The sallows


The sallows glisten in their gay palm bloom

Studded with golden down where earliest come
The solitary wild bees that servive
Their trance & ere the tenants of the hive
Dare venure out are searching field & wood
& from scarce blossoms seeking scanty food
Hanging there yet half doubtful hopes along
& humming wearily a lonly song


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Last lingering


& when the summers swarms half namless fled 
& autumns landscape faded bleak & wild 
When leaves gun fall & show their berries red 
Still with the season woud I be beguild 
Lone spots to seek home leaving far behind 
Were wildness rears her lings & teazle burs 
& were last lingering of the flowery kind 
Blue heath bells tremble neath the sheltering furze 
Sweet was such walks on the half barren wild 
Which ploughs leave quiet with their briars & brakes 
Prospects of freedom pleasing from a child 
To track the crookd pad which the rabbit makes


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A ruby crown


The sun he goes down wi a ruby crown
To a gold and crimson bed
And the falling dew from heaven so blue
Hang[s] like pearls on Phoebe's head
Love leave the town

Come thou with me neath the green leaf tree
We'll crop the bonny sweet brere
Oh come dear maid neath the hazle wood shade
For love invites us here
Come then wi' me

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A venerable tree


I never pass a venerable tree
Pining away to nothingness & dust
Ruins vain shades of power I never see
Once dedicated to times cheating trust
But warm reflection wakes her saddest thought
& views lifes vanity in cheerless light
& sees earths bubbles youth so eager sought
Burst into emptiness of lost delight
& all the pictures of lifes early day
Like evenings striding shadows haste away
Yet theres a glimmering of pleasure springs
From such reflections of earths vanity
That pines & sickens oer lifes mortal things
& leaves a relish for eternity


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Of blackberries and stickers


Blackberrying may appear to be a trivial subject in John Clare's poetry, generally referred to in passing as a characteristic autumnal activity, along with collecting elderberries to make wine, or hazel nuts, or mushrooms, or water-cress, or gathering rotten wood for the cottage-fire.  Essentially, it is not different from those other rural activities, which formed part of the cottager's economy in every part of Europe.

 

In the English fens, the inhabitants believed that the produce of the wasteland came to them by right.  Also in the fens: "At dusk, the passer-by might be confronted by silently-moving lines of shadowy figures, their backs bent under the weight of trunks and piled-up wood, as they headed for home". Clare referred to this wood as "rotten," omitting the word "wood" occasionally.

 

Where stickers stroll from day to day

And gather loads of rotten wood

And poachers left in safety stray

When midnight wears its deepest mood.

(from Walks in the Woods)

 

Clare's natural sympathies are with the "stickers," as he calls them: the "wood-men," on the other hand, the agents of the landowners, are "terrifying rascals" who "make a prison of the forrests and are its joalers." (sic) Just as the fallen wood belonged by right to the local inhabitants in the forests in all parts of Europe, so, according to popular belief, did the fallen wood belong to the locals near the oak woods of Stamford, and, in both regions, led to conflict between landowners and peasants, between the lord's steward and gypsies, or the woodman and villagers.

 

The conflict over wood extended to other products of the waste -- rabbits, hares, birds, withies, reeds, cresses, sloes, dewberries, nuts, mushrooms, elderberries, wild strawberries and blackberries, not to mention eggs, snakes, deer, eels, fish, and other edibles.  The custom of nutting, which Clare celebrates, was particularly disliked by the landowners, their servants and the tenant-farmers.  The pages of the Stamford Mercury and Drakard's Stamford News are filled with advertisements and articles regarding the practice; the Mercury, upholding the rights of the landowners, the News those of the rural population.


(Robinson & Rowe)


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Non

The night wind


The night wind now with sooty wings

In the cotters chimney sings
Now as stretching oer the bed
Soft I raise my drowsy head
Listening to the ushering charms
That shake the elm tree's mossy arms
Till sweet slumbers stronger creep
Deeper darkness stealing round
Then as rocked I sink to sleep
Mid the wild winds lulling sound

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Soothing scene


One gloomy eve I roamed about

  Neath Oxeys hazel bowers
While timid hares were darting out
  To crop the dewy flowers
& soothing was the scene to me
  Right pleased was my soul
My breast was calm as summers sea
  When waves forget to roll
  
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Pleasant sounds


The rustling of leaves under the feet in woods & under hedges    The crumping of cat-ice & snow down wood rides   narrow lanes & every street causeways     Rustling through a wood    or rather rushing while the wind hallows in the oak tops like thunder     The rustles of birds wings startled from their nests or flying unseen into the bushes      The whizzing of larger birds over head in a wood such as crows puddocks buzzards &c     The trample of roburst wood larks on the brown leaves & the patter of Squirrels on the green moss   The fall of an acorn on the ground   the pattering of nuts on the hazel branches ere they fall from ripeness     The flirt of the ground-larks wing from the stubbles    how sweet such pictures on dewy mornings when the dew flashes from its brown feathers

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Startled frogs


From the hay-cocks moistend heaps
Startled frogs take vaunting leaps
& along the shaven mead
Jumping travellers they proceed 
Quick the dewy grass divides
Moistening sweet their speckled sides 
From the grass or flowrets cup
Quick the dew-drop bounces up
Now the blue fog creeps along
& the birds forgot his song
Flowers now sleep within their hoods
Daisies button into buds
From soiling dew the butter-cup 
Shuts his golden jewels up

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Life?


And what is Life? -- An hour-glass on the run,

A mist retreating from the morning sun,
A busy, bustling, still repeated dream;
Its length? -- A minute's pause, a moment's thought;
And happiness? -- A bubble on the stream,
That in the act of seizing shrinks to nought.

What are vain Hopes? -- The puffing gale of morn,
That of its charms divests the dewy lawn,
And robs each floweret of its gem -- and dies;
A cobweb hiding disappointment's thorn,
Which stings more keenly through the thin disguise

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Old merry songs


The Moth a coy lover now ventures to creep
Out at night to steal kisses from flowers when asleep
But the Butterflye bold as the Bee for a plot
Kisses the flowers all the day whether willing or not
Now no longer able his sports to pursue
He lay neath a leaf to get out of the dew
Heres the Cockchaffer to with his old sullen drone
Sings as if he thought no song sweet as his own
The Bee too with grains of red dust on each thigh
Who had drained thro the day all the honey flowers dry
& in vain he attempted straight forward to drive
He reeled and mistook the way home to his hive
Till lost on this spot in a considerable fright
He makes on this thistle a bed for the night
Heres the rope dancing spider a trusting his threads
From his web on the branches high over their heads
Ah well may you laugh at the sports he doth make
While he dances away in no fears for his neck
The rest were all coupled & happy & they
Song the old merry songs which they sang at his day

(Unpublished as far as I can tell)

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I am free

 


Russet stain


To mark what looks like early autumn here in East Devon, a poem from Clare's wonderful collection "Poems descriptive of rural life and scenery" (1820)

A REFLECTION IN AUTUMN
Now Autumn's come—adieu the pleasing greens
The charming Lanscape & the flowrey plain
All are deserted from these motley scenes
With blighted yellow ting'd & russet stain
Tho desolation seems to triumph here
Yet these are spring to what we still shall find
The trees must all in nakedness appear
'Reft of their foliage by the blustry wind
Just so 'twill fare with me in Autumns life
Just so I'd wish—but may the trunk & all
Die with the leaves—nor taste that wintry strife
Where Sorrows urge—& fear Impedes the fall!

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Melancholy Autumn


Now melancholy autumn comes anew
With showery clouds and fields of wheat tanned brown
Along the meadow banks I peace pursue
And see the wild flowers gleaming up and down
Like sun and light; the ragwort's golden crown
Mirrors like sunshine when sunbeams retire
And silver yarrow: there's the little town
And o'er the meadows gleams that slender spire
Reminding me of one, and waking fond desire

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Image by my friend Carry Akroyd

Humbug


Humbug is pleased with tinsels shining gauds 
& what he supports fashion soon applauds 
One blows the bubbles up with puffing sides 
& tother looks till stiff necked at the sight 
Bawling aloud till hoarse ‘look here not there’ 
While mobs throng round to wonder & to stare 
Humbug & fashion then to end the cause 
Bring flattery in who crowns them with applause 
So village boys with bacca pipes & suds 
Play while one bubble after tother sends 
Look there a fine one goes & there another 
How bubble 2 beats bubble 1 his brother 
& then he blows again with all his might 
Almost to bursting like the frog with pride 
Then out goes bubble 3 & instant out 
From gaping mouths comes the applauding shout 
Crowning him the mightiest of the mighty three 
Humbug & Fashion & the snob[bery]

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A busy bustling


& what is Life an hour-glass on the run

A mist retreating from the morning sun
A busy bustling still repeated dream
Its length a minutes pause a moments thought
& happiness a bubble on the stream
That in the act of seizing shrinks to nought
What are vain Hopes the puffing gale of morn
That of its charms divests the dewy lawn
& robs each floweret of its gem & dies
A cobweb hiding disappointments thorn
Which stings more keenly through the thin disguise

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Flatterers


The flatterers meet with smiles
The cunning find their friends
Without I made my pilgrimage         
& so met small amends
I looked on fame as merits plea
Twas spring but winter frowned on me

To cringe to menial slaves
To worship titled power
To bend the knee to knaves
The price of earthly dower
Is what I neer was taught to pay
So empty [that] Ive turned away

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Tyrants?


The whigs & torys may be better classified
perhaps by the terms of outs & ins for
be they whigs or torys in those situations the
outs are always vociverators of “liberty”
“cruelty of taxation” & “good of the people”
while the ins are inflexible tyrants
& determined supporters of all that is
oppressing & annoying to the people &
benefitting to themselves & their connections

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The Norman Yoke


            “Men make a boast of pedigree     as well might the descendants of Richard Turpin boast of theirs for both honours spring from robbery & spoilation – what was William the Conqueror but a robber by wholesale & what were his followers but high way men     by his authority receiving tithes by their expertness at plunder    for which Turpin (a more noble plunderer if absence from fear or dareing achievements make one) received a halter because he dared to rob & could show only his courage for the liscence – the ancestors of a Newton have some thing to boast of    but pedigree belongs to a race horse & confers nothing to the mind or the man”

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Thy ruddy pride


Sweet bottle shaped flower of lushy red

Born when the summer wakes her warmest breeze
Among the meadows waving grasses spread
Or neath the shade of hedge or clumping trees
Bowing on slender stem thy heavy head
In sweet delight I view thy summer bed
& hark the drone of heavy humble bees
Along thy honeed garden gailey led
Down corn field striped balks & pasture leas
Fond warmings of the soul that long has fled
Revives my bosom wi their sweetness still
As I bend musing oer thy ruddy pride
Recalling days I dropt upon a hill
& cut my oaten trumpets by thy side

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