Snow storm

One almost sees the hermit from the wood 
Come bending with his sticks beneath his arm
& then the smoke curl up its dusky flood 
From the white little roof his peace to warm
One shapes his books his quiet & his joys
& in romances world forgetting mood 
The scene so strange so fancys mind employs 
It seems heart aching for his solitude

Domestic spots near home & trod so oft
Seen daily known for years by the strange wand 
Of winters humour changed the little croft 
Left green at night when morns loath looks obtrude
Trees bushes grass to one wild garb subdued
Have gone & left us in another land

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Love’s strings

Ive heard thee sing of plaintive things

& as thy fingers swept the strings

Thy eyes have wept most tenderly

Then list awhile till I beguile

Thy heart with sorrows melody

A young heart tried a maid to move
& pined to death for very love
The maiden naught but scorn returned
Nor dropt one tear upon his bier
He died unhonoured & unmourned

I knew thou'dst mourn so sad a thing
Oh touch my Anna touch the string
With sprightlier airs nor grief endure
That heart you weep though wounded deep
Is yet not past your cure

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Clare’s Novel

Very few folk know that in the 1820s Clare was engaged in writing scenes for a novel.  After finding traces of these writings in the Archives, I quickly realised that here was a considerable amount of prose that no-one seemed to have explored, and published.  All completely ignored although there are many important passages.  Here is a taste of the series of letters in the novel between Mrs Hubbelgubbel and Mrs Leytiss, influenced by the hilarious correspondence in Smollett's ‘Humphrey Clinker’ from the late 18th century.

Miss Eleezer plays bewtifulle on the Pye anna 
forty & sings so chamminly that I feere we shell sewn 
loose thee yung leddy fur she hes so menny 
akompleeshmints & our yung sqire steys so long away 
fram Lunnun that theirs no noin whets to bee    whel 
godd giv hur grace fur shees gat weesdom enaff aireddy 
for a dukes dewchest    athou it iss I her maa maa who 
seys it     be wise der bye beetimes & let mee tell yu 
thet a duke is not a dukk minde    thet wich swimms on 
the warter    but onne off thee quall ety der bye thet iss 
nextt to thee kingg godd bless him 

(From Clare’s aborted novel ‘Memoirs of Uncle Barnaby’ still available from me, £12.50)

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Sweet is the stillness

How calm is the even down in the narrow lane 
 
Where white thorn & woodbine & dog roses meet 
 
How bright is the dew on the dog rose again 
 
While grey mist creeps over like the days winding sheet 
O beautiful the silver mist will hang on flowers 
 
& pearl oer the freckles O the fox glove bell 
 
How sweet is the stillness O eventide hours 
 
When in the green oak leaves ring doves do dwell

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Glitters like gold

Theres a little odd house by the side of the Lane 
Where the daisy smiles sweet in the spring 
Where the morning sun glitters like gold on the pane 
& the hedge Sparrow trembles his wing 
Where chaffinch green linnet & Sparrows have tones 
That make the green Lane & the cottage their own

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One white garb

One almost sees the hermit from the wood 
Come bending with his sticks beneath his arm
& then the smoke curl up its dusky flood 
From the white little roof his peace to warm
One shapes his books his quiet & his joys
& in romances world-forgetting mood 
The scene so strange so fancys mind employs 
It seems heart aching for his solitude

Domestic spots near home & trod so oft
Seen daily known for years—by the strange wand 
Of winters humour changed the little croft 
Left green at night when morns loath looks obtrude
Trees bushes grass to one wild garb subdued
Have gone & left us in another land

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Image by #JohnNash

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Solitudes

I love to hide me on a spot that lies 

In solitudes where footsteps find no track
To make intrusions there to sympathize With nature often gazing on the rack That veils the blueness of the summer skies In rich varieties or oer the grass Behold the spangled crowds of butterflies Flutter from flower to flower & things that pass

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Spring Messengers

Here we have Clare speaking of the first signs of Spring, the primrose that I can see from my study across the garden, with its Devon banks and warm corners:

Where slanting banks are always with the sun 
The daisy is in blossom even now
& where warm patches by the hedges run 
The cottager when coming home from plough 
Brings home a cowslip root in flower to set
Thus ere the Christmas goes the spring is met 
Setting up little tents about the fields 
In sheltered spots — Primroses when they get 
Behind the woods old roots where ivy shields 
Their crimpled curdled leaves will shine and hide
Cart ruts and horses footings scarcely yield 
A slur for boys just crizzled & that's all
Frost shoots his needles by the small dyke side
& snow in scarce a feathers seen to fall

After seeking out this lovely poem, I remembered Ronald Blythe's words from his weekly country diary "Word from Wormingford" many years ago:

"Gulls, scores of them, take greedy flight over a bit of ploughing. Clumps of snowdrops reveal their presence in my woodland, white-tipped needles in the leaf mulch. And then that midwinter yet, at the same time, near-spring rustle of blackbirds kicking around in dry leaves, and the jewel-like glimpse of their shining eyes beneath the shrubs"

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Heavy rain

The shepherd leaves his unprotected flock 
 
& flies for shelter in some scooping rock 
 
There hides in fear from the dread boding wrath 
 
Lest rocks shoud tremble when it sallies forth 
 
& that almighty power that bids it roar 
 
Has seald the doom when time shall be no more 
 
The cotters family cringe round the harth 
 
Where all is saddnd but the crickets mirth 


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Approach of Spring

Ive met the Winters biting breath
In Natures wild retreat
When Silence listens as in death
& thought its wildness sweet
& I have loved the Winters calm
When frost has left the plain
When suns that morning wakend warm
Left eve to freeze again

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Toiling

 

I feel it necessary to temper the romantic notions we have of life in the outdoors in the early 19th century as an agricultural labourer:

Toiling in the naked fields
Where no bush a shelter yields
Needy Labour dithering stands
Beats & blows his numbing hands
& upon the crumping snows
Stamps in vain to warm his toes
Leaves are fled that once had power
To resist a summer shower
& the wind so piercing blows
Winnowing small the drifting snows

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Poesys measured feet

Like boys that run behind the loaded wain
For the mere joy of riding back again
When summer from the meadow carts the hay
& school hours leave them half a day to play
So I with leisure on three sides a sheet
Of foolscap dance with poesys measured feet
Just to ride post upon the wings of time
& kill a care to friendship turned in rhyme

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I early ramble

The sharp wind shivers in the warm gorse blossoms
& trembles in the dead grass oer the heath
The silver rain pearls in the wild flowers bosoms
& moistens minute flowers of moss beneath
There i' the morning dew I early ramble
What time beneath the fern the weary moth
Hides from the sun in dew drops hangs the bramble
As down the rabbit track I venture forth

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Housewives tales

Housewives discoursing 'bout their hens & cocks
Spinning long stories wearing half the day
Sad deeds bewailing of the prowling fox
How in the roost the thief had knav'd his way
& made their market-profits all a prey
& other losses too the dames recite
Of chick & duck & gosling gone astray
All falling prizes to the swopping kite
& so the story runs both morning noon & night

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Image by my friend #CarryAkroyd

Swifter than thought

Where the deer with their shadows passed swifter than thought
& the hare from the braken went limping along
Where the pheasants red eye for a moment was caught
Then vanished away like a spinning bees song
Ye green shades of Burghley how lovely you seem
Your sweet spreading oaks & your braken so green
Your green plots as sweet as a shepherd boys dream
Neath the shade of dark trees where Ive many a day been

& sitting in braken or roots of the lime
Amusing my leisure in ballads & rhyme

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The storm

Slow boiling up on the horisons brim 
 
Hugh massey clouds mountainious large & grim 
 
Sluggish & slow upon the air they ride 
 
As pitch black ships oer the blue ocean glide 
 
Curling & hovering oer the gloomy south 
 
As curls the sulphur from the canons mouth 
 
More grizly in the sun the tempest comes 
 
& thro the wood wi threatnd vengance hums

Hissing more loud & loud among the trees 
 
The frighted wild wind trembles to a breeze 
 
Just turns the leaf in terryf[y]ing sighs 
 
Bows to the spirit of the storm & dies 
 
In wild pulsations beats the heart of fear 
 
At the low rumbling thunder creeping near

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Tantey Baker

Brave cordial bless thy honest maker 
At Stamford town old tantey baker 
Sells juice o thine woud cure the ague 
A tartan stroke 
A quarts gen manys legs a shaker 
& mine its broke 
Ah that I ha'nt a pen to scrawl 
Like burns's wiskey quill wi all 
Now I ha namd ‘th'hole i'th' wall’ 
Much mores the pity 
Theres none throught stamford but shoud call 
I'bakers gitty

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Hues of every dye

Yet but awhile the slumbering weather flings
Its murky prison round. then winds wake loud
With sudden stir the startled forest sings
Winters returning song cloud races cloud
& the horizon throws away its shroud
Sweeping a stretching circle from the eye
Storms upon storms in quick succession crowd
& oer the sameness of the purple sky
Heaven paints with hurried hand wild hues of every dye

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Winter geese

Yon ponds thick ice for waiting stock to drink 

A wild confusion momentary wakes 

From gabbling geese that loiter on the brink 

Long lockd from water by the winter grim 

They mope & linger round their haunts in vain 

Till such scant chances gives them leave to swim 

& there they clamour till its froze again 

Now as one fails the beaten track to meet 

Of milking maids & early foddering boys 

The snow harsh presses neath ones hastning feet 

Crumping & crumping with incessant noise 

& brushing branches bye till then unstird 

A powdery shower keeps constant pothering round 

& een from movments of a startld bird 

The trees white cloathing shivers to the ground 


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Modern Love

Modern love like to traffic turns all upon gain 
& beautys shov'd out of the fashion 
False curls paint & patches all labour in vain 
For ex[c]iting an amourous passion 
Since wrinkld old shadows—wrong side o' four score 
Where mouldy old coin is in plenty 
Are prefer'd by our modern love jobbers before 
The plump rosey beautys o' Twenty 
So now fusty maidens your sorrows lay by 
Sin' your blest wi' a friend in your riches 
Your hearts need no longer to dwindle & sigh 
Nor ache at the sight o' the breeches

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Schoolboys

The schoolboys still their morning ramble take 
To neighboring village school with playing speed
Loitering with passtimes leisure till they quake
Oft looking up the wild geese droves to heed
Watching the letters which their journeys make
Or plucking haws on which their fieldfares feed
& hips and sloes -- & on each shallow lake 
Making glib slides were they like shadows go 
Till some fresh passtimes in their minds awake
Then off they start anew & hasty blow 
Their numbd & clumpsing fingures till they glow
Then races with their shadows wildly run 
That stride huge giants oer the shining snow 
In the pale splendour of the winter sun

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