Clare became patriarchal in appearance; and his powers failed more rapidly, until he could walk no longer. A wheel-chair was procured for him, that he might still enjoy the garden and the open air. On Good Friday in 1864 he was taken out for the last time; afterwards he could not be moved, yet he would still manage to reach his window-seat; then came paralysis, and on the afternoon of May the 20th, 1864,
His soul seemed with the free,He died so quietly.
His last years had been spent in some degree of happiness, and from officials and fellow-patients he had received gentleness, and sympathy, and even homage. It has been said, not once nor twice but many times, that in the asylum he was never visited by his wife, nor by any of his children except the youngest son, Charles, who came once. That any one should condemn Patty for her absence is surely presumptuous in the extreme: she was now keeping her home together with the greatest difficulty, nor can it be known what deeper motives influenced relationships between wife and husband, even if the name of Mary Joyce meant nothing. That the children came to see their father whenever they could, the letters given above signify: but, if the opportunities were not many, there were the strongest of reasons. Frederick died in 1843, just after Clare's incarceration: Anna in the year following: Charles the youngest, a boy of great promise, in 1852: and Sophia in 1863. William, and John who went to Wales, went when occasion came and when they could afford the expense of the journey: Eliza, who survived last of Clare's children and who most of all understood him and his poetry, was unable through illness to leave her home for many years, yet she went once to see him. The isolation which found its expression in "I Am" was another matter: it was the sense of futility, of not having fulfilled his mission, of total eclipse that spoke there. N. P. Willis, perhaps the Howitts, and a few more worthies came for brief hours to see Clare, rather as a phenomenon than as a poet; but Clare, who had sat with Elia and his assembled host, who had held his own with the finest brains of his time and had written such a cornucopia of genuine poetry now lying useless in his cottage at Northborough, cannot but have regarded the Northampton Asylum as "the shipwreck of his own esteems."
Clare was buried on May 25th, 1864, where he had wished to be, in the churchyard at Helpston. The letter informing Mrs. Clare of his death was delivered at the wrong address, and did not eventually reach her at Northborough before Clare's coffin arrived at Helpston; scarcely giving her time to attend the funeral the next day. Indeed, had the sexton at Helpston been at home, the bearers would have urged him to arrange for the funeral at once; in his absence, they left the coffin in an inn parlour for the night, and a scandal was barely prevented. A curious superstition grew up locally that it was not Clare's body which was buried in that coffin: and among those who attended the last rite, not one but found it almost impossible to connect this episode with those days forty years before, when so many a notable man was seen making through Helpston village for the cottage of the eager-eyed, brilliant, unwearying young poet who was the talk of London. After such a long silence and oblivion, even the mention of John Clare's name in his native village awoke odd feelings of unreality.
The poetry of John Clare, originally simple description of the country and countrymen, or ungainly imitation of the poetic tradition as he knew it through Allan Ramsay, Burns, and the popular writers of the eighteenth century, developed into a capacity for exact and complete nature-poetry and for self-expression. Thoroughly awake to all the finest influences in life and in literature, he devoted himself to poetry in every way. Imagination, colour, melody and affection were his by nature; where he lacked was in dramatic impulse and in passion, and sometimes his incredible facility in verse, which enabled him to complete poem after poem without pause or verbal difficulty, was not his best friend. He possesses a technique of his own; his rhymes are based on pronunciation, the Northamptonshire pronunciation to which his ear had been trained, and thus he accurately joins "stoop" and "up," or "horse" and "cross"—while his sonnets are free and often unique in form. In spite of his individual manner, there is no poet who in his nature-poetry so completely subdues self and mood and deals with the topic for its own sake. That he is by no means enslaved to nature-poetry, the variety of the poems in this selection must show.
His Asylum Poems are distinct from most of the earlier work. They are often the expressions of his love tragedy, yet strange to say they are not often sad or bitter: imagination conquers, and the tragedy vanishes. They are rhythmically new, the movement having changed from that of quiet reflection to one of lyrical enthusiasm: even nature is now seen in brighter colours and sung in subtler music. Old age bringing ever intenser recollection and childlike vision found Clare writing the light lovely songs which bear no slightest sign of the cruel years. So near in these later poems are sorrow and joy that they awaken deeper feelings and instincts than almost any other lyrics can—emotions such as he shares with us in his "Adieu!":
I left the little birdsAnd sweet lowing of the herds,And couldn't find out words,Do you see,To say to them good-bye,Where the yellowcups do lie;So heaving a deep sigh,Took to sea….
In this sort of pathos, so indefinable and intimate, William Blake and only he can be said to resemble him.
*Ballad*SongSummer EveningWhat is Life*The Maid of Ocram, or Lord GregoryThe Gipsy's CampImpromptuThe Wood-cutter's Night SongRural Morning SongThe Cross Roads; or, The Haymaker's StoryIn Hilly-WoodThe Ants*To Anna Three Years Old*From "The Parish: A Satire"Nobody Cometh to Woo*Distant Hills
*The Stranger*Song's Eternity*The Old Cottagers*Young Lambs*Early Nightingale*Winter Walk*The Soldier*Ploughman Singing*Spring's Messengers*Letter in Verse*Snow Storm*Firwood*Grasshoppers*Field Path*Country LetterFrom "January"November*The Fens*Spear Thistle*Idle Fame*Approaching Night*SongFarewell and Defiance to LoveTo John MiltonThe Vanities of LifeDeath*The Fallen Elm*Sport in the Meadows*DeathAutumnSummer ImagesA World for LoveLoveNature's Hymn to the DeityDecay*The Cellar DoorThe FlittingRemembrancesThe CottagerInsectsSudden ShowerEvening PrimroseThe Shepherd's TreeWild BeesThe Firetail's NestThe Fear of FlowersSummer EveningEmmonsail's Heath in WinterPleasures of FancyTo NapoleonThe SkylarkThe FloodThe Thrush's NestNovember Earth's Eternity*Autumn*Signs of Winter*Nightwind*Birds in Alarm*Dyke Side*Badger*The Fox*The Vixen*Turkeys*The Poet'sDeathThe Beautiful Stranger*The Tramp*Farmer's Boy*Braggart*Sunday Dip*Merry Maid*Scandal*Quail's Nest*Market Day*Stonepit*"The Lass with the Delicate Air"*The Lout*Hodge*Farm Breakfast*Love and Solitude
ASYLUM POEMS—*Gipsies*The Frightened Ploughman*Farewell The Old Year*The Yellowhammer*Autumn*Song*The Winter's Come*Summer WindsBonnie Lassie O!*Meet Me in the Green Glen*Love Cannot Die*Peggy*The Crow Sat on the Willow*Now is Past*Song*First Love*Mary Bayfield*The Maid of Jerusalem*Song*Thou Flower of Summer*The Swallow*The Sailor-BoyThe Sleep of SpringMary BatemanBonny Mary O!Where She Told Her LoveAutumn*Invitation to Eternity*The Maple Tree*House or Window Flies*Dewdrops*Fragment*From "A Rhapsody"*Secret Love*Bantry Bay*Peggy's the Lady of the Hall*I Dreamt of Robin*The Peasant Poet*To John Clare*Early SpringClock-a-ClayLittle TrottyWagtailGraves of InfantsThe Dying ChildLove Lives Beyond the TombI AM
*Fragment: A Specimen of Clare's rough drafts A BibliographicalOutline
Poems with asterisks are now first printed, or in one or two cases now first collected.
Ballad
A faithless shepherd courted me,He stole away my liberty.When my poor heart was strange to men,He came and smiled and stole it then.
When my apron would hang low,Me he sought through frost and snow.When it puckered up with shame,And I sought him, he never came.
When summer brought no fears to fright,He came to guard me every night.When winter nights did darkly prove,None came to guard me or to love.
I wish, I wish, but all in vain,I wish I was a maid again.A maid again I cannot be,O when will green grass cover me?
Song
Mary, leave thy lowly cotWhen thy thickest jobs are done;When thy friends will miss thee not,Mary, to the pastures run.Where we met the other nightNeath the bush upon the plain,Be it dark or be it light,Ye may guess we'll meet again.
Should ye go or should ye not,Never shilly-shally, dear.Leave your work and leave your cot,Nothing need ye doubt or fear:Fools may tell ye lies in spite,Calling me a roving swain;Think what passed the other night—I'll be bound ye'll meet again.
Summer Evening
The sinking sun is taking leave,And sweetly gilds the edge of Eve,While huddling clouds of purple dyeGloomy hang the western sky.Crows crowd croaking over head,Hastening to the woods to bed.Cooing sits the lonely dove,Calling home her absent love.With "Kirchup! Kirchup!" mong the wheatsPartridge distant partridge greets;Beckoning hints to those that roam,That guide the squandered covey home.Swallows check their winding flight,And twittering on the chimney light.Round the pond the martins flirt,Their snowy breasts bedaubed with dirt,While the mason, neath the slates,Each mortar-bearing bird awaits:By art untaught, each labouring spouseCurious daubs his hanging house.
Bats flit by in hood and cowl;Through the barn-hole pops the owl;From the hedge, in drowsy hum,Heedless buzzing beetles bum,Haunting every bushy place,Flopping in the labourer's face.Now the snail hath made its ring;And the moth with snowy wingCircles round in winding whirls,Through sweet evening's sprinkled pearls,On each nodding rush besprent;Dancing on from bent to bent;Now to downy grasses clung,Resting for a while he's hung;Then, to ferry oer the stream,Vanishing as flies a dream;Playful still his hours to keep,Till his time has come to sleep;
In tall grass, by fountain head,Weary then he drops to bed.From the hay-cock's moistened heaps,Startled frogs take vaunting leaps;And along the shaven mead,Jumping travellers, they proceed:Quick the dewy grass divides,Moistening sweet their speckled sides;From the grass or flowret's cup,Quick the dew-drop bounces up.Now the blue fog creeps along,And the bird's forgot his song:Flowers now sleep within their hoods;Daisies button into buds;From soiling dew the butter-cupShuts his golden jewels up;And the rose and woodbine theyWait again the smiles of day.Neath the willow's wavy boughs,Dolly, singing, milks her cows;While the brook, as bubbling by,Joins in murmuring melody.Dick and Dob, with jostling joll,Homeward drag the rumbling roll;Whilom Ralph, for Doll to wait,Lolls him o'er the pasture gate.Swains to fold their sheep begin;Dogs loud barking drive them in.Hedgers now along the roadHomeward bend beneath their load;And from the long furrowed seams,Ploughmen loose their weary teams:Ball, with urging lashes wealed,Still so slow to drive a-field,Eager blundering from the plough,Wants no whip to drive him now;At the stable-door he stands,Looking round for friendly hands
To loose the door its fastening pin,And let him with his corn begin.Round the yard, a thousand ways,Beasts in expectation gaze,Catching at the loads of hayPassing fodderers tug away.Hogs with grumbling, deafening noise,Bother round the server boys;And, far and near, the motley groupAnxious claim their suppering-up.
From the rest, a blest release,Gabbling home, the quarreling geeseSeek their warm straw-littered shed,And, waddling, prate away to bed.Nighted by unseen delay,Poking hens, that lose their way,On the hovel's rafters rise,Slumbering there, the fox's prize.Now the cat has ta'en her seat,With her tail curled round her feet;Patiently she sits to watchSparrows fighting on the thatch.Now Doll brings the expected pails,And dogs begin to wag their tails;With strokes and pats they're welcomed in,And they with looking wants begin;Slove in the milk-pail brimming o'er,She pops their dish behind the door.Prone to mischief boys are met,Neath the eaves the ladder's set,Sly they climb in softest tread,To catch the sparrow on his bed;Massacred, O cruel pride!Dashed against the ladder's side.Curst barbarians! pass me by;Come not, Turks, my cottage nigh;Sure my sparrows are my own,Let ye then my birds alone.
Come, poor birds, from foes severeFearless come, you're welcome here;My heart yearns at fate like yours,A sparrow's life's as sweet as ours.Hardy clowns! grudge not the wheatWhich hunger forces birds to eat:Your blinded eyes, worst foes to you,Can't see the good which sparrows do.Did not poor birds with watching roundsPick up the insects from your grounds,Did they not tend your rising grain,You then might sow to reap in vain.Thus Providence, right understood,Whose end and aim is doing good,Sends nothing here without its use;Though ignorance loads it with abuse,And fools despise the blessing sent,And mock the Giver's good intent.—O God, let me what's good pursue,Let me the same to others doAs I'd have others do to me,And learn at least humanity.
Dark and darker glooms the sky;Sleep gins close the labourer's eye:Dobson leaves his greensward seat,Neighbours where they neighbours meetCrops to praise, and work in hand,And battles tell from foreign land.While his pipe is puffing out,Sue he's putting to the rout,Gossiping, who takes delightTo shool her knitting out at night,And back-bite neighbours bout the town—Who's got new caps, and who a gown,And many a thing, her evil eyeCan see they don't come honest by.Chattering at a neighbour's house,She hears call out her frowning spouse;Prepared to start, she soodles home,Her knitting twisting oer her thumb,As, both to leave, afraid to stay,She bawls her story all the way;The tale so fraught with 'ticing charms,Her apron folded oer her arms.She leaves the unfinished tale, in pain,To end as evening comes again:And in the cottage gangs with dread,To meet old Dobson's timely frown,Who grumbling sits, prepared for bed,While she stands chelping bout the town.
The night-wind now, with sooty wings,In the cotter's chimney sings;Now, as stretching oer the bed,Soft I raise my drowsy head,Listening to the ushering charms,That shake the elm tree's mossy arms:Till sweet slumbers stronger creep,Deeper darkness stealing round,Then, as rocked, I sink to sleep,Mid the wild wind's lulling sound.
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 floweret of its gem,—and dies;A cobweb hiding disappointment's thorn,Which stings more keenly through the thin disguise.
And thou, O Trouble?—Nothing can suppose,(And sure the power of wisdom only knows,)What need requireth thee:So free and liberal as thy bounty flows,Some necessary cause must surely be;But disappointments, pains, and every woeDevoted wretches feel,The universal plagues of life below,Are mysteries still neath Fate's unbroken seal.
And what is Death? is still the cause unfound?That dark, mysterious name of horrid sound?A long and lingering sleep, the weary crave.And Peace? where can its happiness abound?—No where at all, save heaven, and the grave.
Then what is Life?—When stripped of its disguise,A thing to be desired it cannot be;Since every thing that meets our foolish eyesGives proof sufficient of its vanity.Tis but a trial all must undergo;To teach unthankful mortals how to prizeThat happiness vain man's denied to know,Until he's called to claim it in the skies.
The Maid Of Ocram or, Lord Gregory
Gay was the Maid of OcramAs lady eer might beEre she did venture past a maidTo love Lord Gregory.Fair was the Maid of OcramAnd shining like the sunEre her bower key was turned on twoWhere bride bed lay for none.
And late at night she sought her love—The snow slept on her skin—Get up, she cried, thou false young man,And let thy true love in.And fain would he have loosed the keyAll for his true love's sake,But Lord Gregory then was fast asleep,His mother wide awake.
And up she threw the window sash,And out her head put she:And who is that which knocks so lateAnd taunts so loud to me?It is the Maid of Ocram,Your own heart's next akin;For so you've sworn, Lord Gregory,To come and let me in.
O pause not thus, you know me well,Haste down my way to win.The wind disturbs my yellow locks,The snow sleeps on my skin.—If you be the Maid of Ocram,As much I doubt you be,Then tell me of three tokensThat passed with you and me.—
O talk not now of tokensWhich you do wish to break;Chilled are those lips you've kissed so warm,And all too numbed to speak.You know when in my father's bowerYou left your cloak for mine,Though yours was nought but silver twistAnd mine the golden twine.—
If you're the lass of Ocram,As I take you not to be,The second token you must tellWhich past with you and me.—O know you not, O know you notTwas in my father's park,You led me out a mile too farAnd courted in the dark?
When you did change your ring for mineMy yielding heart to win,Though mine was of the beaten goldYours but of burnished tin,Though mine was all true love without,Yours but false love within?
O ask me no more tokensFor fast the snow doth fall.Tis sad to strive and speak in vain,You mean to break them all.—If you are the Maid of Ocram,As I take you not to be,You must mention the third tokenThat passed with you and me.—
Twas when you stole my maidenhead;That grieves me worst of all.—Begone, you lying creature, thenThis instant from my hall,Or you and your vile babyShall in the deep sea fall;For I have none on earth as yetThat may me father call.—
O must none close my dying feet,And must none close my hands,And may none bind my yellow locksAs death for all demands?You need not use no force at all,Your hard heart breaks the vow;You've had your wish against my willAnd you shall have it now.
And must none close my dying feet,And must none close my hands,And will none do the last kind deedsThat death for all demands?—Your sister, she may close your feet,Your brother close your hands,Your mother, she may wrap your waistIn death's fit wedding bands;Your father, he may tie your locksAnd lay you in the sands.—
My sister, she will weep in vain,My brother ride and run,My mother, she will break her heart;And ere the rising sunMy father will be looking out—But find me they will none.I go to lay my woes to rest,None shall know where I'm gone.God must be friend and father both,Lord Gregory will be none.—
Lord Gregory started up from sleepAnd thought he heard a voiceThat screamed full dreadful in his ear,And once and twice and thrice.Lord Gregory to his mother called:O mother dear, said he,I've dreamt the Maid of OcramWas floating on the sea.
Lie still, my son, the mother said,Tis but a little spaceAnd half an hour has scarcely passedSince she did pass this place.—O cruel, cruel mother,When she did pass so nighHow could you let me sleep so soundOr let her wander bye?Now if she's lost my heart must break—I'll seek her till I die.
He sought her east, he sought her west,He sought through park and plain;He sought her where she might have beenBut found her not again.I cannot curse thee, mother,Though thine's the blame, said heI cannot curse thee, mother,Though thou'st done worse to me.Yet do I curse thy pride that ayeSo tauntingly aspires;For my love was a gay knight's heir,And my father was a squire's.
And I will sell my park and hall;And if ye wed againYe shall not wed for titles twiceThat made ye once so vain.So if ye will wed, wed for love,As I was fain to do;Ye've gave to me a broken heart,And I'll give nought to you.
Your pride has wronged your own heart's blood;For she was mine by grace,And now my lady love is goneNone else shall take her place.I'll sell my park and sell my hallAnd sink my titles too.Your pride's done wrong enough as nowTo leave it more to do.
She owneth none that owned them allAnd would have graced them well;None else shall take the right she missedNor in my bosom dwell.—And then he took and burnt his willBefore his mother's face,And tore his patents all in two,While tears fell down apace—But in his mother's haughty lookYe nought but frowns might trace.
And then he sat him down to grieve,But could not sit for pain.And then he laid him on the bedAnd ne'er got up again.
The Gipsy's Camp
How oft on Sundays, when I'd time to tramp,My rambles led me to a gipsy's camp,Where the real effigy of midnight hags,With tawny smoked flesh and tattered rags,Uncouth-brimmed hat, and weather-beaten cloak,Neath the wild shelter of a knotty oak,Along the greensward uniformly pricksHer pliant bending hazel's arching sticks:While round-topt bush, or briar-entangled hedge,Where flag-leaves spring beneath, or ramping sedge,Keeps off the bothering bustle of the wind,And give the best retreat she hopes to find.How oft I've bent me oer her fire and smoke,To hear her gibberish tale so quaintly spoke,While the old Sybil forged her boding clack,Twin imps the meanwhile bawling at her back;Oft on my hand her magic coin's been struck,And hoping chink, she talked of morts of luck:And still, as boyish hopes did first agree,Mingled with fears to drop the fortune's fee,I never failed to gain the honours sought,And Squire and Lord were purchased with a groat.But as man's unbelieving taste came round,She furious stampt her shoeless foot aground,Wiped bye her soot-black hair with clenching fist,While through her yellow teeth the spittle hist,Swearing by all her lucky powers of fate,Which like as footboys on her actions wait,That fortune's scale should to my sorrow turn,And I one day the rash neglect should mourn;That good to bad should change, and I should beLost to this world and all eternity;That poor as Job I should remain unblest:—(Alas, for fourpence how my die is cast!)Of not a hoarded farthing be possesst,And when all's done, be shoved to hell at last!
Impromptu
"Where art thou wandering, little child?"I said to one I met to-day.—She pushed her bonnet up and smiled,"I'm going upon the green to play:Folks tell me that the May's in flower,That cowslip-peeps are fit to pull,And I've got leave to spend an hourTo get this little basket full."
—And thou'st got leave to spend an hour!My heart repeated.—She was gone;—And thou hast heard the thorn's in flower,And childhood's bliss is urging on:Ah, happy child! thou mak'st me sigh,This once as happy heart of mine,Would nature with the boon comply,How gladly would I change for thine.
The Wood-cutter's Night Song
Welcome, red and roundy sun,Dropping lowly in the west;Now my hard day's work is done,I'm as happy as the best.
Joyful are the thoughts of home,Now I'm ready for my chair,So, till morrow-morning's come,Bill and mittens, lie ye there!
Though to leave your pretty song,Little birds, it gives me pain,Yet to-morrow is not long,Then I'm with you all again.
If I stop, and stand about,Well I know how things will be,Judy will be looking outEvery now-and-then for me.
So fare ye well! and hold your tongues,Sing no more until I come;They're not worthy of your songsThat never care to drop a crumb.
All day long I love the oaks,But, at nights, yon little cot,Where I see the chimney smokes,Is by far the prettiest spot.
Wife and children all are there,To revive with pleasant looks,Table ready set, and chair,Supper hanging on the hooks.
Soon as ever I get in,When my faggot down I fling,Little prattlers they beginTeasing me to talk and sing.
Welcome, red and roundy sun,Dropping lowly in the west;Now my hard day's work is done,I'm as happy as the best.
Joyful are the thoughts of home,Now I'm ready for my chair,So, till morrow-morning's come,Bill and mittens, lie ye there!
Rural Morning
Soon as the twilight through the distant mistIn silver hemmings skirts the purple east,Ere yet the sun unveils his smiles to viewAnd dries the morning's chilly robes of dew,Young Hodge the horse-boy, with a soodly gait,Slow climbs the stile, or opes the creaky gate,With willow switch and halter by his sidePrepared for Dobbin, whom he means to ride;The only tune he knows still whistling oer,And humming scraps his father sung before,As "Wantley Dragon," and the "Magic Rose,"The whole of music that his village knows,Which wild remembrance, in each little town,From mouth to mouth through ages handles down.Onward he jolls, nor can the minstrel-throngsEntice him once to listen to their songs;Nor marks he once a blossom on his way;A senseless lump of animated clay—With weather-beaten hat of rusty brown,Stranger to brinks, and often to a crown;With slop-frock suiting to the ploughman's taste,Its greasy skirtings twisted round his waist;And hardened high-lows clenched with nails around,Clamping defiance oer the stoney ground,The deadly foes to many a blossomed sproutThat luckless meets him in his morning's rout.In hobbling speed he roams the pasture round,Till hunted Dobbin and the rest are found;Where some, from frequent meddlings of his whip,Well know their foe, and often try to slip;While Dobbin, tamed by age and labour, standsTo meet all trouble from his brutish hands,And patient goes to gate or knowly brake,The teasing burden of his foe to take;Who, soon as mounted, with his switching weals,Puts Dob's best swiftness in his heavy heels,The toltering bustle of a blundering trotWhich whips and cudgels neer increased a jot,Though better speed was urged by the clown—And thus he snorts and jostles to the town.
And now, when toil and summer's in its prime,In every vill, at morning's earliest time,To early-risers many a Hodge is seen,And many a Dob's heard clattering oer the green.
Now straying beams from day's unclosing eyeIn copper-coloured patches flush the sky,And from night's prison strugglingly encroach,To bring the summons of warm day's approach,Till, slowly mounting oer the ridge of cloudsThat yet half shows his face, and half enshrouds,The unfettered sun takes his unbounded reignAnd wakes all life to noise and toil again:And while his opening mellows oer the scenesOf wood and field their many mingling greens,Industry's bustling din once more devoursThe soothing peace of morning's early hours:The grunt of hogs freed from their nightly densAnd constant cacklings of new-laying hens,And ducks and geese that clamorous joys repeatThe splashing comforts of the pond to meet,And chirping sparrows dropping from the eavesFor offal kernels that the poultry leaves,Oft signal-calls of danger chittering highAt skulking cats and dogs approaching nigh.And lowing steers that hollow echoes wakeAround the yard, their nightly fast to break,As from each barn the lumping flail reboundsIn mingling concert with the rural sounds;While oer the distant fields more faintly creepThe murmuring bleatings of unfolding sheep,And ploughman's callings that more hoarse proceedWhere industry still urges labour's speed,The bellowing of cows with udders fullThat wait the welcome halloo of "come mull,"And rumbling waggons deafening again,Rousing the dust along the narrow lane,And cracking whips, and shepherd's hooting cries,From woodland echoes urging sharp replies.Hodge, in his waggon, marks the wondrous tongue,And talks with echo as he drives along;Still cracks his whip, bawls every horse's name,And echo still as ready bawls the same:The puzzling mystery he would gladly cheat,And fain would utter what it can't repeat,Till speedless trials prove the doubted elfAs skilled in noise and sounds as Hodge himself;And, quite convinced with the proofs it gives,The boy drives on and fancies echo lives,Like some wood-fiend that frights benighted men,The troubling spirit of a robber's den.
And now the blossom of the village view,With airy hat of straw, and apron blue,And short-sleeved gown, that half to guess revealsBy fine-turned arms what beauty it conceals;Whose cheeks health flushes with as sweet a redAs that which stripes the woodbine oer her head;Deeply she blushes on her morn's employ,To prove the fondness of some passing boy,Who, with a smile that thrills her soul to view,Holds the gate open till she passes through,While turning nods beck thanks for kindness done,And looks—if looks could speak-proclaim her won.With well-scoured buckets on proceeds the maid,And drives her cows to milk beneath the shade,Where scarce a sunbeam to molest her steals—Sweet as the thyme that blossoms where she kneels;And there oft scares the cooing amorous doveWith her own favoured melodies of love.Snugly retired in yet dew-laden bowers,This sweetest specimen of rural flowersDisplays, red glowing in the morning wind,The powers of health and nature when combined.
Last on the road the cowboy careless swings,Leading tamed cattle in their tending strings,With shining tin to keep his dinner warmSwung at his back, or tucked beneath his arm;Whose sun-burnt skin, and cheeks chuffed out with fat,Are dyed as rusty as his napless hat.And others, driving loose their herds at will,Are now heard whooping up the pasture-hill;Peeled sticks they bear of hazel or of ash,The rib-marked hides of restless cows to thrash.In sloven garb appears each bawling boy,As fit and suiting to his rude employ;His shoes, worn down by many blundering treads,Oft show the tenants needing safer sheds:The pithy bunch of unripe nuts to seek,And crabs sun-reddened with a tempting cheek,From pasture hedges, daily puts to rackHis tattered clothes, that scarcely screen the back,—Daubed all about as if besmeared with blood,Stained with the berries of the brambly woodThat stud the straggling briars as black as jet,Which, when his cattle lair, he runs to get;Or smaller kinds, as if beglossed with dewShining dim-powdered with a downy blue,That on weak tendrils lowly creeping growWhere, choaked in flags and sedges, wandering slow,The brook purls simmering its declining tideDown the crooked boundings of the pasture-side.There they to hunt the luscious fruit delight,And dabbling keep within their charges' sight;Oft catching prickly struttles on their rout,And miller-thumbs and gudgeons driving out,Hid near the arched brig under many a stoneThat from its wall rude passing clowns have thrown.And while in peace cows eat, and chew their cuds,Moozing cool sheltered neath the skirting woods,To double uses they the hours convert,Turning the toils of labour into sport;Till morn's long streaking shadows lose their tails,And cooling winds swoon into faultering gales;And searching sunbeams warm and sultry creep,Waking the teazing insects from their sleep;And dreaded gadflies with their drowsy humOn the burnt wings of mid-day zephyrs come,—Urging each lown to leave his sports in fear,To stop his starting cows that dread the fly;Droning unwelcome tidings on his ear,That the sweet peace of rural morn's gone by.
Song
One gloomy eve I roamed aboutNeath Oxey's hazel bowers,While timid hares were darting out,To crop the dewy flowers;And soothing was the scene to me,Right pleased was my soul,My breast was calm as summer's seaWhen waves forget to roll.
But short was even's placid smile,My startled soul to charm,When Nelly lightly skipt the stile,With milk-pail on her arm:One careless look on me she flung,As bright as parting day;And like a hawk from covert sprung,It pounced my peace away.
The Cross Roads; or, The Haymaker's Story
Stopt by the storm, that long in sullen blackFrom the south-west stained its encroaching track,Haymakers, hustling from the rain to hide,Sought the grey willows by the pasture-side;And there, while big drops bow the grassy stems,And bleb the withering hay with pearly gems,Dimple the brook, and patter in the leaves,The song or tale an hour's restraint relieves.And while the old dames gossip at their ease,And pinch the snuff-box empty by degrees,The young ones join in love's delightful themes,Truths told by gipsies, and expounded dreams;And mutter things kept secrets from the rest,As sweethearts' names, and whom they love the best;And dazzling ribbons they delight to show,And last new favours of some veigling beau,Who with such treachery tries their hearts to move,And, like the highest, bribes the maidens' love.The old dames, jealous of their whispered praise,Throw in their hints of man's deluding ways;And one, to give her counsels more effect,And by example illustrate the factOf innocence oercome by flattering man,Thrice tapped her box, and pinched, and thus began.
"Now wenches listen, and let lovers lie,Ye'll hear a story ye may profit by;I'm your age treble, with some oddments to't,And right from wrong can tell, if ye'll but do't:Ye need not giggle underneath your hat,Mine's no joke-matter, let me tell you that;So keep ye quiet till my story's told,And don't despise your betters cause they're old.
"That grave ye've heard of, where the four roads meet,Where walks the spirit in a winding-sheet,Oft seen at night, by strangers passing late,And tarrying neighbours that at market wait,Stalking along as white as driven snow,And long as one's shadow when the sun is low;The girl that's buried there I knew her well,And her whole history, if ye'll hark, can tell.Her name was Jane, and neighbour's children we,And old companions once, as ye may be;And like to you, on Sundays often strolledTo gipsies' camps to have our fortunes told;And oft, God rest her, in the fortune-bookWhich we at hay-time in our pockets took,Our pins at blindfold on the wheel we stuck,When hers would always prick the worst of luck;For try, poor thing, as often as she might,Her point would always on the blank alight;Which plainly shows the fortune one's to have,As such like go unwedded to the grave,—And so it proved.—The next succeeding May,We both to service went from sports and play,Though in the village still; as friends and kinThought neighbour's service better to begin.So out we went:—Jane's place was reckoned good,Though she bout life but little understood,And had a master wild as wild can be,And far unfit for such a child as she;And soon the whisper went about the town,That Jane's good looks procured her many a gownFrom him, whose promise was to every one,But whose intention was to wive with none.Twas nought to wonder, though begun by guess;For Jane was lovely in her Sunday dress,And all expected such a rosy faceWould be her ruin—as was just the case.The while the change was easily perceived,Some months went by, ere I the tales believed;For there are people nowadays, Lord knows,Will sooner hatch up lies than mend their clothes;And when with such-like tattle they begin,Don't mind whose character they spoil a pin:But passing neighbours often marked them smile,And watched him take her milkpail oer a stile;And many a time, as wandering closer by,From Jenny's bosom met a heavy sigh;And often marked her, as discoursing deep,When doubts might rise to give just cause to weep,Smothering their notice, by a wished disguiseTo slive her apron corner to her eyes.Such signs were mournful and alarming things,And far more weighty than conjecture brings;Though foes made double what they heard of all,Swore lies as proofs, and prophesied her fall.Poor thoughtless wench! it seems but Sunday pastSince we went out together for the last,And plain enough indeed it was to findShe'd something more than common on her mind;For she was always fond and full of chat,In passing harmless jokes bout beaus and that,But nothing then was scarcely talked about,And what there was, I even forced it out.A gloomy wanness spoiled her rosy cheek,And doubts hung there it was not mine to seek;She neer so much as mentioned things to come,But sighed oer pleasures ere she left her home;And now and then a mournful smile would raiseAt freaks repeated of our younger days,Which I brought up, while passing spots of groundWhere we, when children, "hurly-burlied" round,Or "blindman-buffed" some morts of hours away—Two games, poor thing, Jane dearly loved to play.She smiled at these, but shook her head and sighedWhen eer she thought my look was turned aside;Nor turned she round, as was her former way,To praise the thorn, white over then with May;Nor stooped once, though thousands round her grew,To pull a cowslip as she used to do:For Jane in flowers delighted from a child—I like the garden, but she loved the wild—And oft on Sundays young men's gifts declined,Posies from gardens of the sweetest kind,And eager scrambled the dog-rose to get,And woodbine-flowers at every bush she met.The cowslip blossom, with its ruddy streak,Would tempt her furlongs from the path to seek;And gay long purple, with its tufty spike,She'd wade oer shoes to reach it in the dyke;And oft, while scratching through the briary woodsFor tempting cuckoo-flowers and violet buds,Poor Jane, I've known her crying sneak to town,Fearing her mother, when she'd torn her gown.Ah, these were days her conscience viewed with pain,Which all are loth to lose, as well as Jane.And, what I took more odd than all the rest,Was, that same night she neer a wish exprestTo see the gipsies, so beloved before,That lay a stone's throw from us on the moor:I hinted it; she just replied again—She once believed them, but had doubts since then.And when we sought our cows, I called, "Come mull!"But she stood silent, for her heart was full.She loved dumb things: and ere she had begunTo milk, caressed them more than eer she'd done;But though her tears stood watering in her eye,I little took it as her last good-bye;For she was tender, and I've often knownHer mourn when beetles have been trampled on:So I neer dreamed from this, what soon befell,Till the next morning rang her passing-bell.My story's long, but time's in plenty yet,Since the black clouds betoken nought but wet;And I'll een snatch a minute's breath or two,And take another pinch, to help me through.
"So, as I said, next morn I heard the bell,And passing neighbours crossed the street, to tellThat my poor partner Jenny had been foundIn the old flag-pool, on the pasture, drowned.God knows my heart! I twittered like a leaf,And found too late the cause of Sunday's grief;For every tongue was loosed to gabble oerThe slanderous things that secret passed before:With truth or lies they need not then be strict,The one they railed at could not contradict.Twas now no secret of her being beguiled,For every mouth knew Jenny died with child;And though more cautious with a living name,Each more than guessed her master bore the blame.That very morning, it affects me still,Ye know the foot-path sidles down the hill,Ignorant as babe unborn I passed the pondTo milk as usual in our close beyond,And cows were drinking at the water's edge,And horses browsed among the flags and sedge,And gnats and midges danced the water oer,Just as I've marked them scores of times before,And birds sat singing, as in mornings gone,—While I as unconcerned went soodling on,But little dreaming, as the wakening windFlapped the broad ash-leaves oer the pond reclin'd,And oer the water crinked the curdled wave,That Jane was sleeping in her watery grave.The neatherd boy that used to tend the cows,While getting whip-sticks from the dangling boughsOf osiers drooping by the water-side,Her bonnet floating on the top espied;He knew it well, and hastened fearful downTo take the terror of his fears to town,—
A melancholy story, far too true;And soon the village to the pasture flew,Where, from the deepest hole the pond about,They dragged poor Jenny's lifeless body out,And took her home, where scarce an hour gone byShe had been living like to you and I.I went with more, and kissed her for the last,And thought with tears on pleasures that were past;And, the last kindness left me then to do,I went, at milking, where the blossoms grew,And handfuls got of rose and lambtoe sweet,And put them with her in her winding-sheet.A wilful murder, jury made the crime;Nor parson 'lowed to pray, nor bell to chime;On the cross roads, far from her friends and kin,The usual law for their ungodly sinWho violent hands upon themselves have laid,Poor Jane's last bed unchristian-like was made;And there, like all whose last thoughts turn to heaven,She sleeps, and doubtless hoped to be forgiven.But, though I say't, for maids thus veigled inI think the wicked men deserve the sin;And sure enough we all at last shall seeThe treachery punished as it ought to be.For ere his wickedness pretended love,Jane, I'll be bound, was spotless as the dove,And's good a servant, still old folks allow,As ever scoured a pail or milked a cow;And ere he led her into ruin's way,As gay and buxom as a summer's day:The birds that ranted in the hedge-row boughs,As night and morning we have sought our cows,With yokes and buckets as she bounced along,Were often deafed to silence with her song.
But now she's gone:—girls, shun deceitful men,The worst of stumbles ye can fall agen;Be deaf to them, and then, as twere, ye'll seeYour pleasures safe as under lock and key.Throw not my words away, as many do;They're gold in value, though they're cheap to you.And husseys hearken, and be warned from this,If ye love mothers, never do amiss:Jane might love hers, but she forsook the planTo make her happy, when she thought of man.Poor tottering dame, it was too plainly known,Her daughter's dying hastened on her own,For from the day the tidings reached her doorShe took to bed and looked up no more,And, ere again another year came round,She, well as Jane, was laid within the ground;And all were grieved poor Goody's end to see:No better neighbour entered house than she,A harmless soul, with no abusive tongue,Trig as new pins, and tight's the day was long;And go the week about, nine times in tenYe'd find her house as cleanly as her sen.But, Lord protect us! time such change does bring,We cannot dream what oer our heads may hing;The very house she lived in, stick and stone,Since Goody died, has tumbled down and gone:And where the marjoram once, and sage, and rue,And balm, and mint, with curled-leaf parsley grew,And double marygolds, and silver thyme,And pumpkins neath the window used to climb;And where I often when a child for hoursTried through the pales to get the tempting flowers,As lady's laces, everlasting peas,True-love-lies-bleeding, with the hearts-at-ease,And golden rods, and tansy running highThat oer the pale-tops smiled on passers-by,Flowers in my time that every one would praise,Though thrown like weeds from gardens nowadays;Where these all grew, now henbane stinks and spreads,And docks and thistles shake their seedy heads,And yearly keep with nettles smothering oer;—The house, the dame, the garden known no more:While, neighbouring nigh, one lonely elder-treeIs all that's left of what had used to be,Marking the place, and bringing up with tearsThe recollections of one's younger years.And now I've done, ye're each at once as freeTo take your trundle as ye used to be;To take right ways, as Jenny should have ta'en,Or headlong run, and be a second Jane;For by one thoughtless girl that's acted illA thousand may be guided if they will:As oft mong folks to labour bustling on,We mark the foremost kick against a stone,Or stumble oer a stile he meant to climb,While hind ones see and shun the fall in time.But ye, I will be bound, like far the bestLove's tickling nick-nacks and the laughing jest,And ten times sooner than be warned by me,Would each be sitting on some fellow's knee,Sooner believe the lies wild chaps will tellThan old dames' cautions, who would wish ye well:So have your wills."—She pinched her box again,And ceased her tale, and listened to the rain,Which still as usual pattered fast around,And bowed the bent-head loaded to the ground;While larks, their naked nest by force forsook,Pruned their wet wings in bushes by the brook.
The maids, impatient now old Goody ceased,As restless children from the school released,Right gladly proving, what she'd just foretold,That young ones' stories were preferred to old,Turn to the whisperings of their former joy,That oft deceive, but very rarely cloy.
In Hilly-Wood
How sweet to be thus nestling deep in boughs,Upon an ashen stoven pillowing me;Faintly are heard the ploughmen at their ploughs,But not an eye can find its way to see.The sunbeams scarce molest me with a smile,So thickly the leafy armies gather round;And where they do, the breeze blows cool the while,Their leafy shadows dancing on the ground.Full many a flower, too, wishing to be seen,Perks up its head the hiding grass between,—In mid-wood silence, thus, how sweet to be;Where all the noises, that on peace intrude,Come from the chittering cricket, bird, and bee,Whose songs have charms to sweeten solitude.
The Ants
What wonder strikes the curious, while he viewsThe black ant's city, by a rotten tree,Or woodland bank! In ignorance we muse:Pausing, annoyed,—we know not what we see,Such government and thought there seem to be;Some looking on, and urging some to toil,Dragging their loads of bent-stalks slavishly:And what's more wonderful, when big loads foilOne ant or two to carry, quickly thenA swarm flock round to help their fellow-men.Surely they speak a language whisperingly,Too fine for us to hear; and sure their waysProve they have kings and laws, and that they beDeformed remnants of the Fairy-days.
To Anna Three Years Old
My Anna, summer laughs in mirth,And we will of the party be,And leave the crickets in the hearthFor green fields' merry minstrelsy.
I see thee now with little handCatch at each object passing bye,The happiest thing in all the landExcept the bee and butterfly.
* * * * *
And limpid brook that leaps along,Gilt with the summer's burnished gleam,Will stop thy little tale or songTo gaze upon its crimping stream.
Thou'lt leave my hand with eager speedThe new discovered things to see—The old pond with its water weedAnd danger-daring willow tree,Who leans an ancient invalidOer spots where deepest waters be.
In sudden shout and wild surpriseI hear thy simple wonderment,As new things meet thy childish eyesAnd wake some innocent intent;
As bird or bee or butterflyBounds through the crowd of merry leavesAnd starts the rapture of thine eyeTo run for what it neer achieves.
But thou art on the bed of pain,So tells each poor forsaken toy.Ah, could I see that happy hourWhen these shall be thy heart's employ,And see thee toddle oer the plain,And stoop for flowers, and shout for joy.
From "The Parish: A Satire"
In politics and politicians' liesThe modern farmer waxes wondrous wise;Opinionates with wisdom all compact,And een could tell a nation how to act;Throws light on darkness with excessive skill,Knows who acts well and whose designs are ill,Proves half the members nought but bribery's tools,And calls the past a dull dark age of fools.
As wise as Solomon they read the news,Not with their blind forefathers' simple views,Who read of wars, and wished that wars would cease,And blessed the King, and wished his country peace;Who marked the weight of each fat sheep and ox,The price of grain and rise and fall of stocks;Who thought it learning how to buy and sell,And him a wise man who could manage well.No, not with such old-fashioned, idle viewsDo these newsmongers traffic with the news.They read of politics and not of grain,And speechify and comment and explain,And know so much of Parliament and stateYou'd think they're members when you heard them prate;And know so little of their farms the whileThey can but urge a wiser man to smile.
A thing all consequence here takes the lead,Reigning knight-errant oer this dirty breed—A bailiff he, and who so great to bragOf law and all its terrors as Bumtagg;Fawning a puppy at his master's sideAnd frowning like a wolf on all beside;Who fattens best where sorrow worst appearsAnd feeds on sad misfortune's bitterest tears?Such is Bumtagg the bailiff to a hair,The worshipper and demon of despair,Who waits and hopes and wishes for successAt every nod and signal of distress,Happy at heart, when storms begin to boil,To seek the shipwreck and to share the spoil.Brave is this Bumtagg, match him if you can;For there's none like him living—save his man.
As every animal assists his kindJust so are these in blood and business joined;Yet both in different colours hide their art,And each as suits his ends transacts his part.One keeps the heart-bred villain full in sight,The other cants and acts the hypocrite,Smoothing the deed where law sharks set their ginLike a coy dog to draw misfortune in.But both will chuckle oer their prisoners' sighsAnd are as blest as spiders over flies.Such is Bumtagg, whose history I resign,As other knaves wait room to stink and shine;And, as the meanest knave a dog can brag,Such is the lurcher that assists Bumtagg.
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 sparkBut neer 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 JerryThe 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,Eer cometh to marry or woo;They think me the moral of motherAnd 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 bellowsIf eer 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 new comerTo marry, and make me at ease!
When I've nothing my leisure to hinderI scarce get as far as the eaves;Her head's instant out of the windowCalling 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?Tis death any longer to tarry me,And what shall a poor maiden do?
Distant Hills
What is there in those distant hillsMy fancy longs to see,That many a mood of joy instils?Say what can fancy be?
Do old oaks thicken all the woods,With weeds and brakes as here?Does common water make the floods,That's common everywhere?
Is grass the green that clothes the ground?Are springs the common springs?Daisies and cowslips dropping round,Are such the flowers she brings?
* * * * *
Are cottages of mud and stone,By valley wood and glen,And their calm dwellers little knownMen, and but common men,
That drive afield with carts and ploughs?Such men are common here,And pastoral maidens milking cowsAre dwelling everywhere.
If so my fancy idly clingsTo notions far away,And longs to roam for common thingsAll round her every day,
Right idle would the journey beTo leave one's home so far,And see the moon I now can seeAnd every little star.
And have they there a night and day,And common counted hours?And do they see so far awayThis very moon of ours?
* * * * *
I mark him climb above the treesWith one small [comrade] star,And think me in my reveries—He cannot shine so far.
* * * * *
The poets in the tales they tellAnd with their happy powersHave made lands where their fancies dwellSeem better lands than ours.
Why need I sigh far hills to seeIf grass is their array,While here the little paths go throughThe greenest every day?
Such fancies fill the restless mind,At once to cheat and cheerWith thought and semblance undefined,Nowhere and everywhere.
The Stranger
When trouble haunts me, need I sigh?No, rather smile away despair;For those have been more sad than I,With burthens more than I could bear;Aye, gone rejoicing under careWhere I had sunk in black despair.
When pain disturbs my peace and rest,Am I a hopeless grief to keep,When some have slept on torture's breastAnd smiled as in the sweetest sleep,Aye, peace on thorns, in faith forgiven,And pillowed on the hope of heaven?
Though low and poor and broken down,Am I to think myself distrest?No, rather laugh where others frownAnd think my being truly blest;For others I can daily seeMore worthy riches worse than me.
Aye, once a stranger blest the earthWho never caused a heart to mourn,Whose very voice gave sorrow mirth—And how did earth his worth return?It spurned him from its lowliest lot,The meanest station owned him not;
An outcast thrown in sorrow's way,A fugitive that knew no sin,Yet in lone places forced to stray—Men would not take the stranger in.Yet peace, though much himself he mourned,Was all to others he returned.
* * * * *
His presence was a peace to all,He bade the sorrowful rejoice.Pain turned to pleasure at his call,Health lived and issued from his voice.He healed the sick and sent abroadThe dumb rejoicing in the Lord.
The blind met daylight in his eye,The joys of everlasting day;The sick found health in his reply;The cripple threw his crutch away.Yet he with troubles did remainAnd suffered poverty and pain.
Yet none could say of wrong he did,And scorn was ever standing bye;Accusers by their conscience chid,When proof was sought, made no reply.Yet without sin he suffered moreThan ever sinners did before.
Song's Eternity
What is song's eternity?Come and see.Can it noise and bustle be?Come and see.Praises sung or praises saidCan it be?Wait awhile and these are dead—Sigh, sigh;Be they high or lowly bred They die.
What is song's eternity?Come and see.Melodies of earth and sky,Here they be.Song once sung to Adam's earsCan it be?Ballads of six thousand yearsThrive, thrive;Songs awaken with the spheresAlive.
Mighty songs that miss decay,What are they?Crowds and cities pass awayLike a day.Books are out and books are read;What are they?Years will lay them with the dead—Sigh, sigh;Trifles unto nothing wed,They die.
Dreamers, mark the honey bee;Mark the treeWhere the blue cap "tootle tee"Sings a gleeSung to Adam and to EveHere they be.When floods covered every bough,Noah's arkHeard that ballad singing now;Hark, hark,
"Tootle tootle tootle tee"—Can it bePride and fame must shadows be?Come and see—Every season own her own;Bird and beeSing creation's music on;Nature's gleeIs in every mood and toneEternity.
The Old Cottagers
The little cottage stood alone, the prideOf solitude surrounded every side.Bean fields in blossom almost reached the wall;A garden with its hawthorn hedge was allThe space between.—Green light did passThrough one small window, where a looking-glassPlaced in the parlour, richly there revealedA spacious landscape and a blooming field.The pasture cows that herded on the moorPrinted their footsteps to the very door,Where little summer flowers with seasons blowAnd scarcely gave the eldern leave to grow.The cuckoo that one listens far awaySung in the orchard trees for half the day;And where the robin lives, the village guest,In the old weedy hedge the leafy nestOf the coy nightingale was yearly found,Safe from all eyes as in the loneliest ground;And little chats that in bean stalks will lieA nest with cobwebs there will build, and flyUpon the kidney bean that twines and towersUp little poles in wreaths of scarlet flowers.
There a lone couple lived, secluded thereFrom all the world considers joy or care,Lived to themselves, a long lone journey trod,And through their Bible talked aloud to God;While one small close and cow their wants maintained,But little needing, and but little gained.Their neighbour's name was peace, with her they went,With tottering age, and dignified content,Through a rich length of years and quiet days,And filled the neighbouring village with their praise.
Young Lambs
The spring is coming by a many signs;The trays are up, the hedges broken down,That fenced the haystack, and the remnant shinesLike some old antique fragment weathered brown.And where suns peep, in every sheltered place,The little early buttercups unfoldA glittering star or two—till many traceThe edges of the blackthorn clumps in gold.And then a little lamb bolts up behindThe hill and wags his tail to meet the yoe,And then another, sheltered from the wind,Lies all his length as dead—and lets me goClose bye and never stirs but baking lies,With legs stretched out as though he could not rise.
Early Nightingale
When first we hear the shy-come nightingales,They seem to mutter oer their songs in fear,And, climb we eer so soft the spinney rails,All stops as if no bird was anywhere.The kindled bushes with the young leaves thinLet curious eyes to search a long way in,Until impatience cannot see or hearThe hidden music; gets but little wayUpon the path—when up the songs begin,Full loud a moment and then low again.But when a day or two confirms her stayBoldly she sings and loud for half the day;And soon the village brings the woodman's taleOf having heard the newcome nightingale.
Winter Walk
The holly bush, a sober lump of green,Shines through the leafless shrubs all brown and grey,And smiles at winter be it eer so keenWith all the leafy luxury of May.And O it is delicious, when the dayIn winter's loaded garment keenly blowsAnd turns her back on sudden falling snows,To go where gravel pathways creep betweenArches of evergreen that scarce let throughA single feather of the driving storm;And in the bitterest day that ever blewThe walk will find some places still and warmWhere dead leaves rustle sweet and give alarmTo little birds that flirt and start away.
The Soldier
Home furthest off grows dearer from the way;And when the army in the Indias layFriends' letters coming from his native placeWere like old neighbours with their country face.And every opportunity that cameOpened the sheet to gaze upon the nameOf that loved village where he left his sheepFor more contented peaceful folk to keep;And friendly faces absent many a yearWould from such letters in his mind appear.And when his pockets, chafing through the case,Wore it quite out ere others took the place,Right loath to be of company bereftHe kept the fragments while a bit was left.
Ploughman Singing
Here morning in the ploughman's songs is metEre yet one footstep shows in all the sky,And twilight in the east, a doubt as yet,Shows not her sleeve of grey to know her bye.Woke early, I arose and thought that firstIn winter time of all the world was I.The old owls might have hallooed if they durst,But joy just then was up and whistled byeA merry tune which I had known full long,But could not to my memory wake it back,Until the ploughman changed it to the song.O happiness, how simple is thy track.—Tinged like the willow shoots, the east's young browGlows red and finds thee singing at the plough.
Spring's Messengers
Where slanting banks are always with the sunThe daisy is in blossom even now;And where warm patches by the hedges runThe cottager when coming home from ploughBrings home a cowslip root in flower to set.Thus ere the Christmas goes the spring is metSetting up little tents about the fieldsIn sheltered spots.—Primroses when they getBehind the wood's old roots, where ivy shieldsTheir crimpled, curdled leaves, will shine and hide.Cart ruts and horses' footings scarcely yieldA slur for boys, just crizzled and that's all.Frost shoots his needles by the small dyke side,And snow in scarce a feather's seen to fall.