Love is past…

A shattering poem, written 7 years after his incarceration in Northampton.  Clare's mind is ranging back to the death of his muse, Mary Joyce.

To come upon in line 9 the line “Lord how young bonny Mary burnt”, even if he is speaking of her blushes at their first meeting, is an astonishing shock for readers of Clare’s work.  Clare, possibly unconsciously, recording the manner of her death in the most shocking way imaginable.

Mary had, as Clare had been avoiding for so long, perished in the fire in the brew-house at her parent’s farm on the 14th of July 1838.  Her grave in the churchyard of St. Benedict’s Church, Glinton was, and is, clear for all to see.

A Ballad

Love is past and all the rest
Thereto belonging fled away
The most esteemed and valued best
Are faded all and gone away

How beautiful was Mary's dress
While dancing at the meadow ball

—'Tis twenty years or more at least
Since Mary seemed the first of all

Lord how young bonny Mary burnt
With blushes like the roses hue
My face like water thrown upon't
Turned white as lilies i' the dew

When grown a man I went to see
The school where Mary's name was known
I looked to find it on a Tree
But found it on a low grave stone

Now is past—was this the now
In fine straw-hat and ribbons gay
I'd court her neath the white thorn bough
And tell her all I had to say

But all is gone—and now is past
And still my spirits chill alone
Loves name that perished in the blast
Grows mossy on a church-yard stone

(11^th November 1848)

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By the gate

We stand by the brook by the gate & the stile
While the even star hangs out his lamp in the sky
& on her calm face dwells a sweet sunny smile
While her soul fondly speaks through the light of her eye
Sweet are the moments while waiting for Jane
T’is her footsteps I hear coming down the green lane

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Crooked shreds of footpaths

Theres somthing rich & joyful to the mind
To view through close & field those crooked shreds
Of footpaths that most picturesqly wind
From town to town or some tree hidden sheds
Where lonely cottager lifes peace enjoys
Far far from strife & all its troubled noise
The pent up artizan by pleasure led
Along their winding ways right glad employs
His sabbath leisure in the freshening air
The grass the trees the sunny sloping sky
From his weeks prison gives delicious fare
But still he passes almost vacant bye
The many charms that poesy finds to please
Along the little footpaths such as these

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A June Sonnet

Go where I will naught but delight is seen
The blue & luscious sky is one broad gleam
Of universal ecstasy the green
Rich sweeping meadows & the laughing stream
As sweet as happiness on heavens breast
Lie listening to the never-ceasing song
That day or night neer wearies into rest
But hums unceasingly the summer long
The very grass to musics rapture stirred
Dances before the breezes wanton wing
While every bush stirs with a startled bird
Who eager wakes morns dewy praise to sing
Yet mid this summer glee I cannot borrow
One joy for sadness chills them all to sorrow

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Gold or Truth and Honesty

Been thinking again about how ordinary folk across the world have been let down again and again by our so-called 'leaders'.  A few years ago I uncovered and published this poem by John Clare, written around 1827.  Does it not speak to us in 2025?  Has anything changed in those who purport to lead us in 200 years?

‘Gold is a general purchaser – buys all

‘From the high altar, palace, bench & hall

‘Down to the humble cottage hut or stall

‘Buys smiles or tears melts eyes or drys 'em – gold

‘Like Esops satire buys breath hot and cold

‘Makes out all wants & all defects supplies

‘Een the old wrinkled hag young courtier buys

‘Buys knaves an office traitors power & trust

‘High & low fliers bought with shining dust

‘Buys villany a mask hypocrisy paint

‘Buys inside devil the out side face o’ saint

‘Buys tyrants champions – cut throats, caps & knees

‘Buys lies & oaths, buys souls & consiences

‘What is it which that tempting ore cant buy

‘Buys everything but truth & honesty

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Delight is seen

Go where I will naught but delight is seen
The blue & luscious sky is one broad gleam
Of universal ecstasy the green
Rich sweeping meadows & the laughing stream
As sweet as happiness on heavens breast
Lie listening to the never ceasing song
That day or night neer wearies into rest
But hums unceasingly the summer long
The very grass to musics rapture stirred
Dances before the breezes wanton wing
While every bush stirs with a startled bird
Who eager wakes morns dewy praise to sing

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Justice?

But tis well known that justice winks at crimes

A saying thats in season at all times

Or why should the poor sinning starving clown

Meet jail & hanging for a stolen crown

While wealthy thieves with knaverys bribes endued

Plunder their millions & are not pursued

Nay at the foot of Tyburns noted tree

They do deserving deeds & still go free

Where others suffer for some pigmy cause

They all but murder & escape the laws

Skulking awhile in briberys dirty den

Then start new gilt & pass as honest men

(from 'The Parish')

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With our lines & hooks

Discoursing onward with our lines & hooks 
With some refreshments nor without some books 
Cheerd by the rural objects as we pass 
To were trees shadows keepeth green the grass 
Checking intrusions of the summer suns 
There drop us down close were the river runs 
In sight of rural sounds & pleasing strife 
That warms the laughing landscape into life 
& while in cheerfull mirth as we prepare 
Our sporting things & bait our angles there 
With flye or fish of artificial forms 
To shun the anguish of the wreathing worms 
Feel warm hopes glow with earnest eagerness 
To mark the signs that promise us success

Image by my friend Mike Hobson

Sat & mused

A path old tree goes by thee crooking on
& through this little gate that claps & bangs
Against thy rifted trunk what steps hath gone
Though but a lonely way yet mystery hangs
Oer crowds of pastoral scenes recordless here
The boy might climb the nest in thy young boughs
Thats slept half an eternity in fear
The herdsman may have left his startled cows
For shelter when heavens thunder voice was near
Here too the woodman on his wallet laid
For pillow may have slept an hour away
& poet pastoral lover of the shade
Here sat & mused half some long summer day
While some old shepherd listened to the lay

Say what is love

Say What Is Love—To Live In Vain
To Live & Die & Live Again
Say What Is Love—Is It To Be
In Prison Still & Still Be Free
Or Seem As Free—Alone & Prove
The Hopeless Hopes of Real Love
Does Real Love On Earth Exist
Tis Like A Sun beam On The Mist
That Fades & No Where Will Remain
& Nowhere Is Oertook Again
Say What Is Love—A Blooming Name
A Rose Leaf On The Page Of Fame
That Blooms Then Fades—To Cheat No More
& Is What Nothing Was Before
Say What Is Love—What E'er It be
It Centres Mary Still With Thee

From ‘Child Harold’

The heron

[tThe] heron stalking solitary thing 
Mount up into high travel far away 
& that mild indecision hanging round 
Skys holding bland communion with the ground 
In gentlest pictures of the infant day 
Now picturing rain—while many a pleasing sound 
Grows mellower distant in the mealy grey 
Of dewy pastures & full many a sight 
Seems sweeter in its indistinct array 
Than when it glows in mornings stronger light

Image by my friend #JohnAbbott

Natures glee

"Tootle tootle tootle tee"
Can it be
Pride & fame must shadows be
Come and see 
Every season own her own
Bird & bee
Sing creations music on
Natures glee
Is in every mood & tone
Eternity

Summer

The oaks slow-opening leaf of deepening hue
Bespeaks the power of Summer once again
While many a flower unfolds its charms to view
To glad the entrance of his sultry reign
Where peep the gaping speckled cuckoo-flowers
Sweet is each rural scene she brings to pass
Prizes to rambling school-boys vacant hours
Tracking wild searches through the meadow grass
The meadow-sweet taunts high its showy wreath
& sweet the quaking grasses hide beneath
Ah ‘barr’d from all that sweetens life below
Another Summer still my eyes can see
Freed from the scorn & pilgrimage of woe
To share the Seasons of Eternity

Spring love

When Jimmy did leave me the thorns wer in blossom
Three years have gone bye but I think on the day
I stoopt for a cowslip to stick in my bosom
While he from the bush got a branch of the may
& when we had done wi our vows & our parling
My heart when I think ont wi doubtfulness burns
He held it to me & he calld me his darling
Saying take this & keep it till Jimmy returns

A keep sake so odd did he mean to abuse me
& give me the thorn that his scorn I might see
But how foolish girl—coud he mean to ill use me
When he rubd off the pricks ere he gave it to me
We parted good friends & he hugld me dearly
& telld me hed neer gi me cause for a pain
& so coud I think were his last vow sincerly
Saying go where I will my heart stick to my Jane

Written in Clare's wonderful Northamptonshire dialect, with a word Clare no doubt learned from his gypsy friends   Written in what a recent anonymous 'scholar' writing of Clare in a recent paper called 'the stark "textual primitivism" of the Oxford edition', in which this poem may be found (EP II 208) in precisely the way that Clare wrote it (I've examined the manuscript).  An amazingly ignorant comment showing his/her total disregard for the incredible work of the lifetime of scholarship that the 9 volumes of the OUP Clarendon editions represents

Summer evening

The frog half fearful jumps across the path
& little mouse that leaves its hole at eve 
Nimbles with timid dread beneath the swath
My rustling steps awhile their joys deceive
Till past & then the cricket sings more strong
& grasshoppers in merry moods still wear 
The short night weary with their fretting song
Up from behind the molehill jumps the hare
Cheat of his chosen bed & from the bank 
The yellowhammer flutters in short fears 
From off its nest hid in the grasses rank
& drops again when no more noise it hears
Thus natures human link & endless thrall
Proud man still seems the enemy of all

Storm

At length it comes among the forest oaks
With sobbing ebbs & uproar gathering high
The scared hoarse raven on its cradle croaks
& stock dove flocks in hurried terrors fly
While the blue hawk hangs oer them in the sky
The hedger hastens from the storm begun
To seek a shelter that may keep him dry
& foresters low bent the wind to shun
Scarce hear amid the strife the poachers muttering 

I wander through

The day is all round me the woods & the fields
& sweet is the singing their birds music yields
The waterfall music theres none such at home
It spreads like a sheet & then falls into foam
The meadows are mown what a beautiful hue
There is in green closes as I wander through
A green of all colours yellow brown & dark grey
While the footpaths all darkly goes winding away
Creeping onto a foot-brig that crosses a brook
Or a gate or a stile & how rustic they look
Some leaning so much that the maidens will go
Lower down with their buckets & try to creep through
There is nothing more sweet in the fields & the sun
Than those dear little footpaths that oer the fields run

from The Summons

Then the old man passed a prison
& in passing made a call
He thought the folks in such a place
Were knaves & robbers all
Yet he found to his supprise
What he knew not all his time
That those sent there for speaking truth
Exceeded those for crime

Greens daisies

& long my dear valleys long long may ye flourish
Though rush-beds & thistles make most of your pride
May showers never fail the greens daisies to nourish
Nor suns dry the fountain that rills by its side
Your skies may be gloomy & misty your mornings
Your flat swampy valleys unwholesome may be
Still refuse of Nature without her adornings
Ye are dear as this heart in my bosom to me

Anna Maria

On the 2nd June, 1820 Anna Maria was born.  John and Patty had been married for less than 3 months, and were living back in the tiny cottage in Helpston with John’s mother and father.  In time it would become very crowded indeed.

My Anna summer laughs in mirth
& we will of the party be
& leave the crickets in the hearth
For green fields merry minstrelsy

I see thee now with little hand
Catch at each object passing bye
The happiest thing in all the land
Except the bee & butterfly

& limpid brook that leaps along
Gilt with the summers burnished gleam
Will stop thy little tale or song
To gaze upon its crimping stream

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June

Image by my friend Carry Akroyd

The hay time butterflyes dance up and down
And gads that teaze like whasps the timid maid
And drive the herdboys cows to pond and shade
Who when his dogs assistance fails to stop
Is forcd his half made oaten pipes to drop
And start and halloo thro the dancing heat
To keep their gadding tumult from the wheat
Who in their rage will dangers overlook
And leap like hunters oer the pasture brook
Brushing thro blossomd beans in maddening haste
And stroying corn they scarce can stop to taste
Labour pursues its toil in weary mood
And feign woud rest wi shadows in the wood
The mowing gangs bend oer the beeded grass
Where oft the gipseys hungry journeying ass
Will turn its wishes from the meadow paths
Listning the rustle of the falling swaths

John Clare – The Shepherd’s Calendar (June - excerpt)

Bright June has come, and the barley's silken beard grows long and green, and on Lolham Bridge Field it nods and dances to every shifting whim of the wind.

From dawn to dusk the frantic bees wallow in fox-glove and bean flower as though no glut of labour or journeying could fill their store with honey enough for all. And from dawn to dusk, when the sun shines, the mowing teams are out upon Heath Field. The swish of their curved scythes is the sound of June breathing and the rasp of the whet-stones against the iron blades is the sound of June coughing. For sickness and health are as rain and shine, and all men know that for every week of fine weather there will be a debt to pay in slanting showers. And a closer look betrays the rotten teeth, the small-pox scars, the twisted spines, the swollen joints and all the curses that hard labour and a scant wage bring.

Parker Clare swings his blade in the mowing line, as ready as any though stiffer than some. From time to time he calls a halt to mop his face. Around him the cut swathes sweeten the air. Behind him the raking women turn and toss yesterday's labour and at the far end of the field the lifted hay-cocks wait upon the wain.

On Woodcroft Field Ann and Sophie Clare have been gathering and shelling beans with the other women in John Close's employ, Sophie's ears acute to the rise and fall of the gossip that surrounds her, gleaning what she can.

John has joined a shearing team, working his way from farm to farm these last five weeks.

Such is the timeless round of summer labour upon the face of the parish, an old, hard, familiar melody. But there is a new sound alongside the sighing of the scythe, the bleating of the sheep and the rising and falling of the talk. It is the sound of posts being hammered into the ground and measuring chains pulled tight between. The sound of ropes being stretched across fields and commons where new boundaries will fall, of men shouting from mark to mark where roads will be cut or streams straightened, of splashes of red paint being daubed onto trees that are to be felled. The Earl of Fitzwilliam has sent surveyors out to mark the lie of the land for enclosure. Slowly, from day to day, a new pattern of squares, fine as the web of a net or a snare, is set across the looping, winding limbs of the parish.

Hugh Lupton – The Ballad of John Clare (Chapter 4)