Delightfully pleasant

With the settled weather we are promised for the coming week, a poem from Clare which beautifully summarises what many will feel this September.

How delightfuly pleasant when the cool chilling air
By September is thrown o’er the globe
When each morning both hedges and bushes do wear
Instead of their green—a grey robe.
To see the sun rise thro the skirts of the wood
In his mantle so lovely and red
It cheers up my spirits and does me much good
As thro the cold stubbles I tread.

Tho’ not that his beams more advances the scene
Or adds to the Landscape a charm
But all that delights me by him may be seen
That the ensuing hours will be warm.
And this with the poet as yet in the world
In a parallel sense will comply
For when he does view the gay scenes there unfurl'd
‘Tis only to light him on high.

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Betokening rain

Black grows the southern sky betokening rain
& humming hive-bees homeward hurry bye
They feel the change so let us shun the grain
& take the broad road while our feet are dry
Ay there some dropples moistened on my face
& pattered on my hat tis coming nigh
Lets look about & find a sheltering place
The little things around like you & I
Are hurrying through the grass to shun the shower
Here stoops an ash-tree hark the wind gets high
But never mind this ivy for an hour
Rain as it may will keep us dryly here
That little wren knows well his sheltering bower
Nor leaves his dry house though we come so near

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Like to shadows

Partly from the Scripture

Written in Sickness

Our years look behind us like tales that are told
Our days like to shadows keep passing us bye
That takes a short step to our pillow of mould
& rise on lifes stage like to vapours & dye 

.
As frail as the grass of the meadow is man
His youth like the blossom of summer comes on
That smiles to the sunbeam till autumn turns wan
& the wind passes oer it & bids it be gone 

.
Thus one generation keeps passing away
& new generations their places retain
& the friends of our bosom that leave us to day
Shall neer fill the circle of friendship again

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Harvest home

As rests warm rapture rousd the rustics lay
The thread bare ballad from each quavering tongue
As ‘peggy bond’ or the ‘sweet month of may’
As how he joyd to hear each ‘good old song’
That on nights pausing ear did echo loud & strong
The muse might sing too for he well did know
The freaks & plays that harvest home doth end
How the last load is crownd wi boughs & how
Wi floating ribbons diznd at their end
The swains & maids wi fork & rake attend
& how the children on the load delight
Wi shouts of harvest home their throats to rend
& how the dames peep out to mark the sight
& all the feats that crown the harvest supper night

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Harvest morn

Cocks wake the early morn wi' many a Crow
Loud ticking village clock has counted four
The labouring rustic hears his restless foe
& weary bones & pains complaining sore
Hobbles to fetch his horses from the moor
Some busy 'gin to team the loaded corn
Which night throng'd round the barns becrouded door
Such plentious scenes the farmers yards adorn
Such busy bustling toils now mark the harvest morn

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Secret shower

How beautiful & fresh the pastoral smell 

    of tedded hay breathes in this early mom
Health in these meadows must in summer dwell
    & take her walks among these fields of corn
I cannot see her yet her voice is out
    On every breeze that fans my hair about
Although the sun is scarcely out of bed
    & leans on ground as half awake from sleep
The boy hath left his mossy-thatched shed
    & bawls right lustily to cows and sheep

Oor taken with the woodbines overspread
    Climbs up to pluck them from their thorny bower
Half drowned by dropples pattering on his head
    From leaves bemoistened by nights secret shower

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Like an april storm

The cleanly maiden thro the village streets
In pattens clicks down causways never drye
While eaves above head drops—where oft she meets
The school boy leering on wi mischiefs eye
Trying to splash her as he hurrys bye
While swains afield returning to their ploughs
Their passing aid wi gentle speech apply
& much loves rapture thrills when she allows
Their help wi offerd hand to lead her oer the sloughs
The hedger soakd wi the dull weather chops
On at his toils which scarcly keeps him warm
& every stroke he takes large swarms of drops
Patter about him like an april storm

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Thy gentle stream

Upon thy winding side wild gwash I lie 

Viewing with curious eye the silver bream 

Taking vaunting springs to trap the thoughtless flye 

That heedless dances on thy gentle stream 

The black snail wakens from the swoons of day 

& from the boughs that nestle by thy side 

The light wing'd moths steal out again to play 

Crossing with hasty wing thy rippling tide

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Waters creep

& here the shepherd with his sheep
& with his lovley maid
Together where these waters creep
In loitering dalliance playd 

& here the Cow boy lovd to sit
& plate his rushy thongs
& dabble in the fancied pit
& chase the Minnow throwngs

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The Gwash

The bridge over the Gwash at Great Casterton

Where winding gash* wirls round its wildest scene
On this romantic bend I sit me down
On that side view the meads their smoothing green
Edg'd with the peeping hamlets checkering brown
Here the steep hill as dripping headlong down
While glides the stream a silver streak between
As glides the shaded clouds along the sky
Brightning & deep'ning loosing as they're seen

In light & shade—so when old willows lean
Thus their broad shadow—runs the river bye
With tree & bush repleat a wilderd scene
& mossd & Ivyd sparkling on my eye—
O thus wild musing am I doubly blest
My woes unheeding—& my heart at rest

Poems Descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery (1820)

*Gwash, where Clare met his wife-to-be Patty, “a fair girl of eighteen, slender, with regular features, and pretty blue eyes".  They were married in March 1820 in the church of St Peter and St Paul, Great Casterton, close by where the Gwash crosses under the Great North Road.  Patty was born in Tickencote, the nearby hamlet, the river Gwash virtually joins the two villages together.  How pleasant is must have been, walking together on the riverside path on a summer’s day.  Alas now ‘enclosed’ and thus ‘private’ land.

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By the river side

A ramble by the river side
No walk so sweet can be
To see the creeping waters glide
& hear the humble bee

Theres nothing else so fine to see
As a fast flowing river
Hemmd by green banks continually
& winding on for ever

There nature lives devoid of strife
There boats sail on the tide
Theres nought so sweet to me in life
As a walk by the rivers side

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from September

Old goody seeks her milking cloak
And hastens out to milk the cow
And fill the troughs to feed the sow
Or seeking old hens laid astray
Or from young chickens drives away
The circling kite that round them flyes
Waiting the chance to seize the prize
Hogs trye thro gates the street to gain
And steal into the fields of grain
From nights dull prison comes the duck
Waddling eager thro the muck
Squeezing thro the orchard pales
Where mornings bounty rarely fails
Eager gobbling as they pass
Dew worms thro the padded grass

A ruin of the past

Summers pleasures they are gone like to visions every one
& the cloudy days of autumn & of winter cometh on
I tried to call them back but unbidden they are gone
Far away from heart & eye & forever far away
Dear heart & can it be that such raptures meet decay
I thought them all eternal when by Langley Bush I lay
I thought them joys eternal when I used to shout & play
On its bank at “clink & bandy” “chock” & “taw” & “ducking stone”
Where silence sitteth now on the wild heath as her own
Like a ruin of the past all alone

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Pleasant way

There is a path a little path
Goes winding thru the meadow hay 
That leadeth on oer many a swath 
A sweet and pleasant way
& heres a stile to rest upon
& see the arches all anew
That carrys the traveller safely on 
When wild floods roar below 

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Misthress Leythess

Clare having fun with language...

& the blak sale   mathem    was fer the reform bill lost in the howse of Lords    & if they downt plase to down o there nappers & loke far it agin I wud niver to go to have prares in thet howse agin      as Humfrey seys    far as thoff it be ritten on a bit of  parchmen no biger then your fingor it will nat tak the lukin far as the needal in the battel of hay did & so thay hav no exchuse bot to find it 

            yours ever to admirashun dare mat-hem   exchuse hast & botherashun far Im ap to my elbos in sads & the buk thub

Och the mobs    Misthress Leythess    the mabs thare ane man dun morthashuns of mischeef wid a fire shovel       he bite an officher of chalvery at the pint of his swurd most shamefuly    & Humfrey seys no mather for that    thow hees no rabel    bot hee will hev it thet the kings consitushuns ar no bisnes to be pat in jeporde at the rong end of a dradm swurd      to beshure Mathern    its all well enuff to be at the handel, thets safe enuf for sartin        bot yu no the kalverey ar gentemen & we musthent be afther kapin solders far doinin nathin   thets sartin    & so peceable fokes mast kape throm owt o the wey o the powther & uthe[r] dangerus mortashüns

           bot wat a strange thing thet the man wid the fire showel shud cum oif the ero Mathem     but lard bles yu   he wor prothekted by providence & as thof he was nat doin the rite thing

A single page from the Lettys Correspondence:

'Memoirs of Uncle Barnaby'

(Arbour Editions - 2017)

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Sauntering noisless

So dreamy is the light that dwells around 


& so refreshing is its sombre mood 


We feel at once shut out from sun & sky 


All the deliciousness of solitude 


While sauntering noisless oer the leafy ground

The air we breath seems loosing every trace 


Of earth & all its trouble & the mind

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Beautiful & new

Clouds rack & drive before the wind
In shapes & forms of every kind
Like waves that rise without the roar
& rocks that guard an untrodden shore
Now castles pass majestic by
& ships in peaceful havens lie
These gone ten thousand shapes ensue
For ever beautiful & new

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Quiet moods

I love to walk the fields they are to me
A legacy no evil can destroy
They like a spell set every rapture free
That cheered me when a boy
Play--pastime--all times blotting pen concealed
Comes like a new-born joy
To greet me in the field

For natures objects ever harmonize
With emulous taste that vulgar deed annoys
It loves in quiet moods to sympathize
& meet vibrating joys
Oer natures pleasant things nor will it deem
Pastime the muse employs
A vain obtrusive theme

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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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