On seeing two swallows late in October

[Image: Carry Akroyd]

But, little lingerers, old esteem detains
Ye haply thus to brave the chilly air
When skies grow dull with winter's heavy rains
And all the orchard trees are nearly bare;
Yet the old chimneys still are peeping there
Above the russet thatch where summer's tide
Of sunny joys gave you such social fare
As makes you haply wishing to abide
In your old dwelling through the changing year.
I wish ye well to find a dwelling here,
For in the unsocial weather ye would fling
Gleanings of comfort through the winter wide,
Twittering as wont above the old fireside,
And cheat the surly winter into spring.

Song: "The autumn's come again"

The autumn's come again
& the clouds descend in rain
& the leaves they are falling from the wood
The summer's voice is still
Save the clacking of the mill
& the lowly muttered thunder of the flood

There's nothing in the mead
But the rivers muddy speed
& the willow leaves all littered by its side
Sweet voices all are still
In the vale & on the hill
& the summer's blooms are withered in their pride

Fled is the cuckoo's note
To countries far remote
& the nightingale is vanished from the wood
If you search the Lordship round
There is not a blossom found
& where the haycock scented is the flood

My true loves fled away
Since we walked in cocks of hay
On the sabbath in the summer of the year
& she's nowhere to be seen
On the meadow or the green
But she's coming when the happy spring is near

When the birds begin to sing
& the flowers begin to spring
& the cowslips in the meadows reappear
When the woodland oaks are seen
In their monarchy of green
Then Mary & loves pleasure will be here

Where is the heart (excerpt)

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

I think of Thee

David's latest YouTube upload of original music for Clare poems/songs (click on the title above).

I think of thee at early day
& wonder where my love can be
& when the evening shadows grey
O how I think of thee
Along the meadow banks I rove
& down the flaggy fen
& hope my first & early love
To meet thee once again

From Child Harold… a song (so Clare calls it) of Clare’s disturbed time in Northborough in 1841, after his long walk from Epping Forest. It is thought this poem was written in mid November of that year, and is a painful realisation that he had lost Mary Joyce forever. Perhaps he had some knowledge that he was destined for another asylum, as the last two lines of the poem read:

“whether in freedom or in thrall,
Mary, I think of thee”

Sweetly comes the grassy summer

[Double Click on the photo for the full effect]

Sweetly comes the grassy summer
And the bee its minstrel hummer
And the Swallow a new comer
Winged serpents oer the lea
Swimming in a serpentine
While their glossy black backs shine
From the sun that gleams divine
Oer wheatfield, lake and tree
Then come sweet Julie in thy prime
And we'll enjoy the summer time
Light is the cloud and bright the skies
And rich the wings of butterflies
Like Argus with a hundred eyes
Go skipping through the day
Dancing from flower to clover flower
In the warm and wanton hour
And on the white thorn blooming bower
Upon the clumps of May

Come Julie in thy youthful prime
And let's enjoy the summer time
We'll go where waters clear are flowing
We'll go where green the grass is growing
We'll go where sweet the wind is blowing
Among the willows grey

So come along my dearest Julie
Ill court thee in the meadows duly
By white thorn hedges love thee truly
And spend the summers day
On grass banks sit in pleasant weather
And gather wild flowers both together

The autumn morn...

[Image: Carry Akroyd]

The autumn morn looks mellow as the fruit
& ripe as harvest—every field & farm
Is full of health & toil—yet never mute
With rustic mirth & peace the day is warm
The village maid with gleans upon her arm
Brown as the hazel nut from field to field
Goes cheerily—the valleys native charm—
I seek for charms that autumn best can yield
In mellowing wood & time bleaching field

Child Harold (lines 657-665)

A reflection in autumn

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!

Cloud Shapes

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

The scattered clouds lie calm and still,
And day throws gold on every hill;
Their thousand heads in glory run,
As each were worlds and owned a sun.
The rime it clings to everything,
It beards the early buds of spring;
The mossy pales, the orchard spray,
Are feathered with its silver-grey.

The Stranger (click here)

In 'Hymns Ancient and Modern' there is a single song/poem by John Clare: 'The Stranger'. For some years we have felt it needed a modern setting, so here is our offering. The music was composed by David Rowe, and was first performed in St. Botolph's Church, Helpston at the John Clare Festival in July 2010. Helpston, is the village in which John Clare was born, and was his muse throughout his long life. Clare died in 1864 and is buried in St. Botolph's Churchyard.

A stranger once did bless the earth
who never caused a heart to mourn,
whose very voice gave sorrow mirth;
and how did earth his worth return?
it spurned him from its lowliest lot:
the meanest station owned him not.

An outcast thrown in sorrow's way,
a fugitive that knew no sin,
yet in lone places forced to stray;
men would not take the stranger in.
Yet peace, though much himself he mourned,
was all to others he returned.

His presence was a peace to all,
he bade the sorrowful rejoice.
Pain turned to pleasure at his call,
health lived and issued from his voice;
he healed the sick, and sent abroad
the dumb rejoicing in the Lord.

The blind met daylight in his eye,
the joys of everlasting day;
the sick found health in his reply,
the cripple threw his crutch away.
Yet he with troubles did remain,
and suffered poverty and pain.

It was for sin he suffered all
to set the world-imprisoned free,
to cheer the weary when they call;
and who could such a stranger be?
The God, who hears each human cry,
and came, a Saviour, from on high.

The Village Funeral (excerpt)

The Orphans' grief and sorrow, so severe,
To every heart in pity's language speak ;
E'en the rough sexton can't withhold the tear,
That steals unnotic'd down his furrow'd cheek.

Who but is griev'd to see the Fatherless
Stroll with their rags unnotic'd through the street?
What eye but moistens at their sad distress,
And sheds compassion's tear whene'er they meet?

Yon Workhouse stands as their asylum now.
The place where Poverty demands to live;
Where parish Bounty scowls his scornful brow,
And grudges the scant fare he's forc'd to give.

Oh, may I die before I'm doom'd to seek
That last resource of hope, but ill supplied ;
To claim the humble pittance once a week,
Which justice forces from disdainful pride! —

AVhere the lost Orphan, lowly bending, weeps,
Unnotic'd by the heedless as they pass.
There the grave closes where a Mother sleeps.
With brambles platted on the tufted grass.

Search to find Britain's favourite poem (Click here)

The National Trust has set itself the near impossible task of choosing Britain’s favourite poem about the countryside, and Clare's sonnet "On a lane in Spring" is on the shortlist. Seems to me after reading the list of selected poems, that I could have chosen rather better... as could many. That being said, click on the title above to read the Daily Telegraph's piece on the 'search', published today.

The Clare poem 'chosen' is "On a lane in Spring":

A Little Lane, the brook runs close beside
And spangles in the sunshine while the fish glide swiftly by
And hedges leafing with the green spring tide
From out their greenery the old birds fly
And chirp and whistle in the morning sun
The pilewort glitters 'neath the pale blue sky
The little robin has its nest begun
And grass green linnets round the bushes fly
How Mild the Spring Comes in; the daisy buds
Lift up their golden blossoms to the sky
How lovely are the pingles and the woods
Here a beetle runs; and there a fly
Rests on the Arum leaf in bottle green
And all the Spring in this Sweet lane is seen

Mist in the Meadows

The evening oer the meadow seems to stoop
More distant lessens the diminished spire
Mist in the hollows reaks and curdles up
Like fallen clouds that spread – and things retire
Less seen and less – the shepherd passes near
And little distant most grotesquely shades
As walking without legs – lost to his knees
As through the rawky creeping smoke he wades
Now half way up the arches disappear
And small the bits of sky that glimmer through
Then trees loose all but tops – I meet the fields
And now indistinctness passes bye
The shepherd all his length is seen again
And further on the village meets the eye.

(Thanks to Simona Cola for reminding me of this brilliant poem)

Nutting... by David Rowe

'Nutting' ~ Clare's poem set to music by David Rowe (just click on the title above).

In 'nutting' Clare recalls his early courtship with Mary Joyce, who was to become his life-long muse. They never married although in his later life Clare was convinced she had been his first wife.

Right rosy gleamed the autumn morn
Right golden shone the autumn sun
The mowers swept the bleachéd corn
While long their early shades did run

The leaves were burnt to many hues
The hazel nuts were ripe & brown
My Mary’s kindness could but choose
To pluck them when I bore them down

The shells her auburn hair did show
A semblance faint yet beautiful
She smiled to hear me tell her so
Till I forgot the nuts to pull

She started at each little sound
The branches made—yet would her eye
Regret the gloom encroaching round
That told her night was in the sky

I helped her through the hedge row gap
& thought the very thorns unkind
As not to part—while in her lap
She sought the ripest bunch to find

T’was Mary’s smiles & sweet replies
That gave the sky so sweet a stain
So bright I never saw him rise
Nor ever set so sweet again

Farewell to the Cornfield

Farewell to the cornfield and meadow so green
Farewell to the white thorn and willow and Jean
Farewell to the haunts O' her childhood and mine
Where green banks had peace and my Jean looked divine
We're parted and may be for ever we part
Still Jeanie shall be the choice girl of my heart

Farewell to the cornfield and meadow so green
Farewell to the white thorn and willow and Jean
The meadows will be just as green when I'm gone
To the eyes o' my Jean while my heart like a stone
Lies cold in my breast while the scene I survey
To think of to-morrow that bears me away

From all I once loved and am cherishing yet
The wild flowers O' summer wi' honey dews wet
The path o'er the meadows the style i' the lane
My Jeanie will see them and know them again
To the wide roaring ocean and fathomless brine
I wander my Jean where thou still may be mine

If thy heart it be true love mine still thou shalt be
Though I perish by shipwreck and drown i the Sea
So farewell green meadows and farewell my Jean
To the willow and thorn where together we've been
All lonely I go to the wide raving sea
But true love will bring me safe back unto thee

Solitude (lines 81-104)

Where the swain the branches lops,
And o'erhead with rushes tops;
Where, with woodbine's sweet perfume,
And the rose's blushing bloom,
Loveliest ceiling of the bower,
Arching in, peeps many a flower;
While a hill of thyme so sweet,
Or a moss'd stone, forms a seat.

There, as 'tween-light hangs the eve,
I will watch thy bosom heave;
Marking then the darksome flows
Night's gloom o'er thy mantle throws;
Fondly gazing on thine eye
As it rolls its ecstasy,
When thy solemn musings caught
Tell thy soul's absorb'd in thought.

When thy finely folded arm
O'er thy bosom beating warm
Wraps thee melancholy round;
And thy ringlets wild unbound
On thy lily shoulders lie,
Like dark streaks in morning's sky.
Peace and silence sit with thee,
And peace alone is heaven to me.

A Scene

[Image: ‘Out of Doors’ by Carry Akroyd]

The Landscape’s stretching view that opens wide,
With dribbling brooks, and river’s wider floods,
And hills, and vales, and darksome lowering woods
With grains of varied hues, and grasses pied;
The low brown cottage in the shelter'd nook;
The steeple, peeping just above the trees
Whose dangling leaves keep rustling in the breeze;
And thoughtful shepherd bending o’er his hook;
And maidens stripp’d, haymaking too, appear;
And Hodge a whistling at his fallow plough;
And herdsman hallooing to intruding cow;
All these, with hundreds more, far off and near
Approach my sight; and please to such excess,
That language fails the pleasure to express.

There's music in the songs of birds

There's music in the songs of birds
There's music in the bee
There's music in a woman’s voice
When sitting on your knee

While walking in the mossy vales
Beneath the spreading beech
Song lives in singing nightingales
And in a woman’s speech

To hear her whisper in the dark
'Tis heavens melody
Her calm reply her wise remark
Is more than song to me

The harp can touch no sweeter chord
In music's thrilling choice
Nor music breathe a sweeter word
Than comes from woman’s voice

There's music in the singing lark
That carols to the sky
To hear her whisper in the dark
'Tis heavens melody

There's music in a woman’s voice
While sitting on your knee
And Emma is my own heart's choice
When e'er she chooses me

The Mock Bird

I've often tried, when tending sheep and cow,
With bits of grass and peels of oaten straw,
To whistle like the birds. The thrush would start
To hear her song, and pause, and fly away;
The blackbird never cared, but sang again;
The nightingale's fine song I could not try;
And when the thrush would mock her song, she paused,
And sang another song no bird could do!
She sang when all were done, and beat them all.
I've often sat and mocked them half the day,
Behind the hedge-row, thorn, or bullace tree:
I thought how nobly I could act in crowds.
The woods and fields were all the books I knew,
And every leisure thought was Love and Fame.

When gentle even oer the wild scene creeping

When gentle even oer the wild scene creeping
Lays labour down free from his care
& the moons silver pencil nights landscape is sweeping
On the tree heads & thro mountains tops peeping
As fair as sweet woman is fair

When the lone night bird his love song is breathing
& his sorrow melts sweet on the ear
& the blew mist round the horison wreathing
On the moist cheek & the still bough is [sweep]ing
As sweetly as kind warming tear

While the wild night wind his love tidings hushes
As a watch nurse oer her childs [closing eye]
Whispering soft thro the trees & the bushes
While the brooke oer its [mountain] bed murmuring gushes
As soft as a sweet womans sigh

O blest at that hour when the [doves tribes] are snoozing
[As morn] with sweet [blushes o] care
When the Nights fears in the moon light is loosing
& gilds sweet the snow of her soft heaving bosom
Sure never seems woman so fair

But sad at that hour is fond lovers meeting
& fate frowning fate [hovers] near
Forcd from each other fond vows soft repeating
To part & perchance never more to be meeting
How dearer then life is sweet womans tear

When gentle eve in nights lap is desarting
& sinking moon dims in the eye
When modesty wispers its leave to be parting
When love seals a vow on their lips at departing
How sweet is the good womans sigh

Native Scenes (click here)

[Near Torpel Manor Field just outside Helpston]

O native scenes for ever ever dear
So blest so happy where I long have been
So charmd with nature in each varied scene
To leave ye all is cutting & severe
Ye hanging bushes that from winds woud screen
Where oft Ive shelterd from an aprils shower
In youths past bliss in Childhoods happy hour
Ye Woods Ive wanderd searching out the nest
Ye Meadows gay that reard me many a flower
Culling my cow slips Ive been doubly blest
Huming gay fancies As I bound the prize
O Fate unkind beloved scenes adieu
Your vanishd pleasures crowd my swimming eyes
& makes this wounded heart to bleed anew