John Clare

'T is Spring, my love, 'tis Spring, And the birds begin to sing: If 'twas Winter, left alone with you,

Shades though you're leafless, save the bramble-spear Whose weather-beaten leaves, of purple stain, In hardy stubbornness cling all the year

The hawthorn gently stopt the sun, beneath, The ash above its quiv'ring shadows spread, And downy bents, that to the air did wreathe,

O who can witness with a careless eye The countless lamps that light an evening sky, And not be struck with wonder at the sight!

Scenes of love and days of pleasure, I must leave them all, lassie. Scenes of love and hours of leisure,

Surely Lucy love returns, Though her meaning's not reveal'd; Surely love her bosom burns,

O happy spot! how much the sight of thee Wakes the endearments of my infancy: The very trees, through which the wild-winds sigh,

Again freckled cowslips are gilding the plain, And crow-flowers yellow again o'er the lea, Again the speck'd throstle comes in with her strain,

A Specimen of Clare's rough drafts In a huge cloud of mountain hue The sun sets dark nor shudders through

Here's a valentine nosegay for Mary, Some of Spring's earliest flowers; The ivy is green by the dairy,

Be where I may when Death brings in his bill, Demanding payment for life's ling'ring debt, Or in my native village nestling still,

Oh, the world is all too rude for thee, with much ado and care; Oh, this world is but a rude world, and hurts a thing so fair; Was there a nook in which the world had never been to sear,

"What ails my love, where can he be? He never broke a vow, Though twice the clock's reminded me

Calm resignation meets a happy end; And Providence, long-trusted, brings a friend. God's will be done, be patient and be good;

The week before Easter, the days long and clear, So bright shone the sun and so cool blew the air, I went in the meadow some flowers to find there,

"Adieu, my love, adieu! Be constant and be true As the daisies gemmed with dew,

Beside a runnel build my shed, With stubbles cover'd o'er; Let broad oaks o'er its chimney spread,

Among the green bushes the songs of the thrushes Are answering each other in music and glee, While the magpies and rooks, in woods, hedges, near brooks,

The Autumn day now fades away, The fields are wet and dreary; The rude storm takes the flowers of May,

O take this world away from me; Its strife I cannot bear to see, Its very praises hurt me more

Who loves the white-thorn tree, And the river running free? There a maiden stood with me

I love the fitful gust that shakes The casement all the day, And from the glossy elm tree takes

Autumn comes laden with her ripened load Of fruitage and so scatters them abroad That each fern-smothered heath and mole-hill waste

The wild duck startles like a sudden thought, And heron slow as if it might be caught. The flopping crows on weary wings go by

When midnight comes a host of dogs and men Go out and track the badger to his den, And put a sack within the hole, and lie

A faithless shepherd courted me, He stole away my liberty. When my poor heart was strange to men,

I love thee, sweet Mary, but love thee in fear; Were I but the morning breeze, healthy and airy, As thou goest a walking I'd breathe in thine ear,

When nature's beauty shone complete. With summer's lovely weather, And even, shadowing day's retreat,

Winter's gone, the summer breezes Breathe the shepherd's joys again, Village scene no longer pleases,

A weedling wild, on lonely lea, My evening rambles chanc'd to see; And much the weedling tempted me

When the dark ivy the thorn-tree is mounting, Sweet shielding in summer the nest of the dove, There lies the sweet spot, by the side of the fountain,

On the eighteenth of October we lay in Bantry Bay, All ready to set sail, with a fresh and steady gale: A fortnight and nine days we in the harbour lay,

Dream not of love, to think it like What waking love may prove to be, For I dreamed so and broke my heart,

The firetail tells the boys when nests are nigh And tweets and flies from every passer-bye. The yellowhammer never makes a noise

Why are ye silent, Birds? Where do ye fly? Winter's not violent,

O the evening's for the fair, bonny lassie O! To meet the cooler air and walk an angel there, With the dark dishevelled hair,

The morning opens fine, bonny Mary O! The robin sings his song by the dairy O! Where the little Jenny wrens cock their tails among the hens,

With careful step to keep his balance up He reels on warily along the street, Slabbering at mouth and with a staggering stoop

What trifles touch our feelings, when we view The simple scenes of Childhood's early day, Pausing on spots where gather'd blossoms grew,

"Perhaps it is foolish to remark it, but there are times and places when I am a child at those things" --MACKENZIE. Each scene of youth to me's a pleasing toy,

Christmass is come and every hearth Makes room to give him welcome now Een want will dry its tears in mirth

In the cowslip pips I lie, Hidden from the buzzing fly, While green grass beneath me lies,

Dear brother robin this comes from us all With our kind love and could Gip write and all Though but a dog he'd have his love to spare

Now eve's hours hot noon succeed; And day's herald, wing'd with speed, Flush'd with summer's ruddy face,

The red east glows, the dewy cheek of Day Has not yet met the sun's o'erpowering smile; The dew-drops in their beauty still are gay,

The winds and waters are in his command, Held as a courser in the rider's hand. He lets them loose, they triumph at his will:

Why should man's high aspiring mind Burn in him with so proud a breath, When all his haughty views can find

O Poesy is on the wane, For Fancy's visions all unfitting; I hardly know her face again,

Slow boiling up, on the horizon's brim, Huge clouds arise, mountainous, dark and grim, Sluggish and slow upon the air they ride,

The dewdrops on every blade of grass are so much like silver drops that I am obliged to stoop down as I walk to see if they are pearls, and those sprinkled on the ivy-woven beds of primroses underneath the

What is there in those distant hills My fancy longs to see, That many a mood of joy instils?

The frog croaks loud, and maidens dare not pass But fear the noisome toad and shun the grass; And on the sunny banks they dare not go

The Spring of life is o'er with me, And love and all gone by; Like broken bough upon yon tree,

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,

Full many a sharp, sad, unexpected thorn Finds room to wound Life's lacerated flower, Which subtle fate, to every mortal born,

The Spring is come, and Spring flowers coming too, The crocus, patty kay, the rich hearts' ease; The polyanthus peeps with blebs of dew,

Winter is past--the little bee resumes Her share of sun and shade, and o'er the lea Hums her first hymnings to the flowers' perfumes,

Man, Earth's poor shadow! talks of Earth's decay: But hath it nothing of eternal kin? No majesty that shall not pass away?

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,

I love to see the old heath's withered brake Mingle its crimpled leaves with furze and ling, While the old heron from the lonely lake

'T is evening: the black snail has got on his track, And gone to its nest is the wren, And the packman snail, too, with his home on his back,

In the meadow's silk grasses we see the black snail, Creeping out at the close of the eve, sipping dew, While even's one star glitters over the vale,

When once the sun sinks in the west, And dew-drops pearl the evening's breast; Almost as pale as moonbeams are,

Expression, throbbing utterance of the soul, Born in some bard, when with the muses' fires His feeling bursts unaw'd, above control,

[Clare's note:--"Scraps from my father and mother, completed."] Here's a sad good bye for thee, my love, To friends and foes a smile:

Farewell to the bushy clump close to the river And the flags where the butter-bump hides in for ever; Farewell to the weedy nook, hemmed in by waters;

Love and thy vain employs, away From this too oft deluded breast! No longer will I court thy stay,

Maids shout to breakfast in a merry strife, And the cat runs to hear the whetted knife, And dogs are ever in the way to watch

He waits all day beside his little flock And asks the passing stranger what's o'clock, But those who often pass his daily tasks

The beams in blossom with their spots of jet Smelt sweet as gardens wheresoever met; The level meadow grass was in the swath;

I ne'er was struck before that hour With love so sudden and so sweet. Her face it bloomed like a sweet flower

The fir trees taper into twigs and wear The rich blue green of summer all the year, Softening the roughest tempest almost calm

The cataract, whirling down the precipice, Elbows down rocks and, shouldering, thunders through. Roars, howls, and stifled murmurs never cease;

Sweet solitude, what joy to be alone-- In wild, wood-shady dell to stay for hours. Twould soften hearts if they were hard as stone

Supper removed, the mother sits, And tells her tales by starts and fits. Not willing to lose time or toil,

I In politics and politicians' lies The modern farmer waxes wondrous wise;

The snow falls deep; the forest lies alone; The boy goes hasty for his load of brakes, Then thinks upon the fire and hurries back;

Grasshoppers go in many a thumming spring And now to stalks of tasseled sow-grass cling, That shakes and swees awhile, but still keeps straight;

Infants' gravemounds are steps of angels, where Earth's brightest gems of innocence repose. God is their parent, so they need no tear;

Infant' graves are steps of angels, where Earth's brightest gems of innocence repose. God is their parent, and they need no tear;

What makes me love thee now, thou dreary scene, And see in each swell'd heap a peaceful bed? I well remember that the time has been,

Ye injur'd fields, ye once were gay, When nature's hand display'd Long waving rows of willows grey,

Among the orchard weeds, from every search, Snugly and sure, the old hen's nest is made, Who cackles every morning from her perch

Ah, when this world and I have shaken hands, And all the frowns of this sad life got through, When from pale Care and Sorrow's dismal lands

He plays with other boys when work is done, But feels too clumsy and too stiff to run, Yet where there's mischief he can find a way

Nature, thou accept the song, To thee the simple lines belong, Inspir'd as brushing hill and dell

O for that sweet, untroubled rest That poets oft have sung!-- The babe upon its mother's breast,

O home, however homely,--thoughts of thee Can never fail to cheer the absent breast; How oft wild raptures have been felt by me,

This world has suns, but they are overcast; This world has sweets, but they're of ling'ring bloom; Life still expects, and empty falls at last;

These little window dwellers, in cottages and halls, were always entertaining to me; after dancing in the window all day from sunrise to sunset they would sip of the tea, drink of the beer, and eat of the

I opened the casement this morn at starlight, And, the moment I got out of bed, The daisies were quaking about in their white

I hid my love when young till I Couldn't bear the buzzing of a fly; I hid my love to my despite

I love thee, sweet Mary, but love thee in fear; Were I but the morning breeze, healthful and airy, As thou goest a-walking I'd breathe in thine ear,

I pluck Summer blossoms, And think of rich bosoms-- The bosoms I've leaned on, and worshipped, and won.

I'll lay me down on the green sward, Mid yellowcups and speedwell blue, And pay the world no more regard,

I would not wish the burning blaze Of fame around a restless world, The thunder and the storm of praise

"Where art thou wandering, little child?" I said to one I met to-day.-- She pushed her bonnet up and smiled,

"Where art thou wandering, little child?" I said to one I met to-day-- She push'd her bonnet up and smil'd,

How sweet to be thus nestling deep in boughs, Upon an ashen stoven pillowing me; Faintly are heard the ploughmen at their ploughs,

How Sweet to be thus nestling deep in boughs, Upon an ashen stoven pillowing me; Faintly are heard the ploughmen at their ploughs,

These tiny loiterers on the barley's beard, And happy units of a numerous herd Of playfellows, the laughing Summer brings,

Say, wilt thou go with me, sweet maid, Say, maiden, wilt thou go with me Through the valley-depths of shade,

"Will Jockey come to-day, mither? Will Jockey come to-day? He's taen sic likings to my brither

How pleasing simplest recollections seem! Now summer comes, it warms me to look back On the sweet happiness of youth's wild track,

O Langley Bush! the shepherd's sacred shade, Thy hollow trunk oft gain'd a look from me; Full many a journey o'er the heath I've made,

Lassie, I love thee! The heavens above thee Look downwards to move thee,

Left in the world alone, Where nothing seems my own, And everything is weariness to me,

Like boys that run behind the loaded wain For the mere joy of riding back again, When summer from the meadow carts the hay

Life, thou art misery, or as such to me; One name serves both, or I no difference see; Tho' some there live would call thee heaven below,

Little trotty wagtail he went in the rain, And tittering, tottering sideways he neer got straight again, He stooped to get a worm, and looked up to get a fly,

Little trotty wagtail he went in the rain, And twittering, tottering sideways he ne'er got straight again. He stooped to get a worm, and looked up to get a fly,

Love, though it is not chill and cold, But burning like eternal fire, Is yet not of approaches bold,

In crime and enmity they lie Who sin and tell us love can die, Who say to us in slander's breath

Love lives beyond The tomb, the earth, which fades like dew! I love the fond,

I love thee, Nature, with a boundless love! The calm of earth, the storm of roaring woods! The winds breathe happiness where'er I rove!

O far is fled the winter wind, And far is fled the frost and snow, But the cold scorn on my love's brow

I hate the very noise of troublous man Who did and does me all the harm he can. Free from the world I would a prisoner be

Go rose, my Chloe's bosom grace: How happy should I prove, Could I supply that envied place

"Unriddle this riddle, my own Jenny love, Unriddle this riddle for me, And if ye unriddle the riddle aright,

Maid of the wilderness, Sweet in thy rural dress, Fond thy rich lips I press

[From HONE'S "Year Book"] The insect world, now sunbeams higher climb, Oft dream of Spring, and wake before their time:

With arms and legs at work and gentle stroke That urges switching tail nor mends his pace, On an old ribbed and weather beaten horse,

The skylark mounts up with the morn, The valleys are green with the Spring, The linnets sit in the whitethorn,

I look upon the hedgerow flower, I gaze upon the hedgerow tree, I walk alone the silent hour,

My love she wears a cotton plaid, A bonnet of the straw; Her cheeks are leaves of roses spread,

How beautiful the summer night When birds roost on the mossy tree, When moon and stars are shining bright

Sweet Summer, breathe your softest gales To charm my lover's ear: Ye zephyrs, tell your choicest tales

My love is tall and handsome; All hearts she might command; She's matchless for her beauty,

Now comes the bonny May, dancing and skipping Across the stepping-stones of meadow streams, Bearing no kin to April showers a-weeping,

Come queen of months in company Wi all thy merry minstrelsy The restless cuckoo absent long

Now happy swains review the plains, And hail the first of May; Now linnets sing to welcome spring,

How sweet it is, when suns get warmly high, In the mid-noon, as May's first cowslip springs, And the young cuckoo his soft ditty sings,

Upon a day, a merry day, When summer in her best, Like Sunday belles, prepares for play,

Love, meet me in the green glen, Beside the tall elm tree, Where the sweet briar smells so sweet agen;

O meet me to-night by the bright starlight, Now the pleasant Spring's begun. My own dear maid, by the greenwood shade,

I would not that my memory all should die, And pass away with every common lot: I would not that my humble dust should lie

Bonny and stout and brown, without a hat, She frowns offended when they call her fat-- Yet fat she is, the merriest in the place,

Young Jenny wakens at the dawn, Fresh as carnations newly blown, And o'er the pasture every morn

Here grandeur triumphs at its topmost pitch In gardens, groves, and all that life beguiles; Here want, too, meets a blessing from the rich,

O now the crimson east, its fire-streak burning, Tempts me to wander 'neath the blushing morn, Winding the zig-zag lane, turning and turning,

There's a bonny place in Scotland, Where a little spring is found; There Nature shows her honest face

Here sparrows build upon the trees, And stockdove hides her nest; The leaves are winnowed by the breeze

My love, thou art a nosegay sweet, My sweetest flower I'll prove thee, And pleased I pin thee to my breast,

The Spring is come forth, but no Spring is for me Like the Spring of my boyhood on woodland and lea, When flowers brought me heaven and knew me again,

'T was somewhere in the April time, Not long before the May, A-sitting on a bank o' thyme

The faint sun tipt the rising ground, No blustering wind, the air was still; The blue mist, thinly scatter'd round,

O Native scenes, nought to my heart clings nearer Than you, ye Edens of my youthful hours; Nought in this world warms my affections dearer

Sweet comes the morning In Nature's adorning, And bright shines the dew on the buds of the thorn,

All nature owns with one accord The great and universal Lord: The sun proclaims him through the day,

O simple Nature, how I do delight To pause upon thy trifles--foolish things, As some would call them.--On the summer night,

Night spreads upon the plain her ebon pall, Day seems unable to wash out the stain; A pausing truce kind nature gives to all,

Darkness like midnight from the sobbing woods Clamours with dismal tidings of the rain, Roaring as rivers breaking loose in floods

On Martinmas eve the dogs did bark, And I opened the window to see, When every maiden went by with her spark,

On Martinmas eve the dogs did bark, And I opened the window to see, When every maiden went by with her spark

The mid-day hour of twelve the clock counts o'er, A sultry stillness lulls the air asleep; The very buzz of flies is heard no more,

The landscape sleeps in mist from morn till noon; And, if the sun looks through, tis with a face Beamless and pale and round, as if the moon,

Sybil of months, and worshipper of winds, I love thee, rude and boisterous as thou art; And scraps of joy my wandering ever finds

Now is past--the happy now When we together roved Beneath the wildwood's oak-tree bough

O silly love! O cunning love! An old maid to trepan: I cannot go about my work

O life, thy name to me's a galling sound, A sound I fain would wish to breathe no more; One only peace for me my hopes have found,

Beyond expression, delicately fine, Beneath her slender fingers swept the sound Of 'witching tones, melodious, divine;

Serene she looks, she wears an angel's form, Her arching eyes are fix'd upon the sky, Gloomy, yet glist'ning 'tween black curls wip'd by,

---------Taste is from heaven, An inspiration nature can't bestow; Though nature's beauties, where a taste is given,

How sweet it us'd to be, when April first Unclos'd the arum-leaves, and into view Its ear-like spindling flowers their cases burst,

I seek for Peace--I care not where 'tis found: On this rude scene in briars and brambles drest, If peace dwells here, 'tis consecrated ground,

Peggy said good morning and I said good bye, When farmers dib the corn and laddies sow the rye. Young Peggy's face was common sense and I was rather shy

O it was a lorn and a dismal night, And the storm beat loud and high; Not a friendly light to guide me right

And will she leave the lowly clowns For silk and satins gay, Her woollen aprons and drab gowns

Agen I'll take my idle pen And sing my bonny mountain maid-- Sweet Phoebe of the Scottish glen,

Spring's sweets they are not fled, though Summer's blossom Has met its blight of sadness, drooping low; Still flowers gone by find beds in memory's bosom,

A path, old tree, goes by thee crooking on, And through this little gate that claps and bangs Against thy rifted trunk, what steps hath gone?

Here morning in the ploughman's songs is met Ere yet one footstep shows in all the sky, And twilight in the east, a doubt as yet,

Why should man's high aspiring mind Burn in him with so proud a breath, When all his haughty views can find

Poets love Nature, and themselves are love. Though scorn of fools, and mock of idle pride. The vile in nature worthless deeds approve,

Rank Poverty! dost thou my joys assail, And with thy threat'nings fright me from my rest? I once had thoughts, that with a Bloomfield's tale,

I wandered out one rainy day And heard a bird with merry joys Cry "wet my foot" for half the way;

The rosy day was sweet and young, The clod-brown lark that hail'd the morn Had just her summer anthem sung,

Just as the even-bell rang, we set out To wander the fields and the meadows about; And the first thing we mark'd that was lovely to view,

Summer's pleasures they are gone like to visions every one, And the cloudy days of autumn and of winter cometh on. I tried to call them back, but unbidden they are gone

The eve put on her sweetest shroud, The summer-dress she's often in, Freck'd with white and purple cloud,

The sun now sinks behind the woodland green, And twittering spangles glow the leaves between; So bright and dazzling on the eye it plays

Soon as the twilight through the distant mist In silver hemmings skirts the purple east, Ere yet the sun unveils his smiles to view

Soon as the twilight through the distant mist In silver hemmings skirts the purple east, Ere yet the sun unveils his smiles to view

On Sunday mornings, freed from hard employ, How oft I mark the mischievous young boy With anxious haste his pole and lines provide,

Upon the sabbath, sweet it is to walk 'Neath wood-side shelter of oak's spreading tree, Or by a hedge-row track, or padded balk;

She hastens out and scarcely pins her clothes To hear the news and tell the news she knows; She talks of sluts, marks each unmended gown,

I hid my love when young till I Couldn't bear the buzzing of a fly; I hid my love to my despite

The cat runs races with her tail. The dog Leaps oer the orchard hedge and knarls the grass. The swine run round and grunt and play with straw,

What a night! The wind howls, hisses, and but stops To howl more loud, while the snow volley keeps Incessant batter at the window pane,

Now as even's warning bell Rings the day's departing knell, Leaving me from labour free,

I wish I was where I would be, With love alone to dwell, Was I but her or she but me,

I peeled bits of straws and I got switches too From the grey peeling willow as idlers do, And I switched at the flies as I sat all alone

Warm into praises, kindling muse, With grateful transport raise thy views To Him, who moves this ball,

What is song's eternity? Come and see. Can it noise and bustle be?

A beautiful flower, that bedeck'd a mean pasture, In virgin perfection I found; Its fair bloom stood naked to every disaster,

Dropt here and there upon the flower I love the dew to see, For then returns the even's hour

Fill the foaming cups again, Let's be merry while we may; Man is foolish to complain

Mary, the day of love's pleasures has been, And the day is o'erclouded and gone; These eyes all their fulness of pleasure have seen,

Of all the days in memory's list, Those motley banish'd days; Some overhung with sorrow's mist,

On gloomy eve I roam'd about 'Neath Oxey's hazel bowers, While timid hares were darting out,

Swamps of wild rush-beds, and sloughs' squashy traces, Grounds of rough fallows with thistle and weed, Flats and low vallies of kingcups and daisies,

The sultry day it wears away, And o'er the distant leas The mist again, in purple stain,

There was a time, when love's young flowers With many a joy my bosom prest: Sweet hours of bliss!--but short are hours,

There's the daisy, the woodbine, And crow-flower so golden; There's the wild rose, the eglantine,

Let brutish hearts, as hard as stones, Mock The weak Muse's tender moans, As now she wails o'er Titty's bones

Ye brown old oaks that spread the silent wood, How soothing sweet your stillness used to be; And still could bless, when wrapt in musing mood,

Where the broad sheepwalk bare and brown [Yields] scant grass pining after showers, And winds go fanning up and down

Maytime is to the meadows coming in, And cowslip peeps have gotten eer so big, And water blobs and all their golden kin

Come, gentle Spring, and show thy varied greens In woods, and fields, and meadows, by clear brooks; Come, gentle Spring, and bring thy sweetest scenes,

Bowing adorers of the gale, Ye cowslips delicately pale, Upraise your loaded stems;

Where slanting banks are always with the sun The daisy is in blossom even now; And where warm patches by the hedges run

The prim daisy's golden eye On the fallow land doth lie, Though the Spring is just begun:

What charms does Nature at the spring put on, When hedges unperceived get stain'd in green; When even moss, that gathers on the stone,

The passing traveller with wonder sees A deep and ancient stonepit full of trees; So deep and very deep the place has been,

Black grows the southern sky, betokening rain, And humming hive-bees homeward hurry bye: They feel the change; so let us shun the grain,

Come we to the summer, to the summer we will come, For the woods are full of bluebells and the hedges full of bloom, And the crow is on the oak a-building of her nest,

The frog half fearful jumps across the path, And little mouse that leaves its hole at eve Nimbles with timid dread beneath the swath;

How pleasant, when the heat of day is bye, And seething dew empurples round the hill Of the horizon, sweeping with the eye

Now swarthy summer, by rude health embrowned, Precedence takes of rosy fingered spring; And laughing joy, with wild flowers pranked and crowned,

The cocks have now the morn foretold, The sun again begins to peep, The shepherd, whistling to his fold,

I Love to peep out on a summer's morn, Just as the scouting rabbit seeks her shed, And the coy hare squats nestling in the corn,

How sweet I've wander'd bosom-deep in grain, When Summer's mellowing pencil sweeps his shade Of ripening tinges o'er the checquer'd plain:

The wind waves oer the meadows green And shakes my own wild flowers And shifts about the moving scene

How sweet, when weary, dropping on a bank, Turning a look around on things that be! E'en feather-headed grasses, spindling rank,

The morning road is thronged with merry boys Who seek the water for their Sunday joys; They run to seek the shallow pit, and wade

How fond the rustic's ear at leisure dwells On the soft soundings of his village bells, As on a Sunday morning at his ease

The Sabbath-day, of every day the best, The poor mans happiness, a poor man sings; When labour has no claim to break his rest,

What wonder strikes the curious, while he views The black ant's city, by a rotten tree, Or woodland bank! In ignorance we muse:

What wonder strikes the curious, while he views The black ant's city, by a rotten tree, Or woodland bank! In ignorance we muse:

There is a wilder'd spot delights me well, Pent in a corner of my native vale, Where tiny blossoms with a purple bell

'T was on the banks of Ivory, 'neath the hawthorn-scented shade, Early one summer's morning, I met a lovely maid; Her hair hung o'er her shoulders broad, her eyes like suns did shine,

A beanfield full in blossom smells as sweet As Araby, or groves of orange flowers; Black-eyed and white, and feathered to one's feet,

I cannot know what country owns thee now, With France's forest lilies on thy brow. When England knew thee thou wert passing fair;

Sorrow came with downcast eyes, And stole the lyre of love away. - VAN DYK.

By the old tavern door on the causey there lay A hogshead of stingo just rolled from a dray, And there stood the blacksmith awaiting a drop

True as the church clock hand the hour pursues He plods about his toils and reads the news, And at the blacksmith's shop his hour will stand

Soon as the spring its earliest visit pays, And buds with March and April's lengthen'd days Of mingled suns and shades, and snow, and rain,

Stopt by the storm, that long in sullen black From the south-west stain'd its encroaching track, Haymakers, hustling from the rain to hide,

Stopt by the storm, that long in sullen black From the south-west stained its encroaching track, Haymakers, hustling from the rain to hide,

The crow sat on the willow tree A-lifting up his wings, And glossy was his coat to see,

"Ah, where can he linger?" said Doll, with a sigh, As bearing her milk-burthen home: "Since he's broken his vow, near an hour has gone by,

Thou scarest me with dreams. -JOB. When Night's last hours, like haunting spirits, creep

He could not die when trees were green, For he loved the time too well. His little hands, when flowers were seen,

The sultry day it wears away, And o'er the distant leas The mist again, in purple stain,

Sweet is the violet, th' scented pea, Haunted by red-legged, sable bee, But sweeter far than all to me

The Autumn's come again, And the clouds descend in rain, And the leaves are fast falling in the wood;

Old elm, that murmured in our chimney top The sweetest anthem autumn ever made And into mellow whispering calms would drop

A false knight wooed a maiden poor, And his high halls left he To stoop in at her cottage door,

The nodding oxeye bends before the wind, The woodbine quakes lest boys their flowers should find, And prickly dogrose spite of its array

Wandering by the river's edge, I love to rustle through the sedge And through the woods of reed to tear

"Tweet" pipes the robin as the cat creeps by Her nestling young that in the elderns lie, And then the bluecap tootles in its glee,

I've left my own old home of homes, Green fields and every pleasant place; The summer like a stranger comes,

Waves trough, rebound, and furious boil again, Like plunging monsters rising underneath, Who at the top curl up a shaggy mane,

O once I loved a pretty girl, and dearly love her still; I courted her in happiness for two short years or more. And when I think of Mary it turns my bosom chill,

The shepherd on his journey heard when nigh His dog among the bushes barking high; The ploughman ran and gave a hearty shout,

I went in the fields with the leisure I got, The stranger might smile but I heeded him not, The hovel was ready to screen from a shower,

Just like the berry brown is my bonny lassie O! And in the smoky camp lives my bonny lassie O! Where the scented woodbine weaves

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,

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,

The gipsy's life is a merry life, And ranting boys we be; We pay to none or rent or tax,

Is there another world for this frail dust To warm with life and be itself again? Something about me daily speaks there must,

Come hither, my dear one, my choice one, and rare one, And let us be walking the meadows so fair, Where on pilewort and daisies the eye fondly gazes,

Timid and smiling, beautiful and shy, She drops her head at every passer bye. Afraid of praise she hurries down the streets

Old April wanes, and her last dewy morn Her death-bed steeps in tears:--to hail the May New blooming blossoms 'neath the sun are born,

Though o'er the darksome northern hill Old ambush'd winter frowning flies, And faintly drifts his threatenings still

I seek her in the shady grove, And by the silent stream; I seek her where my fancies rove,

For Sunday's play he never makes excuse, But plays at taw, and buys his Spanish juice. Hard as his toil, and ever slow to speak,

Now the wheat is in the ear, and the rose is on the brere, And bluecaps so divinely blue, with poppies of bright scarlet hue, Maiden, at the close o' eve, wilt thou, dear, thy cottage leave,

Gay was the Maid of Ocram As lady eer might be Ere she did venture past a maid

Maid of Jerusalem, by the Dead Sea, I wandered all sorrowing thinking of thee,-- Thy city in ruins, thy kindred deplored,

How sweet are Spring wild flowers! They grow past the counting. How sweet are the wood-paths that thread through the grove! But sweeter than all the wild flowers of the mountain

Of all the swains that meet at eve Upon the green to play, The shepherd is the lad for me,

The maple with its tassel flowers of green, That turns to red a staghorn-shaped seed, Just spreading out its scolloped leaves is seen,

The bonny March morning is beaming In mingled crimson and grey, White clouds are streaking and creaming

The linnet sat upon its nest, By gales of morning softly prest, His green wing and his greener breast

This is the month the nightingale, clod brown, Is heard among the woodland shady boughs: This is the time when in the vale, grass-grown,

Up this green woodland-ride let's softly rove, And list the nightingale - she dwells just here. Hush ! let the wood-gate softly clap, for fear

The little cottage stood alone, the pride Of solitude surrounded every side. Bean fields in blossom almost reached the wall;

Youth has no fear of ill, by no cloudy days annoyed, But the old man's all hath fled, and his hopes have met their doom: The bud hath burst to flower, and the flower been long destroyed,

'T is pleasant to bear recollections in mind Of joys that time hurries away-- To look back on smiles that have passed like the wind,

The Old Year's gone away To nothingness and night: We cannot find him all the day

He loved the brook's soft sound, The swallow swimming by. He loved the daisy-covered ground,

The world is taking little heed And plods from day to day: The vulgar flourish like a weed,

Now the sun his blinking beam Behind yon mountain loses, And each eye, that might evil deem,

I'll weep and sigh when e'er she wills To frown--and when she deigns to smile It will be cure for all my ills,

The whitethorn is budding and rushes are green, The ivy leaves rustle around the ash tree, On the sweet sunny bank blue violets are seen,

Tis three years and a quarter since I left my own fireside To go aboard a ship through love, and plough the ocean wide. I crossed my native fields, where the scarlet poppies grew,

How sweet is every lengthening day, And every change of weather, When Summer comes, on skies blue grey,

Huge elm, with rifted trunk all notched and scarred, Like to a warrior's destiny! I love To stretch me often on thy shadowed sward,

Above the russet clods the corn is seen Sprouting its spiry points of tender green, Where squats the hare, to terrors wide awake,

Although I'm in prison Thy song is uprisen, Thou'rt singing away to the feathery cloud,

O for that sweet, untroubled rest That poets oft have sung!-- The babe upon its mother's breast,

Sweet type of innocence, snow-clothed blossom, Seemly, though vainly, bowing down to shun The storm hard-beating on thy wan white bosom,

Home furthest off grows dearer from the way; And when the army in the Indias lay Friends' letters coming from his native place

When trouble haunts me, need I sigh? No, rather smile away despair; For those have been more sad than I,

Pretty swallow, once again Come and pass me in the rain. Pretty swallow, why so shy?

Swift goes the sooty swallow o'er the heath, Swifter than skims the cloud-rack of the skies; As swiftly flies its shadow underneath,

And has the Spring's all glorious eye No lesson to the mind? The birds that cleave the golden sky--

Within a thick and spreading hawthorn bush, That overhung a molehill large and round, I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush

Once musing o'er an old effaced stone, Longing to know whose dust it did conceal, I anxious ponder'd o'er what might reveal,

He eats (a moment's stoppage to his song) The stolen turnip as he goes along; And hops along and heeds with careless eye

[From "The Champion"] Emblazoned Vapour! Half-eternal Shade! That gathers strength from ruin and decay;--

[The reader has been made acquainted with the circumstances under which this poem was written. It was included by Mr. J. H. Dixon in his "Ballads and Songs of the Peasantry of England" (edited by Robert Bell), with the following prefatory note:-- "The poem was, probably, as Clare supposes, written about the commencement of the 18th century, and the unknown author appears to have been deeply imbued with the spirit of the popular devotional writers of the preceding century, as Herbert, Quarles, &c., but seems to have modelled his smoother and more elegant versification after that of the poetic school of his own times." Montgomery's criticism on publishing it in the "Sheffield Iris" was as follows:--

Vanity of vanities, all is vanity. -Solomon What are life's joys and gains?

Argument. Introduction-Lubin's childhood-his Winter Amusements-Fairy Tales-His superstitious Fancies-Approach of Spring-Mayday-His Parents-Lubin described-Village-conversation--His Love of Nature-Summer Amusements-the Stockdove-Insects-Fairy Rings--Recollections of unhappy Incidents-Autumn-time-the Street-the Corn-field-Gleaners--old Women's Stories-Harvest-home-its Sports described-Harvest Supper--Autumn Scenes-Indications of approaching Winter-Apostrophe to Woman-The Statute described-Ballad-singers-Poor Sailor-" Civil Will"-Recruiting Serjeant-The Village Feast--the Dance-Rural Love-the Cotter and his Friends-his Soliloquy-Village Sports enumerated--Lubin in Solitude-the old Castle-Songs of Robin Hood-The Village Green enclosed--its former State contrasted with its present Appearance-Regret at the Change-Inclosure deprecated by the Peasantry-their Recollections of former Pleasures-The Gipsies' Camp- their Habits-Native Scenes in early Life-the universal Interest they excite-Effect on Lubin--Apostrophe to the dead Shepherds-His preference still in Home to other Places- Hopes and Fears-Anxiety for the Future-Resignation. I.

Among the taller wood with ivy hung, The old fox plays and dances round her young. She snuffs and barks if any passes bye

Young Chloe looks sweet as the rose, And her love might be reckoned no less, But her bosom so freely bestows

Age yellows my leaf with a daily decline, And nature turns sick with decay; Short is the thread on life's spool that is mine,

In life's first years as on a mother's breast, When Nature nurs'd me in her flowery pride, I cull'd her bounty, such as seemed best,

Sweet chestnuts brown like soling leather turn; The larch trees, like the colour of the Sun; That paled sky in the Autumn seemed to burn,

Welcome, red and roundy sun, Dropping lowly in the west; Now my hard day's work is done,

Welcome, red and roundy sun, Dropping lowly in the west; Now my hard day's work is done,

Dedicated To The Rev. J. Knowles Holland. The beating snow-clad bell, with sounding dead, Hath clanked four--the woodman's wak'd again;

When shall I see the white-thorn leaves agen, And yellowhammers gathering the dry bents By the dyke side, on stilly moor or fen,

When in summer thou walkest In the meads by the river, And to thyself talkest,

Thou lovely bud, with many weeds surrounded, I once again address thee with a song; To cheer thee up 'gainst Envy's adder-tongue

Three times, sweet hawthorn! I have met thy bower, And thou hast gain'd my love, and I do feel An aching pain to leave thee: every flower

Sweet brook! I've met thee many a summer's day, And ventured fearless in thy shallow flood, And rambled oft thy sweet unwearied way,

Sweet Mary, though nor sighs nor pains Impassion'd courtship prove, My simple song the truth ne'er feigns

Old tree thou art wither'd--I pass'd thee last year, And the blackbird snug hid in thy branches did sing, Thy shadow stretch'd dark o'er the grass sprouting near,

Sweet bottle-shaped flower of lushy red, Born when the summer wakes her warmest breeze, Among the meadow's waving grasses spread,

Sweet, uncultivated blossom, Reared in Spring's refreshing dews, Dear to every gazer's bosom,

Malicious insect, little vengeful bee, With venom-sting thou'rt whirling round and round A harmless head that ne'er meant wrong to thee,

Thrice welcome here again, thou flutt'ring thing, That gaily seek'st about the opening flower, And opest and shutt'st thy gaudy-spangled wing

Cowslip bud, so early peeping, Warm'd by April's hazard hours; O'er thy head though sunshine's creeping,

Old-fashioned uncouth measurer of the day, I love to watch thy filtering burthen pass; Though some there are that live would bid thee stay;

Sweet gem of infant fairy-flowers! Thy smiles on life' unclosing hours, Like sunbeams lost in summer showers,

My Anna, summer laughs in mirth, And we will of the party be, And leave the crickets in the hearth

Come, pensive Autumn, with thy clouds, and storms, And falling leaves, and pastures lost to flowers; A luscious charm hangs on thy faded forms,

Elia, thy reveries and visioned themes To care's lorn heart a luscious pleasure prove; Wild as the mystery of delightful dreams,

Hail, soothing balm! Ye breezes blow, Ransack the flower and blossom'd tree; All, all your stolen gifts bestow,

Arise, my Isabel, arise! The sun shoots forth his early ray, The hue of love is in the skies,

The lark's in the sky, love, The flowers on the lea, The whitethorn's in bloom, love,

I cannot touch the harp again, And sing another idle lay, To cool a maddening, burning brain,

Well, honest John, how fare you now at home? The spring is come, and birds are building nests; The old cock robin to the stye is come,

Poet of mighty power, I fain Would court the muse that honoured thee, And, like Elisha's spirit, gain

O spirit of the wind and sky, Where doth thy harp neglected lie? Is there no heart thy bard to be,

Mary, I love to sing About the flowers of Spring, For they resemble thee.

Thy glance is the brightest, Thy voice is the sweetest, Thy step is the lightest,

Thou lowly cot, where first my breath I drew, Past joys endear thee, childhood's past delight; Where each young summer's pictur'd on my view;

With filial duty I address thee, Mother, Thou dearest tie which this world's wealth possesses; Endearing name! no language owns another

O once I had a true love, As blest as I could be: Patty was my turtle dove,

The heroes of the present and the past Were puny, vague, and nothingness to thee: Thou didst a span grasp mighty to the last,

O sweetly wild and 'witching Poesy! Thou light of this world's hermitage I prove thee; And surely none helps loving thee that knows thee,

Lovely insect, haste away, Greet once more the sunny day; Leave, O leave the murky barn,

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,

'Tis sweet to recollect life's past controls, And turn to days of sorrow when they're bye, And think of gentle friends and feeling souls

Dark creeping Ivy, with thy berries brown, That fondly twists' on ruins all thine own, Old spire-points studding with a leafy crown

Bird of the morn, When roseate clouds begin To show the opening dawn

The World, its hopes and fears, have pass'd away; No more its trifling thou shalt feel or see; Thy hopes are ripening in a brighter day,

Simple enchantress! wreath'd in summer blooms Of slender bent-stalks topt with feathery down, Heath's creeping vetch, and glaring yellow brooms,

Sweet tiny flower of darkly hue, Lone dweller in the pathless shade; How much I love thy pensive blue

In Fancy's eye, what an extended span, Time, hoary herald, has been stretch'd by thee: Vain to conceive where thy dark burst began,

Wordsworth I love, his books are like the fields, Not filled with flowers, but works of human kind; The pleasant weed a fragrant pleasure yields,

The turkeys wade the close to catch the bees In the old border full of maple trees And often lay away and breed and come

The setting Sun withdraws his yellow light, A gloomy staining shadows over all, While the brown beetle, trumpeter of Night,

I I met thee like the morning, though more fair, And hopes 'gan travel for a glorious day;

And what is Life? An hour-glass on the run, A mist retreating from the morning sun, A busy, bustling, still repeated dream;

And what is Life?--An hour-glass on the run, A mist retreating from the morning sun, A busy, bustling, still repeated dream;

How many times Spring blossoms meek Have faded on the land Since last I kissed that pretty cheek,

I saw her crop a rose Right early in the day, And I went to kiss the place

These children of the sun which summer brings As pastoral minstrels in her merry train Pipe rustic ballads upon busy wings

WILLIAM. When I meet Peggy in my morning walk, She first salutes the morn, then stays to talk:

Thou Winter, thou art keen, intensely keen; Thy cutting frowns experience bids me know, For in thy weather days and days I've been,

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 keen

The small wind whispers through the leafless hedge Most sharp and chill, where the light snowy flakes Rest on each twig and spike of wither'd sedge,

The yellow lambtoe I have often got, Sweet creeping o'er the banks in summer-time, And totter-grass, in many a trembling knot;

O Woman, lovely Woman, magic flower, What loves, what pleasures in thy graces meet! Thou blushing blossom, dropt from Eden's bower;

Checq'd Autumn, doubly sweet is thy declining, To meditate within this 'wilder'd shade; To view the wood in its pied lustre shining,

Autumn, I love thy parting look to view In cold November's day, so bleak and bare, When, thy life's dwindled thread worn nearly thro',

The cockchafer hums down the rut-rifted lane Where the wild roses hang and the woodbines entwine, And the shrill squeaking bat makes his circles again

The spring is coming by a many signs; The trays are up, the hedges broken down, That fenced the haystack, and the remnant shines