbest work seems to have been printed in local papers, such as the"Stamford Bee." The annuals often included short poems by him: the"Amulet," "Forget-Me-Not," "Friendship's Offering," "Gem," "JuvenileForget-Me-Not," "Literary Souvenir," etc.
Clare's magazine writings are not always signed, and in the annuals his poems often bear no ascription except "By the Northamptonshire Peasant." After 1837 he appears not to have contributed poems to any journals other than local; though Cyrus Redding in the "English Journal," 1841, gives many of his later verses.
Incidental Reference Volumes
ALLIBONE, S. A.—Dictionary of English Literature.
ASKHAM, JOHN—Sonnets on the Months ("To John Clare," p. 185)—1863.
BAKER, Miss A. E.—Glossary of Northamptonshire Words and Phrases(Clare contributed)—1854.
CARY, H. F.—MEMOIR OF; ii. 52-53, 94-95—1847.
CHAMBERS, R.—Cyclopaedia of English Literature, ii. 386-390—1861.
DE QUINCZY, T.—London Reminiscences, pp. 143-145—1897.
DE WILDE, G.—Rambles Round About, and Poems: pp. 30-49—1872.
DOBELL, B.—Sidelights on Charles Lamb—1903.
(GALIGNANI'S)—Living Poets of England: pp.172-174—1827.
HALL, S. C.—Book of Gems: pp. 162-166—1838.—A Book of Memories: pp. 107-109.
HEATH, RICHARD—The English Peasant: pp. 292-319—1893.
HOLLAND, J.—James Montgomery: iv. 96, 175—1854.
HOOD, E. P.—The Peerage of Poverty—1870.
HOOD, THOMAS—Works, ii. 374-377—1882.
LAMB, CHARLES—LETTERS (Ed. W. Macdonald), ii. 22—1903.
LOMBROSO, CESARE—The Man of Genius, 162, 205—1891.
MEN OF THE TIME—earlier issues.
MILES, A. H.—Poets and Poetry of the Nineteenth Century. Vol. "Keats to Lytton," pp. 79-106 (by Roden Noel)—1905.
MITFORD, M. R.—Recollections of a Literary Life. I. 147-163—1857.
REDDING, CYRUS—Fifty Years' Recollections: ii. 211—1858.—Past Celebrities Whom I Have Known: ii. 132sq.
STODDARD, R. H.—Under the Evening Lamp: pp.120-134—1893.
SYMONS, ARTHUR—The Romantic Movement in English Poetry: pp. 288-293—1908.
TAYLOR, JOHN—Bibliotheca Northantonesis—1869.
THOMAS, EDWARD—Feminine Influence on the Poets—1908.—A Literary Pilgrim in England—1917.
WALKER, HUGH—The Literature of the Victorian Era: pp. 241-245—1913.
WILSON, JOHN—Recreations of Christopher North, i. 313-318—1842.
Magazine Articles, &c.
1820 Analectic MagazineJune Antijacobin ReviewApril Eclectic ReviewFebruary Gentleman's MagazineJanuary, March London MagazineJuly Monthly MagazineMarch New MonthlyJanuary, May New TimesFebruary Northamptonshire County MagazineMay Quarterly Review
1821 October Ackermann's RepositoryJune British CriticEclectic ReviewNovember European MagazineGentleman's MagazineOctober Literary ChronicleOctober Literary GazetteNovember London MagazineMonthly Review
1822 January Eclectic Review
1823 London Magazine
1827 June Ackermann's RepositoryJune Eclectic ReviewJohn BullLiterary ChronicleMarch Literary GazetteMorning Chronicle
1829 British Almanac and Companion
1831 November Blackwood's1832 October The AlfredAthenaeumAugust True Sun
1835 July 25 AthenaeumAugust Blackwood'sJuly 25 Literary GazetteNew Monthly
1840 June AthenaeumJune Times
1841 May English JournalMay Gentleman's Magazine
1852 August 28 Notes and Queries
1855 March 31 Illustrated London News