Chapter II: Part 2

That some of CLARE’S poems belong of right to the excellent things of this earth admits of no dispute. A worshipper of Nature, by whom he was surely appointed to be one of her chief historians, he revelled in her manifestations, whether they showed in the higher heaven of blue or in the lower heaven of green. He was, if the phrases may pass muster, a gossip of the rainbow, a crony of the flowers. His heart was not less slow than that of Wordsworth to leap up with joy when he beheld standing across the sky, its feet treading the horizon, the most splendid triumphal arch ever devised; and though it was not granted him to render homage to his mistress in such large accents as those which fell from the lips of his great brother in song, he paid for her love and favours in music far from perishable, as may be noted by all who will read the pieces that have been selected for this volume from the “Rural Muse.” Who passes by any one of these poems because he early finds a flaw, does so at his own danger, for each of them belongs, as I venture to assert, so indubitably to the particular treasures of pastoral poetry that I doubt whether the contradiction of our greatest critics could frighten me from the attitude of admiration. To influences other than those of the countryside, CLARE remained unimpressionable. To be in London was to long for Helpstone, the commons and pools of which were more precious to the poet than all the glories of Westminster Abbey, and the expanses of the artificial lakes. While he sojourned in the Metropolis the right spark would not fall from heaven, but as soon as he wandered once more among the scenes so long familiar to him, the Muse was his unfailing companion. Brooks glided in his songs; birds and clouds and leafage were foundations without which he had been well-nigh powerless. He understood, and was content with, his limits; and so perfectly did he accomplish his duty as Nature’s cherished amanuensis, that it is no hard task for a man with an ounce of imagination in his being to hear the trickle of streams, and to fancy his study carpeted with grass, while reading JOHN CLARE’S poems within four walls. As this volume of selections is designed for the purpose of attracting readers to a poet whose appreciative receipts from his posterity are sadly deficient in quantity, the publisher has thought well to ask from me the tale of CLARE’S life, rather than my views of the poet’s work and its effect upon his successors in the production of poetry dealing almost exclusively with the vowels and consonants in Nature’s mighty alphabet. Enough has been said to prove the writer no half-hearted advocate; and if these few pages serve to increase the number of CLARE’S friends, he will be more than satisfied, happy in the thought that he has been the means of introducing readers to poetry as gentle as it is healing, as simple as it is sincere. Touching its wholesomeness, how could it fail to delight in this respect when the chief of its constituent parts were the large and lovely expressions of Nature’s handicraft? JOHN CLARE’S gift fell upon him direct from the skies. It came clean; and clean he kept it from the beginning to the end of his stewardship.

NORMAN GALE.

WHAT IS LIFE?

And what is Life?--An hour-glass on the run,
A mist retreating from the morning sun,
A busy, bustling, still repeated dream.--
Its length?--A minute’s pause, a moment’s thought.
And happiness?--A bubble on the stream,
That in the act of seizing shrinks to nought.

What is vain Hope?--The puffing gale of morn,
That robs each flow’ret of its gem,--and dies;
A cobweb hiding disappointment’s thorn,
Which stings more keenly through the thin disguise.

--And thou, O Trouble?--nothing can suppose
(And sure the Power of Wisdom only knows),
What need requireth thee:
So free and liberal as thy bounty flows,
Some necessary cause must surely be.
But disappointments, pains, and every woe
Devoted wretches feel,
The universal plagues of life below,
Are mysteries still ’neath Fate’s unbroken seal.

And what is Death? is still the cause unfound?
That dark, mysterious name of horrid sound?--
A long and lingering sleep, the weary crave.
And Peace? where can its happiness abound?--
No where at all, save heaven, and the grave.

Then what is Life?--When stripp’d of its disguise,
A thing to be desir’d it cannot be;
Since every thing that meets our foolish eyes
Gives proof sufficient of its vanity.
’Tis but a trial all must undergo;
To teach unthankful mortals how to prize
That happiness vain man’s denied to know,
Until he’s call’d to claim it in the skies.

ADDRESS TO PLENTY

IN WINTER

O thou Bliss! to riches known,
Stranger to the poor alone;
Giving most where none’s requir’d,
Leaving none where most’s desir’d;
Who, sworn friend to miser, keeps
Adding to his useless heaps
Gifts on gifts, profusely stor’d,
Till thousands swell the mouldy hoard:
While poor, shatter’d Poverty,
To advantage seen in me,
With his rags, his wants, and pain,
Waking pity but in vain,
Bowing, cringing at thy side,
Begs his mite, and is denied.
O, thou blessing! let not me
Tell, as vain, my wants to thee;
Thou, by name of Plenty stil’d
Fortune’s heir, her favourite child.
’Tis a maxim--hunger feed,
Give the needy when they need;
He, whom all profess to serve,
The same maxim did observe:
Their obedience here, how well,
Modern times will plainly tell.
Hear my wants, nor deem me bold,
Not without occasion told:
Hear one wish; nor fail to give;
Use me well, and bid me live.

’Tis not great, what I solicit:
Was it more, thou couldst not miss it:
Now the cutting Winter’s come,
’Tis but just to find a home,
In some shelter, dry and warm,
That will shield me from the storm.
Toiling in the naked fields,
Where no bush a shelter yields,
Needy Labour dithering stands,
Beats and blows his numbing hands;
And upon the crumping snows
Stamps, in vain, to warm his toes.
Leaves are fled, that once had power
To resist a summer shower;
And the wind so piercing blows,
Winnowing small the drifting snows,
The summer shade of loaded bough
Would vainly boast a shelter now:
Piercing snows so searching fall,
They sift a passage through them all.
Though all’s vain to keep him warm,
Poverty must brave the storm.
Friendship none, its aid to lend:
Health alone his only friend;
Granting leave to live in pain,
Giving strength to toil in vain;
To be, while winter’s horrors last,
The sport of every pelting blast.

Oh, sad sons of Poverty!
Victims doom’d to misery;
Who can paint what pain prevails
O’er that heart which Want assails?
Modest Shame the pain conceals:
No one knows, but he who feels.
O thou charm which Plenty crowns:
Fortune! smile, now Winter frowns:
Cast around a pitying eye!
Feed the hungry, ere they die.
Think, oh! think upon the poor,
Nor against them shut thy door:
Freely let thy bounty flow,
On the sons of Want and Woe.

Hills and dales no more are seen
In their dress of pleasing green;
Summer’s robes are all thrown by,
For the clothing of the sky;
Snows on snows in heaps combine,
Hillocks, rais’d as mountains, shine,
And at distance rising proud,
Each appears a fleecy cloud.
Plenty! now thy gifts bestow;
Exit bid to every woe:
Take me in, shut out the blast,
Make the doors and windows fast;
Place me in some corner, where,
Lolling in an elbow chair,
Happy, blest to my desire,
I may find a rouzing fire;
While in chimney-corner nigh,
Coal or wood, a fresh supply,
Ready stands for laying on,
Soon as t’other’s burnt and gone.
Now and then, as taste decreed
In a book a page I’d read;
And, inquiry to amuse,
Peep at something in the news;
See who’s married, and who’s dead,
And who, through bankrupt, beg their bread:
While on hob, or table nigh,
Just to drink before I’m dry,
A pitcher at my side should stand,
With the barrel nigh at hand,
Always ready as I will’d,
When ’twas empty, to be fill’d;
And, to be possess’d of all,
A corner cupboard in the wall,
With store of victuals lin’d complete,
That when hungry I might eat.
Then would I, in Plenty’s lap,
For the first time take a nap;
Falling back in easy lair,
Sweetly slumbering in my chair;
With no reflective thoughts to wake
Pains that cause my heart to ache,
Of contracted debts, long made,
In no prospect to be paid;
And, to Want, sad news severe,
Of provisions getting dear:
While the Winter, shocking sight,
Constant freezes day and night,
Deep and deeper falls the snow,
Labour’s slack, and wages low.
These, and more, the poor can tell,
Known, alas, by them too well,
Plenty! oh, if blest by thee,
Never more should trouble me.
Hours and weeks will sweetly glide,
Soft and smooth as flows the tide,
Where no stones or choaking grass
Force a curve ere it can pass:
And as happy, and as blest,
As beasts drop them down to rest,
When in pastures, at their will,
They have roam’d and eat their fill;
Soft as nights in summer creep,
So should I then fall asleep;
While sweet visions of delight,
So enchanting to the sight,
Sweetly swimming o’er my eyes,
Would sink me into extacies.
Nor would pleasure’s dream once more,
As they oft have done before,
Cause be to create a pain,
When I woke, to find them vain:
Bitter past, the present sweet,
Would my happiness complete.
Oh; how easy should I lie,
With the fire up-blazing high,
(Summer’s artificial bloom,)
That like an oven keeps the room,
Or lovely May, as mild and warm:
While, without, the raging storm
Is roaring in the chimney-top,
In no likelihood to drop;
And the witchen-branches nigh,
O’er my snug box towering high,
That sweet shelter’d stands beneath,
In convulsive eddies wreathe.
Then while, tyrant-like, the storm
Takes delight in doing harm.
Down before him crushing all,
Till his weapons useless fall;
And as in oppression proud
Peal his howlings long and loud,
While the clouds, with horrid sweep,
Give (as suits a tyrant’s trade)
The sun a minute’s leave to peep,
To smile upon the ruin’s made;
And to make complete the blast,
While the hail comes hard and fast,
Rattling loud against the glass;
And the snowy sleets, that pass,
Driving up in heaps remain
Close adhering to the pane,
Stop the light and spread a gloom,
Suiting sleep, around the room:--
Oh, how blest ’mid these alarms,
I should bask in Fortune’s arms,
Who, defying every frown,
Hugs me on her drowny breast,
Bids my head lie easy down,
And on Winter’s ruins rest.
So upon the troubled sea,
Emblematic simile,
Birds are known to sit secure,
While the billows roar and rave,
Slumbering in their safety sure,
Rock’d to sleep upon the wave.
So would I still slumber on,
Till hour-telling clocks had gone,
And, from the contracted day,
One or more had click’d away.
Then with sitting wearied out,
I for change’s sake, no doubt,
Just might wish to leave my seat,
And, to exercise my feet,
Make a journey to the door,
Put my nose out, but no more:
There to village taste agree;
Mark how times are like to be;
How the weather’s getting on;
Peep in ruts where carts have gone;
Or, by stones, a sturdy stroke,
View the hole the boys have broke,
Crizzling, still inclin’d to freeze;--
And the rime upon the trees.
Then to pause on ills to come,
Just look upward on the gloom;
See fresh storms approaching fast,
View them busy in the air,
Boiling up the brewing blast,
Still fresh horrors scheming there.
Black and dismal, rising high,
From the north they fright the eye:
Pregnant with a thousand storms,
Huddled in their icy arms,
Heavy hovering as they come,
Some as mountains seem--and some
Jagg’d as craggy rocks appear
Dismally advancing near:
Fancy, at the cumbrous sight,
Chills and shudders with affright,
Fearing lest the air, in vain,
Strive her station to maintain,
And wearied, yeilding to the skies,
The world beneath in ruin lies.
So may Fancy think and feign;
Fancy oft imagines vain:
Nature’s laws, by wisdom penn’d,
Mortals cannot comprehend;
Power almighty Being gave,
Endless Mercy stoops to save;
Causes, hid from mortals’ sight,
Prove “whatever is, is right.”

Then to look again below,
Labour’s former life I’d view,
Who, still beating through the snow,
Spite of storms their toils pursue,
Forc’d out by sad Necessity
That sad fiend that forces me.
Troubles, then no more my own,
Which I but too long had known,
Might create a care, a pain;
Then I’d seek my joys again:
Pile the fire up, fetch a drink,
Then sit down again and think;
Pause on all my sorrows past,
Think how many a bitter blast,
When it snow’d, and hail’d, and blew,
I have toil’d and batter’d through.
Then to ease reflective pain,
To my sports I’d fall again,
Till the clock had counted ten;
When I’d seek my downy bed,
Easy, happy, and well fed.

Then might peep the morn, in vain,
Through the rimy misted pane;
Then might bawl the restless cock,
And the loud-tongued village clock;
And the flail might lump away,
Waking soon the dreary day:
They should never waken me,
Independent, blest, and free;
Nor, as usual, make me start,
Yawning sigh with heavy heart,
Loth to ope my sleepy eyes,
Weary still, in pain to rise,
With aching bones and heavy head,
Worse than when I went to bed.
With nothing then to raise a sigh,
Oh, how happy should I lie
Till the clock was eight, or more,
Then proceed as heretofore.
Best of blessings! sweetest charm!
Boon these wishes while they’re warm;
My fairy visions ne’er despise;
As reason thinks, thou realize:
Depress’d with want and poverty
I sink, I fall, denied by thee.

NOON

All how silent and how still;
Nothing heard but yonder mill:
While the dazzled eye surveys
All around a liquid blaze;
And amid the scorching gleams,
If we earnest look, it seems
As if crooked bits of glass
Seem’d repeatedly to pass.
Oh, for a puffing breeze to blow!
But breezes are all strangers now;
Not a twig is seen to shake,
Nor the smallest bent to quake;
From the river’s muddy side
Not a curve is seen to glide;
And no longer on the stream
Watching lies the silver bream,
Forcing, from repeated springs,
“Verges in successive rings.”
Bees are faint, and cease to hum;
Birds are overpower’d and dumb.
Rural voices all are mute,
Tuneless lie the pipe and flute:
Shepherds, with their panting sheep,
In the swaliest corner creep;
And from the tormenting heat
All are wishing to retreat.
Huddled up in grass and flowers,
Mowers wait for cooler hours;
And the cow-boy seeks the sedge,
Ramping in the woodland hedge,
While his cattle o’er the vales
Scamper, with uplifted tails;
Others not so wild and mad,
That can better bear the gad,
Underneath the hedge-row lunge,
Or, if nigh, in waters plunge.
Oh! to see how flowers are took,
How it grieves me when I look:
Ragged-robins, once so pink,
Now are turn’d as black as ink,
And the leaves, being scorch’d so much,
Even crumble at the touch;
Drowking lies the meadow-sweet,
Flopping down beneath one’s feet
While to all the flowers that blow,
If in open air they grow,
Th’ injurious deed alike is done
By the hot relentless sun.
E’en the dew is parched up
From the teasel’s jointed cup:
O poor birds! where must ye fly,
Now your water-pots are dry?
If ye stay upon the heath,
Ye’ll be choak’d and clamm’d to death:
Therefore leave the shadeless goss,
Seek the spring-head lin’d with moss;
There your little feet may stand,
Safely printing on the sand;
While, in full possession, where
Purling eddies ripple clear,
You with ease and plenty blest,
Sip the coolest and the best.
Then away! and wet your throats;
Cheer me with your warbling notes:
T’will hot noon the more revive;
While I wander to contrive
For myself a place as good,
In the middle of a wood:
There aside some mossy bank,
Where the grass in bunches rank
Lifts its down on spindles high,
Shall be where I’ll choose to lie;
Fearless of the things that creep,
There I’ll think, and there I’ll sleep;
Caring not to stir at all,
Till the dew begins to fall.

THE UNIVERSAL EPITAPH

No flattering praises daub my stone,
My frailties and my faults to hide;
My faults and failings all are known--
I liv’d in sin--in sin I died.

And oh! condemn me not, I pray,
You who my sad confession view;
But ask your soul, if it can say,
That I’m a viler man than you.

THE HARVEST MORNING

Cocks wake the early morn with many a crow;
Loud-striking village clock has counted four;
The labouring rustic hears his restless foe,
And weary, of his pains complaining sore,
Hobbles to fetch his horses from the moor:
Some busy ’gin to teem the loaded corn,
Which night throng’d round the barn’s becrowded door;
Such plenteous scenes the farmer’s yard adorn,
Such noisy, busy toils now mark the Harvest Morn.

The bird-boy’s pealing horn is loudly blow’d;
The waggons jostle on with rattling sound;
And hogs and geese now throng the dusty road,
Grunting, and gabbling, in contention, round
The barley ears that litter on the ground.
What printing traces mark the waggon’s way;
What busy bustling wakens echo round;
How drive the sun’s warm beams the mist away;
How labour sweats and toils, and dreads the sultry day!

His scythe the mower o’er his shoulder leans,
And whetting, jars with sharp and tinkling sound;
Then sweeps again ’mong corn and crackling beans,
And swath by swath flops lengthening o’er the ground;
While ’neath some friendly heap, snug shelter’d round
From spoiling sun, lies hid the heart’s delight;
And hearty soaks oft hand the bottle round,
Their toils pursuing with redoubled might--
Great praise to him is due that brought its birth to light.

Upon the waggon now, with eager bound,
The lusty picker whirls the rustling sheaves;
Or, resting ponderous creaking fork aground,
Boastful at once whole shocks of barley heaves:
The loading boy revengeful inly grieves
To find his unmatch’d strength and power decay;
The barley horn his garments interweaves;
Smarting and sweating ’neath the sultry day,
With muttering curses stung, he mauls the heaps away.

A motley group the clearing field surround;
Sons of Humanity, oh ne’er deny
The humble gleaner entrance in your ground;
Winter’s sad cold, and Poverty are nigh.
Grudge not from Providence the scant supply:
You’ll never miss it from your ample store.
Who gives denial--harden’d, hungry hound,--
May never blessings crowd his hated door!
But he shall never lack, that giveth to the poor.

Ah, lovely Emma! mingling with the rest,
Thy beauties blooming in low life unseen,
Thy rosy cheeks, thy sweetly swelling breast;
But ill it suits thee in the stubs to glean.
O Poverty! how basely you demean
The imprison’d worth your rigid fates confine:
Not fancied charms of an Arcadian queen
So sweet as Emma’s real beauties shine:
Had Fortune blest, sweet girl, this lot had ne’er been thine.

The sun’s increasing heat now mounted high,
Refreshment must recruit exhausted power;
The waggon stops, the busy tool’s thrown by,
And ’neath a shock’s enjoy’d the bevering hour.
The bashful maid, sweet health’s engaging flower
Lingering behind, o’er rake still blushing bends;
And when to take the horn fond swains implore,
With feign’d excuses its dislike pretends.
So pass the bevering hours, so Harvest Morning ends.

O Rural Life! what charms thy meanness hide;
What sweet descriptions bards disdain to sing;
What loves, what graces on thy plains abide:
Oh, could I soar me on the Muse’s wing,
What rifled charms should my researches bring!
Pleas’d would I wander where these charms reside;
Of rural sports and beauties would I sing;
Those beauties, Wealth, which you in vain deride,
Beauties of richest bloom, superior to your pride.

ON AN INFANT’S GRAVE

Beneath the sod where smiling creep
The daisies into view,
The ashes of an Infant sleep,
Whose soul’s as smiling too;
Ah! doubly happy, doubly blest,
(Had I so happy been!)
Recall’d to heaven’s eternal rest,
Ere it knew how to sin.

Thrice happy Infant! great the bliss
Alone reserv’d for thee;
Such joy ’twas my sad fate to miss,
And thy good luck to see;
For oh! when all must rise again,
And sentence then shall have,
What crowds will wish with me, in vain,
They’d fill’d an infant’s grave.

TO AN APRIL DAISY

Welcome, old Comrade! peeping once again;
Our meeting ’minds me of a pleasant hour:
Spring’s pencil pinks thee in that blushy stain,
And Summer glistens in thy tinty flower.

Hail, Beauty’s Gem! disdaining time nor place;
Carelessly creeping on the dunghill’s side;
Demeanour’s softness in thy crimpled face
Decks thee in beauties unattain’d by pride.

Hail, ’Venturer! once again that fearless here
Encampeth on the hoar hill’s sunny side;
Spring’s early messenger! thou’rt doubly dear;
And winter’s frost by thee is well supplied.

Now winter’s frowns shall cease their pelting rage,
But winter’s woes I need not tell to thee;
Far better luck thy visits well presage,
And be it thine and mine that luck to see.

Ah, may thy smiles confirm the hopes they tell
To see thee frost-bit I’d be griev’d at heart;
I meet thee happy, and I wish thee well,
Till ripening summer summons us to part.

Then like old mates, or two who’ve neighbours been,
We’ll part, in hopes to meet another year;
And o’er thy exit from this changing scene
We’ll mix our wishes in a tokening tear.

SUMMER EVENING

The sinking sun is taking leave,
And sweetly gilds the edge of Eve,
While huddling clouds of purple dye
Gloomy hang the western sky.
Crows crowd croaking over-head,
Hastening to the woods to bed.
Cooing sits the lonely dove,
Calling home her absent love.
With “Kirchup! kirchup!” ’mong the wheats,
Partridge distant partridge greets;
Beckoning hints to those that roam,
That guide the squander’d covey home.
Swallows check their winding flight,
And twittering on the chimney light.
Round the pond the martins flirt,
Their snowy breasts bedaub’d with dirt,
While the mason, ’neath the slates,
Each mortar-bearing bird awaits:
By art untaught, each labouring spouse
Curious daubs his hanging house.
Bats flit by in hood and cowl;
Through the barn-hole pops the owl;
From the hedge, in drowsy hum,
Heedless buzzing beetles bum,
Haunting every bushy place,
Flopping in the labourer’s face.
Now the snail hath made his ring;
And the moth with snowy wing
Circles round in winding whirls,
Through sweet evening’s sprinkled pearls
On each nodding rush besprent;
Dancing on from bent to bent:
Now to downy grasses clung,
Resting for a while he’s hung;
Strong to ferry o’er the stream,
Vanishing as flies a dream:
Playful still his hours to keep,
Till his time has come to sleep;
In tall grass, by fountain-head,
Weary then he drops to bed.
From the hay-cock’s moisten’d heaps
Startled frogs take vaunting leaps;
And along the shaven mead,
Jumping travellers, they proceed:
Quick the dewy grass divides,
Moistening sweet their speckled sides;
From the grass or flowret’s cup,
Quick the dew-drop bounces up.
Now the blue fog creeps along,
And the bird’s forgot his song:
Flowers now sleep within their hoods;
Daisies button into buds;
From soiling dew the butter-cup
Shuts his golden jewels up;
And the rose and woodbine they
Wait again the smiles of day.
’Neath the willow’s wavy boughs,
Dolly, singing, milks hers cows;
While the brook, as bubbling by,
Joins in murmuring melody.
Dick and Dob, with jostling joll,
Homeward drag the rumbling roll;
Whilom Ralph, for Doll to wait,
Lolls him o’er the pasture gate.
Swains to fold their sheep begin;
Dogs loud barking drive them in.
Hedgers now along the road
Homeward bend beneath their load;
And from the long furrow’d seams,
Ploughmen loose their weary teams:
Ball, with urging lashes weal’d.
Still so slow to drive a-field,
Eager blundering from the plough,
Wants no whip to drive him now;
At the stable-door he stands,
Looking round for friendly hands
To loose the door its fast’ning pin,
And let him with his corn begin.
Round the yard, a thousand ways
Beasts in expectation gaze,
Catching at the loads of hay
Passing fodd’rers tug away.
Hogs with grumbling, deaf’ning noise
Bother round the server boys;
And, far and near, the motley group
Anxious claim their suppering-up.
From the rest, a blest release,
Gabbling home, the quarrelling geese
Seek their warm straw-litter’d shed,
And, waddling, prate away to bed.
’Nighted by unseen delay,
Poking hens, that lose their way,
On the hovel’s rafters rise,
Slumbering there, the fox’s prize.
Now the cat has ta’en her seat,
With her tail curl’d round her feet;
Patiently she sits to watch
Sparrows fighting on the thatch.
Now Doll brings th’ expected pails.
And dogs begin to wag their tails;
With strokes and pats they’re welcom’d in
And they with looking wants begin:
Slove in the milk-pail brimming o’er,
She pops their dish behind the door.
Prone to mischief boys are met,
’Neath the eaves the ladder’s set,
Sly they climb in softest tread,
To catch the sparrow on his bed,
Massacred, O cruel pride!
Dash against the ladder’s side.
Curst barbarians! pass me by:
Come not, Turks, my cottage nigh;
Sure my sparrow’s are my own,
Let ye then my birds alone.
Come poor birds! from foes severe
Fearless come, you’re welcome here;
My heart yearns at fate like yours,
A sparrow’s life’s as sweet as ours.
Hardy clowns! grudge not the wheat
Which hunger forces birds to eat:
Your blinded eyes, worst foes to you,
Can’t see the good which sparrows do.
Did not poor birds with watching rounds
Pick up the insects from your grounds,
Did they not tend your rising grain,
You might then sow to reap in vain.
Thus Providence, right understood,
Whose end and aim is doing good,
Sends nothing here without its use;
Though ignorance loads it with abuse;
And fools despise the blessing sent,
And mock the Giver’s good intent--
O God! let me what’s good pursue,
Let me the same to others do
As I’d have others do to me,
And learn at least humanity.

Dark and darker glooms the sky;
Sleep ’gins close the labourer’s eye:
Dobson leaves his greensward seat,
Neighbours where they neighbours meet
Crops to praise and work in hand,
And battles tell from foreign land.
While his pipe is puffing out,
Sue he’s putting to the rout,
Gossiping, who takes delight
To shool her knitting out at night,
And back-bite neighbours ’bout the town--
Who’s got new caps, and who a gown,
And many a thing, her evil eye
Can see they don’t come honest by.
Chattering at a neighbour’s house,
She hears call out her frowning spouse
Prepar’d to start, she soodles home,
Her knitting twirling o’er her thumb,
As, loth to leave, afraid to stay,
She bawls her story all the way:
The tale so fraught with ’ticing charms.
Her apron folded o’er her arms,
She leaves the unfinished tale, in pain,
To end as evening comes again;
And in the cottage gangs with dread
To meet old Dobson’s timely frown,
Who grumbling sits, prepar’d for bed,
While she stands chelping ’bout the town.

The night-wind now, with sooty wings,
In the cotter’s chimney sings;
Now, as stretching o’er the bed,
Soft I raise my drowsy head,
Listening to the ushering charms
That shake the elm tree’s mossy arms;
Till sweet slumbers stronger creep,
Deeper darkness stealing round,
Then, as rock’d, I sink to sleep,
’Mid the wild wind’s lulling sound.

PATTY

Ye swampy falls of pasture ground,
And rushy spreading greens;
Ye rising swells in brambles bound,
And freedom’s wilder’d scenes;
I’ve trod ye oft, and love ye dear,
And kind was fate to let me;
On you I found my all, for here
’Twas first my Patty met me.

Flow on, thou gently plashing stream,
O’er weed-beds wild and rank;
Delighted I’ve enjoy’d my dream
Upon thy mossy bank:
Bemoistening many a weedy stem,
I’ve watched thee wind so clearly;
And on thy bank I found the gem
That makes me love thee dearly.

Thou wilderness, so rudely gay;
Oft as I seek thy plain,
Oft as I wend my steps away,
And meet my joys again,
And brush the weaving branches by
Of briars and thorns so matty;
So oft Reflection warms a sigh,--
Here first I meet my Patty.

PATTY OF THE VALE

Where lonesome woodlands close surrounding
Mark the spot a solitude,
And nature’s uncheck’d scenes abounding
Form a prospect wild and rude,
A cottage cheers the spot so glooming,
Hid in the hollow of the dale,
Where, in youth and beauty blooming
Lives sweet Patty of the Vale.

Gay as the lambs her cot surrounding,
Sporting wild the shades among,
O’er the hills and bushes bounding,
Artless, innocent, and young,
Fresh, as blush of morning roses
Ere the mid-day suns prevail,
Fair as lily-bud uncloses,
Blooms sweet Patty of the Vale.

Low and humble though her station,
Dress though mean she’s doom’d to wear,
Few superiors in the nation
With her beauty can compare.
What are riches?--not worth naming,
Though with some they may prevail;
Their’s be choice of wealth proclaiming,
Mine is Patty of the Vale.

Fools may fancy wealth and fortune
Join to make a happy pair,
And for such the god importune,
With full many a fruitless prayer:
I, their pride and wealth disdaining
Should my humble hopes prevail,
Happy then, would cease complaining,
Blest with Patty of the Vale.

MY LOVE, THOU ART A NOSEGAY SWEET

My love, thou art a nosegay sweet,
My sweetest flower I prove thee;
And pleas’d I pin thee to my breast,
And dearly do I love thee.

And when, my nosegay, thou shalt fade,
As sweet a flower thou’lt prove thee;
And as thou witherest on my breast,
For beauty past I’ll love thee.

And when, my nosegay, thou shalt die,
And heaven’s flower shalt prove thee;
My hopes shall follow to the sky,
And everlasting love thee.

THE MEETING

Here we meet, too soon to part,
Here to leave will raise a smart,
Here I’ll press thee to my heart,
Where none have place above thee:
Here I vow to love thee well,
And could words unseal the spell,
Had but language strength to tell,
I’d say how much I love thee.

Here, the rose that decks thy door,
Here, the thorn that spreads thy bow’r,
Here, the willow on the moor,
The birds at rest above thee,
Had they light of life to see,
Sense of soul like thee and me,
Soon might each a witness be
How doatingly I love thee.

By the night-sky’s purple ether,
And by even’s sweetest weather,
That oft has blest us both together,--
The moon that shines above thee,
And shews thy beauteous cheek so blooming,
And by pale age’s winter coming,
The charms, and casualties of woman,
I will for ever love thee.

EFFUSION

Ah, little did I think in time that’s past,
By summer burnt, or numb’d by winter’s blast,
Delving the ditch a livelihood to earn,
Or lumping corn out in a dusty barn;
With aching bones returning home at night,
And sitting down with weary hand to write;
Ah, little did I think, as then unknown,
Those artless rhymes I even blush’d to own
Would be one day applauded and approv’d,
By learning notic’d, and by genius lov’d.
God knows, my hopes were many, but my pain
Damp’d all the prospects which I hop’d to gain;
I hardly dar’d to hope.--Thou corner-chair,
In which I’ve oft slung back in deep despair,
Hadst thou expression, thou couldst easy tell
The pains and all that I have known too well:
’Twould be but sorrow’s tale, yet still ’twould be
A tale of truth, and passing sweet to me.
How oft upon my hand I’ve laid my head,
And thought how poverty deform’d our shed;
Look’d on each parent’s face I fain had cheer’d
Where sorrow triumph’d, and pale want appear’d;
And sigh’d, and hop’d, and wish’d some day would come,
When I might bring a blessing to their home,--
That toil and merit comforts had in store,
To bid the tear defile their cheeks no more.
Who that has feelings would not wish to be
A friend to parents, such as mine to me,
Who in distress broke their last crust in twain,
And though want pinch’d, the remnant broke again,
And still, if craving of their scanty bread,
Gave their last mouthful that I might be fed?
Nor for their own wants tear-drops follow’d free,
Worse anguish stung--they had no more for me,
And now hope’s sun is looking brighter out,
And spreading thin the clouds of fear and doubt,
That long in gloomy sad suspense to me
Hid the long-waited smiles I wish’d to see.
And now, my parents, helping you is sweet,--
The rudest havoc fortune could complete;
A piteous couple, little blest with friends,
Where pain and poverty have had their ends.
I’ll be thy crutch, my father, lean on me;
Weakness knits stubborn while its bearing thee;
And hard shall fall the shock of fortune’s frown
To eke thy sorrows, ere it breaks me down.
My mother, too, thy kindness shall be met,
And ere I’m able will I pay the debt;
For what thou’st done, and what gone through for me,
My last-earn’d sixpence will I break with thee:
And when my dwindled sum won’t more divide,
Then take it all--to fate I’ll leave the rest;
In helping thee I’ll always feel a pride,
Nor think I’m happy till ye both are blest.

BALLAD

A weedling wild, on lonely lea,
My evening rambles chanc’d to see;
And much the weedling tempted me
To crop its tender flower:
Expos’d to wind and heavy rain,
Its head bow’d lowly on the plain;
And silently it seem’d in pain
Of life’s endanger’d hour.

“And wilt thou bid my bloom decay,
And crop my flower, and me betray?
And cast my injur’d sweets away,”--
Its silence seemly sigh’d--
“A moment’s idol of thy mind?
And is a stranger so unkind,
To leave a shameful root behind,
Bereft of all its pride?”

And so it seemly did complain;
And beating fell the heavy rain;
And how it droop’d upon the plain,
To fate resign’d to fall:
My heart did melt at its decline,
And “Come,” said I, “thou gem divine,
My fate shall stand the storm with thine:”
So took the root and all.

SONG

One gloomy eve I roam’d about
’Neath Oxey’s hazel bowers,
While timid hares were darting out,
To crop the dewy flowers;
And soothing was the scene to me,
Right pleased was my soul,
My breast was calm as summer’s sea
When waves forget to roll.

But short was even’s placid smile,
My startled soul to charm,
When Nelly lightly skipt the stile,
With milk-pail on her arm:
One careless look on me she flung,
As bright as parting day:
And like a hawk from covert sprung,
It pounc’d my peace away.

THE GIPSY’S CAMP

How oft on Sundays, when I’d time to tramp,
My rambles led me to a gipsy’s camp,
Where the real effigy of midnight hags,
With tawny smoked flesh and tatter’d rags,
Uncouth-brimm’d hat, and weather-beaten cloak,
’Neath the wild shelter of a knotty oak,
Along the greensward uniforming pricks
Her pliant bending hazel’s arching sticks;
While round-topt bush or briar-entangled hedge,
Where flag-leaves spring beneath, or ramping sedge,
Keep off the bothering bustle of the wind,
And give the best retreat she hopes to find.
How oft I’ve bent me o’er her fire and smoke,
To hear her gibberish tale so quaintly spoke,
While the old Sybil forg’d her boding clack,
Twin imps the meanwhile bawling at her back;
Oft on my hand her magic coin’s been struck,
And hoping chink, she talk’d of morts of luck:
And still, as boyish hopes did first agree,
Mingled with fears to drop the fortune’s fee,
I never fail’d to gain the honours sought,
And Squire and Lord were purchas’d with a groat.
But as man’s unbelieving taste came round,
She furious stampt her shoeless foot aground,
Wip’d bye her soot-black hair with clenching fist,
While through her yellow teeth the spittle hist,
Swearing by all her lucky powers of fate,
Which like as footboys on her actions wait,
That fortune’s scale should to my sorrow turn
And I one day the rash neglect should mourn;
That good to bad should change, and I should be
Lost to this world and all eternity;
That poor as Job I should remain unblest;--
(Alas, for fourpence how my die is cast!)
Of not a hoarded farthing be possest,
And when all’s done, be shov’d to hell at last!

TO THE CLOUDS

O painted clouds! sweet beauties of the sky,
How have I view’d your motion and your rest
When like fleet hunters ye have left mine eye,
In your thin gauze of woolly-fleecing drest;
Or in your threaten’d thunder’s grave black vest,
Like black deep waters slowly moving by,
Awfully striking the spectator’s breast
With your Creator’s dread sublimity,
As admiration mutely views your storms.
And I do love to see you idly lie,
Painted by heav’n as various as your forms,
Pausing upon the eastern mountain high,
As morn awakes with spring’s wood-harmony;
And sweeter still, when in your slumbers sooth
You hang the western arch o’er day’s proud eye:
Still as the even-pool, uncurv’d and smooth,
My gazing soul has look’d most placidly;
And higher still devoutly wish’d to strain,
To wipe your shrouds and sky’s blue blinders by,
With all the warmness of a moon-struck brain,--
To catch a glimpse of Him who bids you reign,
And view the dwelling of all majesty.

THE WOODMAN

DEDICATED TO THE REV. J. KNOWLES HOLLAND.

The beating snow-clad bell, with sounding dead,
Hath clanked four--the woodman’s wak’d again;
And, as he leaves his comfortable bed,
Dithers to view the rimy feather’d pane,
And shrugs, and wishes--but ’tis all in vain:
The bed’s warm comforts he most now forego;
His family that oft till eight hath lain,
Without his labour’s wage could not do so.
And glad to make them blest he shuffles through the snow.

The early winter’s morn is dark as pitch,
The wary wife from tinder brought at night
With flint and steel, and may a sturdy twitch,
Sits up in bed to strike her man a light;
And as the candle shows the rapturous sight,
Aside his wife his rosy sleeping boy,
He smacks his lips with exquisite delight,
With all a father’s feelings, father’s joy,
Then bids his wife good-bye, and hies to his employ.
His breakfast water-porridge, humble food;
A barley-crust he in his wallet flings;
On this he toils and labours in the wood,
And chops his faggot, twists his band, and sings,
As happily as princes and as kings
With all their luxury:--and blest is he,
Can but the little which his labour brings
Make both ends meet, and from long debts keep free,
And neat and clean preserve his numerous family.

Far o’er the dreary fields the woodland lies,
Rough is the journey which he daily goes;
The woolly clouds, that hang the frowning skies,
Keep winnowing down their drifting sleet and snows,
And thro’ his doublet keen the north wind blows;
While hard as iron the cemented ground,
And smooth as glass the glibbed pool is froze;
His nailed boots with clenching tread rebound,
And dithering echo starts and mocks the clamping sound.

The woods how gloomy in a winter’s morn!
The crows and ravens even cease to croak,
The little birds sit chittering on the thorn,
The pies scarce chatter when they leave the oak,
Startled from slumber by the woodman’s stroke;
The milk-maid’s song is drown’d in gloomy care,
And while the village chimneys curl their smoke,
She milks, and blows, and hastens to be there;
And nature all seems sad, and dying in despair.

The quirking rabbit scarcely leaves her hole,
But rolls in torpid slumbers all the day;
The fox is loth to ’gin a long patrol,
And scouts the woods, content with meaner prey;
The hare so frisking, timid once and gay,
’Hind the dead thistle hurkles from the view,
Nor scarce is scar’d though in the traveller’s way,
Though waffling curs and shepherd-dogs pursue:
So winter’s ragged power affects all nature through.

What different changes winter’s frowns supply:
The clown no more a loitering hour beguiles,
Nor gaping tracks the clouds along the sky,
As when buds blossom, and the warm sun smiles,
And “Lawrence wages bids” on hills and stiles;
Banks, stiles, and flowers, and skies, no longer charm;
Deep drifting snow each summer-seat defiles;
With hasty blundering step and folded arm
He glad the stable seeks, his frost-nip nose to warm.
The shepherd haunts no more his spreading oak,
Nor on the sloping pond-head lies at lair;
The arbour he once wattled up is broke,
And left unworthy of his future care;
The ragged plundering stickers have been there,
And pilfer’d it away; he passes by
His summer dwelling, desolate and bare,
And ne’er so much as turns a conscious eye,
But gladly seeks his fire, and shuns th’ inclement sky.

The scene is cloth’d in snow from morn till night,
The woodman’s loth his chilly tools to seize;
The crows unroosting as he comes in sight
Shake down the feathery burden from the trees;
To look at things around he’s fit to freeze:
Scar’d from her perch the fluttering pheasant flies:
His hat and doublet whiten by degrees,
He quakes, looks round, and pats his hands and sighs,
And wishes to himself that the warm sun would rise.

The robin, tamest of the feather’d race,
Soon as he hears the woodman’s sounding chops,
With ruddy bosom and a simple face
Around his old companion fearless hops,
And there for hours in pleas’d attention stops:
The woodman’s heart is tender and humane
And at his meals he many a crumble drops.
Thanks to thy generous feelings, gentle swain;
And what thy pity gives, shall not be given in vain.

The woodman gladly views the closing day,
To see the sun drop down behind the wood,
Sinking in clouds deep blue or misty grey,
Round as a football and as red as blood:
The pleasing prospect does his heart much good,
Though ’tis not his such beauties to admire;
He hastes to fill his bags with billet-wood,
Well-pleas’d from the chill prospect to retire,
To seek his corner chair, and warm snug cottage fire.

And soon as dusky even hovers round,
And the white frost ’gins crizzle pond and brook,
The little family are glimpsing round,
And from the door dart many a wistful look;
The supper’s ready stewing on the hook:
And every foot that clampers down the street
Is for the coming father’s step mistook;
O’erjoy’d are they when he their eyes doth meet,
Bent ’neath his load, snow-clad, as white as any sheet.

I think I see him seated in his chair,
Taking the bellows up the fire to blow;
I think I hear him joke and chatter there,
Telling his children news they wish to know;
With leather leggings on, that stopt the snow,
And broad-brimm’d hat uncouthly shapen round:
Nor would he, I’ll be bound, if it were so,
Give twopence for the chance, could it be found,
At that same hour to be the king of England crown’d.

The woodman smokes, the brats in mirth and glee,
And artless prattle, even’s hour beguile,
While love’s last pledge runs scrambling up his knee,
The nightly comfort from his weary toil,
His chuff cheeks dimpling in a fondling smile;
He claims his kiss, and says his scraps of prayer;
Begging his daddy’s pretty song the while,
Playing with his jacket-buttons and his hair;--
And thus in wedlock’s joys the labourer drowns his care.

And as most labourers knowingly pretend
By certain signs to judge the weather right,
As oft from “Noah’s ark” great floods descend,
And “buried moons” foretell great storms at night,
In such-like things the woodman took delight;
And ere he went to bed would always ken
Whether the sky was gloom’d or stars shone bright,
Then went to comfort’s arms till morn, and then
As cheery as the sun resum’d his toils agen.

And ere he slept he always breath’d a prayer,
“I thank Thee, Lord, that Thou to-day didst give
Sufficient strength to toil; and blest Thy care,
And thank Thee still for what I may receive:
And, O Almighty God! while I still live,
Ere my eyes open on the last day’s sun,
Prepare Thou me this wicked world to leave,
And fit my passage ere my race is run;
’Tis all I beg, O Lord! Thy heavenly will be done.”

Holland; to thee this humble ballad’s sent,
Who for the poor man’s welfare oft hast pray’d;
Whose tongue did ne’er belie its good intent,
Preacher, as well in practice, as in trade--
Alas, too often money’s business made!
O may the wretch, that’s still in darkness living,
The Bible’s comforts hear by thee display’d;
And many a woodman’s family, forgiven,
Have cause for blessing thee that led their way to heaven.

RURAL EVENING

The sun now sinks behind the woodland green,
And twittering spangles glow the leaves between,
So bright and dazzling on the eye it plays
As if noon’s heat had kindled to a blaze,
But soon it dims in red and heavier hues,
And shows wild fancy cheated in her views.
A mist-like moisture rises from the ground,
And deeper blueness stains the distant round.
The eye each moment, as it gazes o’er,
Still loses objects which it mark’d before;
The woods at distance changing like to clouds,
And spire-points croodling under evening’s shrouds;
Till forms of things, and hues of leaf and flower,
In deeper shadows, as by magic power,
With light and all, in scarce-perceiv’d decay,
Put on mild evening’s sober garb of grey.

Now in the sleepy gloom that blackens round
Dies many a lulling hum of rural sound,
From cottage door, farm-yard and dusty lane,
Where home the cart-house tolters with the swain.
Or padded holm, where village boys resort,
Bawling enraptur’d o’er their evening sport,
Till night awakens superstition’s dread
And drives them prisoners to a restless bed.
Thrice happy eve of days no more to me!
Whoever thought such change belong’d to thee?
When, like to boys whom now thy gloom surrounds,
I chas’d the stag, or play’d at fox-and-hounds,
Or wander’d down the lane with many a mate
To play at see-saw on the pasture-gate,
Or on the threshold of some cottage sat
To watch the flittings of the shrieking bat,
Who, seemly pleas’d to mock our treacherous view,
Would even swoop and touch us as he flew,
And vainly still our hopes to entertain
Would stint his route, and circle us again,--
Till, wearied out with many a coaxing call
Which boyish superstition loves to bawl,
His shrill song shrieking he betook to flight,
And left us puzzled in short-sighted night.
Those days have fled me, as from them they steal:
And I’ve felt losses they must shortly feel;
But sure such ends make every bosom sore,
To think of pleasures we must meet no more.

Now from the pasture milking-maidens come,
With each a swain to bear the burden home,
Who often coax them on their pleasant way
To soodle longer out in love’s delay;
While on a mole-hill, or a resting stile,
The simple rustics try their arts the while
With glegging smiles, and hopes and fears between,
Snatching a kiss to open what they mean:
And all the utmost that their tongues can do,
The honey’d words which nature learns to woo,
The wild-flower sweets of language, “love” and “dear,”
With warmest utterings meet each maiden’s ear;
Who as by magic smit, she knows not why,
From the warm look that waits a wish’d reply
Droops fearful down in love’s delightful swoon
As slinks the blossom from the suns of noon;
While sighs half-smother’d from the throbbing breast,
And broken words sweet trembling o’er the rest,
And cheeks, in blushes burning, turn’d aside,
Betray the plainer what she strives to hide.
The amorous swain sees through the feign’d disguise,
Discerns the fondness she at first denies,
And with all passions love and truth can move
Urges more strong the simpering maid to love;
More freely using toying ways to win--
Tokens that echo from the soul within--
Her soft hand nipping, that with ardour burns,
And, timid, gentlier presses its returns;
Then stealing pins with innocent deceit,
To loose the ’kerchief from its envied seat;
Then unawares her bonnet he’ll untie,
Her dark-brown ringlets wiping gently by,
To steal a kiss in seemly feign’d disguise,
As love yields kinder taken by surprise:
While nearly conquer’d she less disapproves,
And owns at last, mid tears and sighs, she loves.
With sweetest feelings that this world bestows
Now each to each their inmost souls disclose,
Vow to be true; and to be truly ta’en,
Repeat their loves, and vow it o’er again;
And pause at loss of language to proclaim
Those purest pleasures, yet without a name:
And while, in highest ecstacy of bliss
The shepherd holds her yielding hand in his
He turns to heaven to witness what he feels,
And silent shows what want of words conceals;
Then ere the parting moments hustle nigh,
And night in deeper dye his curtain dips,
Till next day’s evening glads the anxious eye,
He swears his truth, and seals it on her lips.

At even’s hour, the truce of toil, ’tis sweet
The sons of labour at their ease to meet,
On piled bench, beside the cottage door,
Made up of mud and stones and sodded o’er;
Where rustic taste at leisure trimly weaves
The rose and straggling woodbine to the eaves,--
And on the crowded spot that pales enclose
The white and scarlet daisy rears in rows,--
Training the trailing peas in bunches neat,
Perfuming evening with a luscious sweet,--
And sun-flowers planting for their gilded show,
That scale the window’s lattice ere they blow,
Then sweet to habitants within the sheds,
Peep through the diamond pane their golden heads:
Or at the shop where ploughs and harrows lie,
Well-known to every child that passes by
From shining fragments littering on the floor;
And branded letter burnt upon the door,
Where meddling boys, the torment of the street,
In hard-burnt cinders ready weapons meet,
To pelt the martins ’neath the eves at rest
That oft are wak’d to mourn a ruin’d nest;
Or sparrows, that delight their nests to leave,
In dust to flutter at the cool of eve.
For such-like scenes the gossip leaves her home,
And sons of labour light their pipes, and come
To talk of wages, whether high or low,
And mumble news that still as secrets go;
When, heedless then to all the rest may say,
The beckoning lover nods the maid away,
And at a distance many an hour they seem
In jealous whisperings o’er their pleasing theme;
While children round them teasing sports prolong,
To twirl the top, or bounce the hoop along,
Or shout across the street their “one catch all,”
Or prog the hous’d bee from the cotter’s wall.

Now at the parish cottage wall’d with dirt,
Where all the cumber-grounds of life resort,
From the low door that bows two props between,
Some feeble tottering dame surveys the scene;
By them reminded of the long-lost day
When she herself was young, and went to play;
And, turning to the painful scenes again,
The mournful changes she has meet since then,
Her aching heart, the contrast moves so keen,
E’en sighs a wish that life had never been.
Still vainly sinning, while she strives to pray,
Half-smother’d discontent pursues its way
In whispering Providence, how blest she’d been
If life’s last troubles she’d escap’d unseen;
If, ere want sneak’d for grudg’d support from pride,
She had but shar’d of childhood’s joys, and died.
And as to talk some passing neighbours stand,
And shove their box within her tottering hand,
She turns from echoes of her younger years,
And nips the portion of her snuff with tears.

RUSTIC FISHING