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(Unpublished as far as I can tell)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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