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Langley Bush

O Langley Bush the shepherds sacred shade

Thy hollow trunk oft gaind a look from me
Full many a journey oer the heath Ive made
For such like curious things I love to see
What truth the story of the swain alows

That tells of honours which thy young days knew

Of 'langley court' being kept beneath thy boughs

I cannot tell-thus much I know is true
That thou art reverencd even the rude clan
Of lawless gipseys drove from stage to stage
Pilfering the hedges of the husband man
Leave thee as sacred in thy withering age
Both swains & gipseys seem to love thy name
Thy spots a favourite wi the smutty crew

& soon thou must depend on gipsey fame

Thy mulldering trunk is nearly rotten thro

My last doubts murmuring on the zephers swell

My last looks linger on thy boughs wi pain

To thy declining age I bid farwell

Like old companions neer to meet again

The Poems of John Clare

ed. J. W. Tibble (2 volumes, Dent, 1935)

All that is left of Langley Bush in 2012... a bump in a field, surrounded by 'Enclosed land legally acquired' from the commons in the early 19th century.

The Mores (excerpt)

Far spread the moorey ground a level scene

Bespread with rush & one eternal green

That never felt the rage of blundering plough

Though centurys wreathed springs blossoms on its brow

Still meeting plains that stretched them far away

In uncheckt shadows of green brown & grey

Unbounded freedom ruled the wandering scene

Nor fence of ownership crept in between

To hide the prospect of the following eye

lts only bondage was the circling sky
One mighty flat undwarfed by bush & tree

Spread its faint shadow of immensity
& lost itself which seemed to eke its bounds

In the blue mist the orisons edge surrounds

(lines 1-14)

Selected Poems of John Clare

ed. James Reeves (London: Heinemann, 1954)

The Forest Maid

 O once I loved a pretty girl, and dearly love her still;

  I courted her in happiness for two short years or more.

  And when I think of Mary it turns my bosom chill,

  For my little of life's happiness is faded and is o'er.

  O fair was Mary Littlechild, and happy as the bee,

  And sweet was bonny Mary as the song of forest bird;

  And the smile upon her red lips was very dear to me,

  And her tale of love the sweetest that my ear has ever heard.

  O the flower of all the forest was Mary Littlechild;

  There's few could be so dear to me and none could be so fair.

  While many love the garden flowers I still esteem the wild,

  And Mary of the forest is the fairest blossom there.

  She's fairer than the may flowers that bloom among the thorn,

  She's dearer to my eye than the rose upon the brere;

  Her eye is brighter far than the bonny pearls of morn,

  And the name of Mary Littlechild is to me ever dear.

  O once I loved a pretty girl. The linnet in its mirth

  Was never half so blest as I with Mary Littlechild--

  The rose of the creation, and the pink of all the earth,

  The flower of all the forest, and the best for being wild.

  O sweet are dews of morning, ere the Autumn blows so chill,--

  And sweet are forest flowers in the hawthorn's mossy shade,

  But nothing is so fair, and nothing ever will

  Bloom like the rosy cheek of my bonny Forest Maid.

  J.L. Cherry

  Life and Remains of John Clare

  London: Frederick Warne & Co.
  Northampton: J. Taylor & Son. 1873

Now evening rosey streaks - a ribbond sky

Now evenings rosey streaks—a ribbond sky

Spreads in the golden light of the far west
& mighty rocks are pillowed dark & high
The image & the prototype of rest

The heavens prophesy where peace is blest—
A stillness soft as fall of silent dews
Is felt around—the very dusk looks blest
As is the maiden while her heart pursues
Her evening walk oer fields in silent dews
Ave Maria tis the hour of love
When sighs & pains & tears on beautys breast
Are whispered into blessings from above
Ave Maria tis the hour of rest
For man & woaman & the weary beast
& parents love the minature delights
That blesses all with sleep & quiet rest
Ave Maria tis the hour of night
Like to an Indian Maiden dressed in white

The Later Poems of John Clare 1837-1864

ed. Eric Robinson and David Powell

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

The beauties of Myra...

The beauties of Myra in its lustre now dawning

As the spring is first seen to disclose
When the dew dropping silver of May's infant morning
Unfoldeth the blush of the Rose

While her charms O as varied as summers profusion
& Ripe as the autumn for love
In her blue Eyes sweet beaming the thrilling confusion
Near failing each bosom to move
While the snows of the Winter improvd on her bosom
No need of a Rival be told
— & O my sad pains — when I went to disclosem
I found it as killing & cold

The Early Poems of John Clare 1804-1822

ed. Eric Robinson, David Powell and Margaret Grainger

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

From "Child Harold"

Now melancholly autumn comes anew
With showery clouds & fields of wheat tanned brown
Along the meadow banks I peace pursue
& see the wild flowers gleaming up & down
Like sun & light—the ragworts golden crown
Mirrors like sunshine when sunbeams retire
& silver yarrow—there's the little town
& oer the meadows gleams that slender spire
Reminding me of one—& waking fond desire

I love thee nature in my inmost heart
Go where I will thy truth seems from above
Go where I will thy landscape forms a part
Of heaven—e'en these fens where wood nor grove
Are seen—their very nakedness I love
For one dwells nigh that secret hopes prefer
Above the race of women—like the dove
I mourn her abscence—fate that would deter
My hate for all things—strengthens love for her

(lines 357 to 374)

The Poems of John Clare,

ed. J. W. Tibble (2 volumes, Dent, 1935)

Happy 90th Birthday Ronnie...

[Ronnie, as always, deep in conversation.  Here with musician David Rowe at an Inn in Great Casterton after visiting the church where John & Patty Clare were married]

A nice Guardian leader in today's on Ronald Blythe in its 'In praise of ...' section.  It reads:

Tucked away on the back page of the Church Times each week is one of the most elegant and thoughtful columns in British journalism. Word from Wormingford mixes acute, elegiac rural observation with a strand of English mystical thinking that often seems to reach back to its 17th-century roots. Its author, Ronald Blythe, is 90 today. He lives down a Saxon track in the farm bequeathed to him by his friend, the artist John Nash. The son of a farmworker, he has spent nearly all his life in Suffolk and is probably best remembered for Akenfield, the 1969 book (made into a Peter Hall film) that chronicled the changing character and rhythms o f a fictional East Anglian village. "A hundred years from now," wrote this paper, "anyone wanting to know how things were on the land will turn more profitably to Akenfield than to a sheaf of anaemically professional social surveys." May there be many more Words from Wormingford.

You promised me, a year ago

COLIN

You promised me, a year ago,

When autumn bleach'd the mistletoe,
That you and I should be as one;
But now another autumn's gone—
Its solemn knell is in the blast,
And love's bright sun is overcast;
Yet flowers will bloom and birds will sing,
And e'en the winter claim the spring.

LUCY

The hedges will be green again,
And flowers will come on hill and plain;
And though we meet a rainy day,
The hawthorn will be white with May.
If love and nature still agree,
Green leaves will clothe the trysting-tree;
And when these pleasing days you view,
Think Lucy's heart yet be true.

The Later Poems of John Clare 1837-1864

ed. Eric Robinson and David Powell

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

From "The Autumn Robin"

Sweet little bird in russet coat

The livery of the closing year
I love thy lonely plaintive note
& tiney whispering song to hear
While on the stile or garden seat
I sit to watch the falling leaves
The songs thy little joys repeat
My lonliness relieves
& many are the lonely minds
That hear & welcome thee anew
Not taste alone but humble hinds
Delight to praise & love thee too
The veriest clown biside his cart
Turns from his song with many a smile
To see thee from the hedgerow start
To sing upon the stile

(lines 1-16)

Poems by John Clare, ed. Norman Gale

(Rugby: George E. Over, 1901)

From "The Last of Autumn"

A wild confusion hangs upon the ear,

And something half romantic meets the view;
Arches half fill'd with wither'd leaves appear,
Where white foam stills the billow boiling through.

Those yellow leaves that litter on the grass,
'Mong dry brown stalks that lately blossom'd there,
Instil a mournful pleasure as they pass:
For melancholy has its joy to spare—

A joy that dwells in autumn's lonely walks,
And whispers, like a vision, what shall be,
How flowers shall blossom on those wither'd stalks,
And green leaves clothe each nearly naked tree.

Oft in the woods I hear the thundering gun;
And, through the brambles as I cautious creep,
A bustling hare, the threatening sound to shun,
Oft skips the pathway in a fearful leap;

And spangled pheasant, scared from stumpy bush,
Oft blunders rustling through the yellow boughs;
While farther off, from beds of reed and rush,
The startled woodcock leaves its silent sloughs.

  

The Shepherd's Calendar, with Village Stories, and Other Poems (1827) - (lines 29 – 48)

Autumn

Lo! Autumn's come—wheres now the woodlands green?

The charming Landscape? and the flowrey plain?
All all are fled and left this motly scene
Of fading yellow tingh'd with russet stain
Tho these seem desolatley wild and drear
Yet these are spring to what we still shall find
Yon trees must all in nakednes appear
'Reft of their folige by the blustry wind
Just so 't'will fare with me in Autumns life
Just so I'd wish—but may the trunk and all
Die with the leaves—nor taste that wintry strife
Where Sorrows urge,—but still impede the fall.

The Early Poems of John Clare 1804-1822

ed. Eric Robinson, David Powell and Margaret Grainger

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

Falling Leaves

Hail falling leaves that patter round

Admonishers & friends
Reflection wakens at the sound
—So life thy pleasure ends
How frail the bloom how short the stay
That terminates us all
To day we flourish green & gay
Like leaves tomorrow fall

Alas how short is fourscore years
Lifes utmost stretch—a span
& shorter still when past apears
The vain, vain life of man

These falling leaves once flaunted high
O pride how vain to trust
Now witherd on the ground they lye
To mingle with the dust

So death serves all—& wealth & pride
Must all their pomp resign
Een kings shall lay their crowns aside
To mix their dust wi' mine!
—The leaves how once they cloath'd the trees
Nones left behind to tell
The branch is naked to the breeze
Nor known from whence they fell

A few more years as they—the same
Are now I then shall be
With nothing left to tell my name
Or answer—‘who was he?’
Green turfs alow'd forgotten heaps
Is all that I shall have
Save that the little daisy creeps
To deck my humble Grave

Poems Descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery (1820)

SONG : Since Edward departed and lef me behind

Since Edward departed and lef me behind

My heart is for ever in fear
But if a short hope in his abscence I find
Tis in Summer the prime of the year

When the wind with the Zephers can scarce intervene
A Curse on the billows to form

When the Sky's Cloudless aspect so clear and serene
Puts me out of doubt of a storm

Then a Moments Composure I catch from the breeze
And fancy my Edward as safe on the seas

But O when in Autumn I shrink at the thought
The Hurricanes terribly rise
With such force as to meet with resistance from naught
And toss the ships up to the skies
& o to experience the lightnings red flash
Which darts thro' my window at night
When instant the thunder rolls off with a Clash
That stuns me to death with affright

And when it is over my heart know's no ease
From thinking what Edward endures on the seas

O then thou almighty that rides on the wind
And makes the dread thunder to roar
To a poor timid maiden in pity be kind
And Bid it to thunder no more
Make the wind all his strength so oerbearing resign
Or let him have no other power
Then the Zephers so harmles:—with them let him join
To dance in the Leaves of my Bower

Then a daily composure I'll catch from the Breeze
And for ever think Edward as safe on the seas

The Early Poems of John Clare 1804-1822

ed. Eric Robinson, David Powell and Margaret Grainger

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

Song: Theres pleasure on the pasture lea

Theres pleasure on the pasture lea

& peace within the cottage
But theres na peace at a' for me
While love is in its dotage

I never have a thought o' gude
But worser thoughts will soil it
When heaven is man's happiest mood
The deil is sure to spoil it

Mans sweetest choice is womans yet
Scenes where her kiss was granted
The choicest place where first they met
Mid flowers bye nature planted

& there they dwell in fancys flights
In valley field & glen
In pleasant dreams & heart delights
Till neist they meet agen

The Later Poems of John Clare

ed. Eric Robinson and Geoffrey Summerfield

(Manchester University Press, 1964)

A tribute to David Powell

          David Powell has been one of the most significant 20^th-century scholars to proclaim the genius of John Clare, and it was very appropriate that he was in charge of the Clare manuscripts in the Northampton Central Library.  He wrote his thesis for his B.A. on Clare and published an anthology of Clare’s poems, especially assembled for children.  That book is still the best book published on Clare specifically directed to the young.

          He and I worked together for many years and David always was reliable, and – as a librarian should be – excellent at finding obscure details of Clare’s background.  What Margaret Grainger did for the Helpston Clare, David did for the Northampton Clare.  They were both great champions of the poet because they both drew upon their own roots for sustenance.  David and I worked together in some of the great British and American collections of Clare’s papers – at the British Library, at Oxford and Cambridge, at Harvard and Yale, at the University of Texas, and, of course, at Northampton and Peterborough in England.

          He enjoyed his visits to North America and soon made his way around New York and Philadelphia as if he were a commercial traveler.  I think of him as a loyal friend in a great undertaking.  He is irreplaceable.  I must also add that he was the most loyal fan of the Northamptonshire Cricket Club – and so a man of good taste!  He was an inveterate walker – in that role as well, Clare would have appreciated him.

Eric Robinson

1 October 2012

           In the following pages children — of all ages — can come into the kingdom of the child-like Clare, and even when he speaks of the ways of nature and the inhabitants of the countryside beyond our immediate acquaintance with them we may feel at home. For him beauty certainly was truth, and there was plenty for his watchful, grateful poetic self to receive. It is with particular regard that I view Mr Powell's selection of the poems. He is one who has already done faithful service in another way for Clare, and for those who 'sue to know Clare better', he has indeed, through his access to many manuscripts and books and relics of the poet, been living in his spiritual company for years past. The sensitive quality in the choice of poems will be quickly acknowledged by all who look into the book, town dwellers equally with those who may still notice Clare's birds, flowers, trees, weathers and village children at their threshold or near it.

Edmund Blunden
(from the Introduction to "The Wood is Sweet" - Bodley Head 1966)

Song, from Child Harold

The floods come o’er the meadow leas

The dykes are full & brimming
Field furrows reach the horses knees
Where wild ducks oft are swimming
The skies are black the fields are bare
The trees their coats are loosing
The leaves are dancing in the air
The sun its warmth refusing

Brown are the flags & fading sedge
& tanned the meadow plains
Bright yellow is the osier hedge
Beside the brimming drains
The crows sit on the willow tree
The lake is full below
But still the dullest thing I see
Is self that wanders slow

The dullest scenes are not so dull
As thoughts I cannot tell
The brimming dykes are not so full
As my heart’s silent swell
I leave my troubles to the winds
With none to share a part
The only joy my feeling finds
Hides in an aching heart

Child Harold (840 - 863)
Poems of John Clare's Madness

ed. Geoffrey Grigson (RKP, 1949)

Sun-rising in September

How delightfuly pleasant when the cool chilling air

By september is thrown oer 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 lovley and red
It cheers up my spirits and does me much good
As thro the cold stubbles I tred.
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 parrarel sence will comply
For when he does view the gay scenes there unfurl'd
Tis only to light him on high.

The Early Poems of John Clare 1804-1822

ed. Eric Robinson, David Powell and Margaret Grainger

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

from "The Parish"

The Vicars greensward pathways once his pride

His woodbine bowers that used his doors to hide
& he himself full often in his chair
Smoaking his pipe & conning sermons there
The yard & garden roods his only farms
& all his stock the hive bees yearly swarms
Are swept away—their produce & their pride
Were doomed to perish when the owner dyd
Fresh faces came with little taste or care
& joyd to ruin what was his to rear
His garden plants & blossoms all are fled
& docks & nettles blossom in their stead

(lines 1634 to 1645)

The Poems of John Clare,

ed. J. W. Tibble (2 volumes, Dent, 1935)

SONG: The bird cherrys white in the dews o' the morning

The bird cherrys white in the dews o' the morning

The wildings are blushing along the hedgeside
The gold blossomed furze the wild heaths are adorning
& the brook in the hollow runs light by my side
But where is the charmer the voice of the maiden
Whose presence once charmed me the whole summers day
The bushes wi' gold & wi' silver oerlaiden
Looks cold i' the morning when Phebe's away

The sun rises bright oer the oaks in the spinney
Bringing gold unto gold on the winbushes there
Blossoming bright as a new minted guinea
& moist wi' the mist of the morns dewy air
The flower is bowed down & I let the tired Bee be
All wet wi' night dew & unable to flye
Such a kindness in me would be pleasure to Phebe
A poor trampled Insect would cause her to sigh

The white thorn is coming wi' bunches of blossoms
The broad sheets of daiseys spread out on the lea
The bunches of cowslips spread out their gold bosoms
While the oak balls appear on the old spinney tree

Come forward my Phebe wi' dews of the morning
By the old crooked brook let thy early walk be
Where the brambles arched stalks—glossy leaves are adorning
& bits o' woo' hang on the bark o' the tree

Come forward my Phebe by times in the morning
Come forward my Phebe in blebs o' the dew
They bead the young cowslip like pearls i' the dawning
& we'll mark the young shower where the green linnet flew
I'll court thee & woo thee from morning to e'ening
Where the primrose looks bright in the ivy's dark green
& the oak oer the brook in its white bark is leaning
There let me & Phebe wi' morning be seen

The Oxford Authors: John Clare,

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