A Character (excerpt)

[Image: Anne Lee]

One of Clare’s early poems that we have chosen to figure in our planned 4^th volume “Amorous Johny”

Her face cloth'd in blushes like the east in a morning
Sheds a lustre so healthful and gay
And O! her sweet neck is with Cupids adorning
More whiter than blossoms of May.

Her beautiful bosom with love sweetly swelling
Whould make e'en a Hermit to long
And O! of her eyes and her lips theres no telling
They'r out o' the reach of my song.

Her height with the rest in exactest propotion
Nought defective throughout can be seen
And her fine limbs conceal'd will oft show their sweet motion
When met by the wind on the green.

The Early Poems of John Clare 1804-1822

ed. Eric Robinson, David Powell and Margaret Grainger

(Oxford, 2 volumes, I-II, 1989)

Nobody Cometh to Woo

[Image by Anne Lee]

Recorded in the early 1990s as 'Lucy’s Lament' by Vikki Clayton

On Martinmas eve the dogs did bark,

And I opened the window to see,

When every maiden went by with her spark

But ne’er a one came to me.

And O dear what will become of me?

And O dear what shall I do,

When nobody whispers to marry me—

Nobody cometh to woo?

None's born for such troubles as I be:

If the sun wakens first in the morn

"Lazy hussy" my parents both call me,

And I must abide by their scorn,

For nobody cometh to marry me,

Nobody cometh to woo,

So here in distress must I tarry me—

What can a poor maiden do?

If I sigh through the window when Jerry

The ploughman goes by, I grow bold;

And if I'm disposed to be merry,

My parents do nothing but scold;

And Jerry the clown, and no other,

E’er cometh to marry or woo;

They think me the moral of mother

And judge me a terrible shrew.

For mother she hateth all fellows,

And spinning's my father's desire,

While the old cat growls bass with the bellows

If e’er I hitch up to the fire.

I make the whole house out of humour,

I wish nothing else but to please,

Would fortune but bring a new comer

To marry, and make me at ease!

When I've nothing my leisure to hinder

I scarce get as far as the eaves;

Her head's instant out of the window

Calling out like a press after thieves.

The young men all fall to remarking,

And laugh till they're weary to see't,

While the dogs at the noise begin barking,

And I slink in with shame from the street.

My mother's aye jealous of loving,

My father's aye jealous of play,

So what with them both there's no moving,

I'm in durance for life and a day.

O who shall I get for to marry me?

Who will have pity to woo?

Tis death any longer to tarry me,

And what shall a poor maiden do?

John Clare, Poems: Chiefly from Manuscript

ed. Edmund Blunden and Alan Porter

(London: Cobden-Sanderson, 1920)

Thy spirit visits me like dew (excerpt)

The wild flowers have a feeling
O'er my calm senses stealing
And love's soft dreams revealing
Seem wispering from the bowers

The foxgloves freckled bells
That blossom by the wood
And in the forrest dells
In the midst of solitude

There I hear my lover call
Where the whitethorn forms a wall
And the foxglove blossoms tall
In the tears of eve bedewed

The Later Poems of John Clare 1837-1864

ed. Eric Robinson and David Powell

(Oxford, 2 volumes, I-II, 1984)

An excerpt from 'A dedication to **** '

To thee earth swarmd with lovly things
The butterflye with spangld wings
& dragon flye & humble bee
Humd dreams of paradise with thee
& o thou fairest dearest still
If natures wild misterious skill
Beams that same rapture in thine eye
& left a love that cannot dye
If that fond taste was born to last
Nor vanishd with the summers past
If seasons as they usd to be
Still meet a favou[r]d smile with thee
Then thou accept for memorys sake
All I can give or thou canst take
A parted record known to thee
Of what has been no more to be
The pleasant past the future sorrow
The blest today & sad tomorrow—

(lines 45 to 62)

Selected Poems and Prose of John Clare

ed. Eric Robinson and Geoffrey Summerfield

(Oxford, 1967, 1978)

To an infant sister in Heaven

Clare was a twin.  His sister -- although "A fine bonny wench" died within days.  John the weakling infant, survived.  Here he is years later writing of the sister he never knew.

Bessey—I call thee by that earthly name

That but a little while belongd to thee—
Thou left me growing up to sin & shame
& kept thy innoscence unstaind & free
To seek the refuge of a heaven above
Where lifes bud opens in eternity
Bessey when memory turns thy lot to see

A brothers bosom yearns thy bliss to prove
& sighs oer wishes that was not to be
Oh had we gone together had I been
Strange with the world as thou thy mothers love
What years of sorrows I had never seen
Fullness of joy that leaves no hearts to bleed
Had then with thine been purchasd cheap indeed

The Poems of John Clare

ed. J. W. Tibble

(2 volumes, Dent, 1935)

From Dobson and Judie

One of Clare's early narrative poems, set very firmly in Helpstone

Old Dob when sitting by the fire
Will often bid old Judie ‘hark
‘I fear the wind is rising higher
 ‘And o the night is dismal dark’

‘Ah think’ he cries, (while Judie smoaks)
‘In this most dismal wintry night
‘How many poor tir'd travelling folks
‘Now meets the storm in woeful plight!’

‘Perhaps now at this very hour
‘Some poor lost soul lays—down his head
‘Beneath a tree which turns no shower
‘And cannot find a better bed’

‘For cloth'd with snow instead of dew
‘No longer they a shelter yield
‘More worse I know 'twill winnow thro
‘Then standing in the open field’

‘O heavens now the wind gets higher
‘It grieves me;—yet I'm pleas'd to think
‘How we are blest with house and fire
‘A good warm bed, and meat, and drink,’

‘And if the lost:—(I hope as well)
‘Should ever find their homes again
That true old-saying then will tell
‘How sweet the pleasure after pain!’

(lines 137 to 160)

The Early Poems of John Clare 1804-1822

ed. Eric Robinson, David Powell and Margaret Grainger

(Oxford, 2 volumes, I-II, 1989)

The crowing coks the morns for told (extract)

The crowing coks the morns for told

The Sun begins to peep
And Shepherds Wistling to the Fold
Sets free the Captive Sheep
Oer pathless plains at early hours
The Sleepy Rustic goes
The dews brushd off from Gras & flowers
Bemoists his hardend Shoes

For every leaf that forms a shade
& flowrets silken top
& every shivering bent & blade
Bends with a pearly drop
But soon shall fly these pearly drops
The Sun advances higher
& stretching oer the mountain tops
Sweet Gilds the Village spire

(lines 1-16)

The Early Poems of John Clare 1804-1822

ed. Eric Robinson, David Powell and Margaret Grainger

(Oxford, 2 volumes, I-II, 1989)

Written in April at Walk Lodge

A little known Clare sonnet from 1818 that will figure in our collection "The Poet in Love", with Mike Hobson's image which will accompany it.

Long sweeping bends of croppings brightning green

That wind along the vallies sheltering crown
Large swelling hills that nauntle up the scene
Which winters pencil tips wi bleachy brown

Here steeple points & there a misty town
As stretching thro each opening to be seen
& woods enlivning from their gloomy hue
To sprout in freshness—while the heath hills lean
In triumph on the eye their blooming goss
Wild natures brightest ornaments as now
Speckt oer wi sheep & beast & nibbling horse
That still roamd free from the long lazy plough
& the horison sweeping faintly blue
That prickt its bordering circle round the view

EP II 120

Pet MS A11 p5

The hind that were chopping them up for his fire

[The Plaque at Langley Bush]

The hind that were chopping them up for his fire

Een stood like a poet awhile to admire
& when I last sat here to listen the thrush
I lookd on yon knowll at our favourite bush
Were gipseys campd round it in freedom did dwell
& a swain told its history that knew it so well
About a court yearly being kept neath its boughs
In its youth—when his forefathers herded the cows

While the bush oer our heads blooming feeble & old
Seemd listning in sorrow the story he told
& sighd as the winds summer breath flutterd bye
Its few scatterd leaves as one ready to dye
Tho the gipseys haunt still the lovd spot as before
& the swain calls it still by the name it once bore
Langley bush with its scard trunk & grey mossy bough
Is fled & the scene is left desolate now
A storm that made shepherds in dread for an hour
& boild oer the hills with its thunder & shower
Struck it down to the earth were it withering lay
Till the gipseys sought firing & hauld it away
When the shepherd returnd as the tempest was bye
From his hut of thatchd brakes that had sheltered him dry
He lookd with supprise & a fearful anoy
On the fall of his favourite known from a boy
& I thus to witness its sorrowful end
Feel a loss for its fate as I do for a friend

The Early Poems of John Clare 1804-1822,

ed. Eric Robinson, David Powell and Margaret Grainger

(Oxford, 2 volumes, I-II, 1989)

The site of the ancient thorn bush is thought to have once been a Bronze Age barrow and a Roman shrine, and was reportedly an open-air court in Anglo-Saxon times used by all the parishes in the area, known as the Langdyke Hundred.  Clare knew all this of course, and Langley Bush was as much revered by him as it seems to have been by his Anglo-Saxon predecessors.

In the eighteenth century the court moved to the Exeter Arms, in Helpston, and the place became known as a haunt of gypsies.

In 1996 a replacement tree was replanted on the mound and a memorial plaque, to mark the historic site, was added.  All very much in keeping with Clare’s original words in his 1821 poem ‘Langley Bush’:

O Langley Bush! The shepherds sacred shade

Thy hollow trunk oft gain'd a look from me

Full many a journey o'er the heath I've made

For such like curious things I love to see

How ironic therefore that as I subsequently discovered, that to visit the site and stand next to the hallowed tree, the visitor has to trespass on ‘private’ land, reported the ‘Village Tribune’ in December 2009:

 ‘The Langley Bush is situated on private land.

 Permission to visit the mound should be sought from Fitzwilliam Farm (Milton Estates)’.

So to actually visit the site without ‘permission’, one must trespass on the land legally acquired from the commons during the enclosures.  Here is Clare bitterly railing on the subject:

I dreaded walking where there was no path

And pressed with cautious tread the meadow swath

And always turned to look with wary eye

And always feared the owner coming by;

Yet everything about where I had gone

Appeared so beautiful I ventured on

And when I gained the road where all are free

I fancied every stranger frowned on me

And every kinder look appeared to say

You’ve been on trespass in your walk today

From my essay “An Outing to Langley Bush” which can be read in its entirety here : http://johnclareephemera.blogspot.co.uk/p/an-outing-to-langley-bush.html

The Gipsy Camp

[Image: 'The Gipsy Camp' by Walter Tyndale]

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;
The Gipsy knocks his hands and tucks them up,
And seeks his squalid camp, half hid in snow,
Beneath the oak, which breaks away the wind,
And bushes close, with snow like hovel warm:
There stinking mutton roasts upon the coals,
And the half-roasted dog squats close and rubs,
Then feels the heat too strong and goes aloof;
He watches well, but none a bit can spare.
And vainly waits the morsel thrown away:
'Tis thus they live -- a picture to the place;
A quiet, pilfering, unprotected race.

John Clare, Selected Poems,

ed. R.K.R. Thornton (Everyman's Poetry, 1997)

A Winter Wish

My wish now's to sit in a cottage made snug

By a fire burning roozy and bright
With a Friend to make shorter short days by a Jug
And some Books for amusement at night
And could I enjoy such a peaceable lot
I'd ne'er cast on Fortune a frown
Nor would I possesing my Friend, Books, and Cott
Exchange 'em away for a — Crown!

The Early Poems of John Clare 1804-1822

ed. Eric Robinson, David Powell and Margaret Grainger

(Oxford, 2 volumes, I-II, 1989)

To an Infant Daughter

On the 13th June 1822 Patty and John had a second daughter, Eliza Louisa, but in that two years his world had been turned upside down, he was famous.  But there was sorrow too, as they lost a still-born baby son in June of 1821.

The photo shows a Christening Cup given to Eliza Louisa by her Godmother, Eliza Louise Emmerson for whom she of course was named.  John and Mrs Emmerson carried on a regular correspondence for many years and become firm friends.

After her sister Anna Maria's death in 1844, Eliza Louise was to marry the widowed husband, and her brother-in-law, John Sefton.  They had eight children, and a number of the 'Sefton-Clare' clan are active members of the John Clare Society to this day.

Sweet gem of infant fairy flowers
Thy smiles on lifes unclosing hours
Like sun beams lost in summer showers
     They wake my fears
When reason knows its sweets & sours
     Theyll change to tears

God help thee little sensless thing
Thou daisey like of early spring
Of ambushd winters hornet sting
     Hast yet to tell
Thou knowst not what tomorrows bring—
     I wish thee well

But thou art come & soon or late
Tis thine to meet the frowns of fate
The harpy grin of envys hate
     & mermaid smiles
Of worldly follys luring bait
     That youth beguiles

& much I wish what ere may be
The lot my child that falls to thee
Nature neer may let thee see
     Her glass betimes
But keep thee from my failings free
     No itch at ryhmes

L---d help thee in thy coming years
If thy mad fathers picture 'pears
Predominant—his feeling fears
     & gingling starts
Id freely now gi vent to tears
     To ease my heart

May thou unknown to ryhming bother
Be ignorant as is thy mother
& in thy manners such another
     Save sins nigh guest
& then wi scaping this & tother
     Thou mayst be blest

L---d knows my heart I wish thee much
& may my feeling ach[e]s & such
The pains I meet in follys clutch
     Be never thine—
Child its a tender string to touch
     That sounds ‘thourt mine’

The Village Minstrel, and Other Poems (2 volumes, 1821)

There is a feeling nought can calm

There is a feeling nought can calm
A passion nought can quell
The mention of a sweethearts name
That fond thoughts dare not tell
To know thee thus my dearest maid
& then to part in twain
The thunder making earth affraid
Will smile upon the main

The just may fall by thunder shocks
That never knew a crime
& earthquakes rend the lonely rocks
That upward used to climb
But love fond love that wedlock ties
Each other as their own
Then choked to tears & stifled sighs
& petrified to stone

For thee dear maid I touch the strings
& keep my heart awake
Tis simple truth the ballad sings
That love will not forsake

& stubborn are the hands that strike
The chords to melody
That loved the many all alike
With a double love for thee

Thy pedigree & titles high
As shadows pass away
& that fine face & brighter eye
Must also meet decay
But love that warmed us at the first
Can live & love alone
Nor ever die bye fate accursed
Though petrified to stone

The Later Poems of John Clare

ed. Eric Robinson and Geoffrey Summerfield

(Manchester University Press, 1964)

From "The Winters Come"

Sweet chesnuts brown, like soleing leather turn,

The larch trees, like the colour of the sun,
That paled sky in the Autumn seem'd to burn.
What a strange scene before us now does run,
Red, brown, and yellow, russet black, and dun,

White thorn, wild cherry, and the poplar bare,
The sycamore all withered in the sun,
No leaves are now upon the birch tree there,
All now is stript to the cold wintry air.
See! not one tree but what has lost its leaves,
And yet, the landscape wears a pleasing hue,
The winter chill on his cold bed receives,
Foliage which once hung oer the waters blue,
Naked, and bare, the leafless trees repose,
Blue headed titmouse now seeks maggots rare,
Sluggish, and dull, the leaf strewn river flows.

The Oxford Authors: John Clare

ed. Eric Robinson and David Powell (Oxford, 1984)

The Wind & Trees

Click here: Wind in the Trees THEN read Clare's poem...

I love the song of tree and wind
How beautiful they sing
The licken on the beach tree rind
E'en beats the flowers of spring

From the southwest sugh sugh it comes
Then whizes round in pleasant hums

It sings the spirit of the storm

The trees with dancing waxes warm
They dance and bow, and dance again
The very trunks, each branch and grain

Shake and dance and wave and bow
In every form no matter how

In every storm they dance on high
The semblance of a stormy sky
Then sob and roar and bend and swee
The semblance of a stormy sea

I love the song of wood and wind
The sobs before its roar behind

I love the stir of flood and tree

'Tis all of natures melody
I love the roaring of the wind
The calm that follows cheers the mind

'Tis like the good mans end of peace
When joys begin and troubles cease

The Later Poems of John Clare 1837-1864

ed. Eric Robinson and David Powell

(Oxford, 2 volumes, I-II, 1984)

On a cold autumn day, an excerpt from the Shepherds Calendar

[Image: A first edition of 'The Shepherds Calendar', signed by Clare. In the Oundle School collection]

Farmers behind the tavern screne
Sit — or wi elbow idly prest
On hob reclines the corners guest

Reading the news to mark again
The bankrupt lists or price of grain
Or old moores anual prophecys
That many a theme for talk supplys
Whose almanacks thumbd pages swarm
Wi frost and snow and many a storm
And wisdom gossipd from the stars
Of politics and bloody wars
He shakes his head and still proceeds
Ne'er doubting once of what he reads
All wonders are wi faith supplyd
Bible at once and weather guide
Puffing the while his red tipt pipe
Dreaming oer troubles nearly ripe
Yet not quite lost in profits way
He'll turn to next years harvest day
And winters leisure to regale
Hopes better times and sips his ale

The Shepherd's Calendar, with Village Stories, and Other Poems (1827)

Will ye gang wi' me to Scotland dear

Will ye gang wi' me to Scotland dear

Where the mountains touch the sky
And leave your humdrum labours here
And climb the hills sa'e high
Come leave your fowl your pigs and kye
And your mud-floor dwelling here
Come put your wheel and knitting bye
We'll be off to Scotland dear
For the summer lark is in the sky
The daisys gold in silver rim
Is blazing on the mountain side
And the skylarks wing in the sky grows dim
While the clouds like racers ride
So come with me to Scotland dear
And thy tartan plaid put on
The swallow has come to the new green year
And we'll to Scotland now be gone
So go wi' me to Scotland dear
Ere the winter of lifes comes on

And go with me to Scotland dear
And leave your English home
The gowans bloom, and the scented brere
Will tempt your steps to roam
And go with me to Scotland dear
Where the crimpled brackens grow
Where the rose blooms on the mountain brere
As white as driven snow
Then in the green bloom of the year
With me to Scotland go

The Later Poems of John Clare 1837-1864

ed. Eric Robinson and David Powell

(Oxford, 2 volumes, I-II, 1984)

The Winters Spring

Clare, after over five years in Northampton General Asylum, describing the winter that lies within?  Bereft as he is of his family, and the familiar haunts of Helpston - solitary, yet able to describe with piercing clarity his desolation.  Or is it about the weather?

The winter comes I walk alone
I want no birds to sing
To those who keep their hearts their own
The winter is the Spring
No flowers to please—no bees to hum
The coming Springs already come
I never want the christmas rose
To come before its time
The seasons each as God bestows
Are simple and sublime
I love to see the snow storm hing
'Tis but the winter garb of Spring
I never want the grass to bloom
The snow-storm's best in white
I love to see the tempest come
And love its piercing light
The dazzled eyes that love to cling
O'er snow white meadows sees the Spring
I love the snow the crimpling snow
That hangs on every thing
It covers every thing below
Like white doves brooding wing
A landscape to the aching sight
A vast expance of dazzling light

It is the foliage of the woods
That winter's bring—The dress
White easter of the year in bud
That makes the winter Spring
The frost and snow his poseys bring
Natures white spirits of the Spring

Feby 23rd/47

John Clare, Selected Poems,

ed. J.W. and Anne Tibble

(Everyman, 1965)

SONG : "The spring my forget..."

[Image: 'Rookery' Carry Akroyd]

The spring may forget that he reigns in the sky
& winter again hide her flowers in the snow
The summer may thirst when her fountains are dry
But I'll think of Mary wherever I go
The bird may forget that her nest is begun
When the snow settles white on the new budding tree
& nature in tempests forget the bright sun
But I'll ne'er forget her—that was plighted to me
How could I—how should I—that loved her so early
Forget—when I've sung of her beauty in song
How could I forget—what I've worshiped so dearly
From boyhood to manhood—& all my life long—
As leaves to the branches in summer comes duly
& blossoms will bloom on the stalk & the tree
To her beauty I'll cling—& I'll love her as truly
& think of sweet Mary wherever I be

Tim Chilcott (ed),

John Clare, The Living Year, 1841

(Nottingham: Trent Editions, 1999)

December

[Image: 'December' - Carry Akryod]

CHRISTMASS

Christmass is come and every hearth
Makes room to give him welcome now
Een want will dry its tears in mirth
And crown him wi a holly bough
Tho tramping neath a winter sky
Oer snow track paths and ryhmey stiles
The hus wife sets her spining bye
And bids him welcome wi her smiles

Each house is swept the day before
And windows stuck wi evergreens
The snow is beesomd from the door
And comfort crowns the cottage scenes
Gilt holly wi its thorny pricks
And yew and box wi berrys small
These deck the unusd candlesticks
And pictures hanging by the wall

(lines 1-16)

The Shepherd's Calendar (1827)

BALLAD "Where is the heart thou once hast won"

A sad 'Mary' poem, although in a number of collections it was unknown to me until I heard Carry Akroyd sing it some years ago in Helpston Church at a Festival.

Where is the heart thou once hast won

Can cease to care about thee

Where is the eye thou'st smiled upon

Can look for joy without thee

Lorn is the lot one heart hath met

That’s lost to thy caressing

Cold is the hope that loves thee yet

Now thou art past possessing

Fare thee well

We met we loved we’ve met the last

The farewell word is spoken

O Mary canst thou feel the past

& keep thy heart unbroken

To think how warm we loved & how

Those hopes should blossom never

To think how we are parted now

& parted, oh! for ever

Fare thee well

Thou wert the first my heart to win

Thou art the last to wear it

& though another claims akin

Thou must be one to share it

Oh, had we known when hopes were sweet

That hopes would once be thwarted

That we should part no more to meet

How sadly we had parted

Fare thee well

The Rural Muse (1835)

Mary mary charming mary

One of the 'steamy' poems that will figure in our 3rd Book "A Ghostly Love", which will explore, in John's poems and prose, his illusory relationship with Mary Joyce.  Very little chance of this being published in Clare's time of course.  It dates from around 1819, whilst he was courting Patty Turner.

Mary mary charming mary
Now the sun has sunk to rest
& the even breeze so airy
Tries to bare thy snowy breast
How I love wi thee to wander
Mary o how sweet wi thee
Dusky meadows to meander
Where no soul can hear or see

As we pause by lake or fountain
On thy bosom bending free
Ah how sweet sensations counting
When I know each throbs for me

As thy face turns on the azure
Looking where the moon may dwell
As I fold thy beautys treasure
Wheres the kiss can taste so well

As the hour of even closes
& my lingering wi thy charms
Plants thy cheek wi maiden roses
& thy modesty alarms
Who sweet girl coud not adore thee
& tho beauty thee has blest
When that modesty comes oer thee
Prove that virtue pleases best

The Early Poems of John Clare 1804-1822

ed. Eric Robinson, David Powell and Margaret Grainger

(Oxford, 2 volumes, I-II, 1989)

“I long to think of thee...”

I long to think of thee in lonely midnight

When thy spirit comes warm as an angel of light
Thy face is before me in rosey & flame
Which my kiss canna reach & I know not thy name
My heart aches to think on't—tis long sin' we met
If love is the truth love how can I forget
My arms would have clasped thee to pull thy face down
But when I embraced thee the Vision was flown

& was it true luv' & cud I forget
Thy name when I feel how enraptured we met
& can love forget thee sae much & keep true
Thy vision brought daylight before the cock crew
I saw thee above me in roseate hue
Thy cheeks they were red & thy bosom swelled too
My arm could na reach those pearl shoulders sae white
Nor my lips cud na kiss wi' thy lips to unite

& can it be love to have loved & forget
To see thee in visions nor know thy name yet
Thy face is my own that was worshipped in love
& thou comest before me a light from above
Tis thyself but I canna yet think o' thy name
Though my cells light at midnight before the day came
Thy face is still beauty thy breast roseys hue
But thy name I cant think of & yet love is true

The Later Poems of John Clare

ed. Eric Robinson and Geoffrey Summerfield

(Manchester University Press, 1964)