652

My poetry has been the world’s Hornbook for many years

Clare to Mary Joyce, 1841

If one wishes to write a poem, one must first invent the poet. For over twenty years, despite some early short-lived acclaim, Clare had been inventing himself to little or no avail: his Shepherd’s Calendar of 1827 and Rural Muse of 1835 had caused him almost intolerable distress: editors and patrons had ridden over him rough-shod, and both books had failed to find a sufficient readership. In the spring of 1841, Cyrus Redding, founder editor of The English Journal, visited Clare in Allen’s Asylum. When the conversation turned to Byron, Clare asked Redding to send him a volume of Byron’s poetry. Redding responded to Clare’s request generously, and as a result Clare re-invented himself not only as Byron but also as Jack Randall, the celebrated prizefighter who, in Clare’s memory, *was intimately connected with the poet. The collocation may appear odd, but Clare’s experiences in London in 1824 had sowed the seeds for his adoption of these two personas, albeit strange bedfellows.

By ‘becoming’ Byron, Clare reclaimed his poetic vocation; by ‘becoming’ Randall, he asserted his right to challenge those who would render him powerless. When, therefore, in early summer, 1841, he began to write as Byron, he was engaged not in imitation or forgery, but in a self-transformation, constructing an effective and productive self by ‘becoming’ that epitome of sexual adventurer, political and social libertine and satirist, literary lion, and aristocratic hero in the cause of freedom: a piquant case of the top and bottom united against the middle.

While appropriating Byron’s titles for his most ambitious asylum poems, he also kept his own titles up his sleeve, and I have chosen to restore these, adding the Byronic titles after them.

‘Old Wigs and Sundries’ (‘Don Juan’) is a perfectly uncharacteristic text, exploiting a dashingly licentious bravura and flamboyance in order to express repressed fears, impulses, desires, anxieties and rages. It is also an account of a sensitive inmate’s confinement in an enclosed institution, elbowed by outrageous fellow-patients. It ranges from suggestive jokes at the expense of Queen Victoria to compelling accounts of sexual perversities, not to mention anal and oral sex. Throughout, the Juanesque/Byronic voice is dominant, in some extravagantly managed rhyme-schemes, a tone of reckless insouciance and some outrageous punning.

‘Prison Amusements’ (‘Child Harold’) is Byronic only in its borrowed title (minus the ‘e’) and its stanza-form: in all other respects it is quintessential Clare. Auden once remarked on the maladroitness of Byron’s choice of the nine-line Spenserian stanza for a fast-moving poem, but Clare uses it to good effect: he seems to have found the nine-line stanza almost infinitely flexible as a medium for offering a measured sequence of unhurried speculative meditations, and Byron’s poem showed him how he could punctuate these with the changes of pace and voice afforded by lyrical songs. Nature is still powerfully present in the poems of this time, both as a presence, chthonic and transcendent, and also as vividly rendered minutiae of colour, sound, motion, light and shade; but it is now an elusive, momentary, nervously charged phenomenon, dynamic but unstable.

By the time Clare escaped from Allen’s institution, in July 1841, ‘Old Wigs and Sundries’ was almost complete; but he continued to write ‘Prison Amusements’ at Northborough, incorporating into it songs written immediately after his return home and meditations on that place and time, before he was removed, in December, to Northampton. At that time, the poem was left unfinished, but in 1844 he took both poems up again, even though by that time Burns had displaced Byron as his dominant persona. ‘Old Wigs and Sundries’ he brought up to date, and ‘Prison Amusements’ he extended further.

Maid of Walkherd, meet again, *
By the wilding in the glen,
By the oak against the door,
Where we often met before.
By thy bosom’s heaving snow,
By thy fondness none shall know,
Maid of Walkherd, meet again,
By the wilding in the glen.

By thy hand of slender make,
By thy love I’ll ne‘er forsake,
By thy heart I’ll ne’er betray,
Let me kiss thy fears away!
I will live and love thee ever,
Leave thee and forsake thee never!
Though far in other lands to be,
Yet never far from love and thee.

THE FRIGHTENED PLOUGHMAN

I went in the fields with the leisure I got,
The stranger might smile but I heeded him not;
The hovel was ready to screen from a shower
And the book in my pocket was read in an hour.

The bird came for shelter but soon flew away;
The horse came to look and seemed happy to stay,
He stood up in quiet and hung down his head
And seemed to be hearing the poem I read.

The ploughman would turn from his plough in the day,
And wonder what being had come in his way,
To lie on a molehill, and read the day long,
And laugh out aloud when he finished his song.

The peewit turned over and stooped o’er my head,
Where the raven croaked loud, like the ploughman
ill-bred,
But the lark high above charmed me all the day long
So I sat down and joined in the chorus of song.

The foolhardy ploughman I well could endure,
His praise was worth nothing, his censure was poor;
Fame bade me go on and I toiled the day long,
Till the fields where he lived should be known in my
song.

THE GIPSY CAMP*

The snow falls deep; the Forest lies alone:
The boy goes hasty for his load of brakes,
Then thinks upon the fire and hurries back;
The Gipsy knocks his hands and tucks them up,
And seeks his squalid camp, half hid in snow,
Beneath the oak, which breaks away the wind,
And bushes close, with snow like hovel warm:
There stinking mutton roasts upon the coals,
And the half-roasted dog squats close and rubs,
Then feels the heat too strong and goes aloof;
He watches well, but none a bit can spare,
And vainly waits the morsel thrown away:
‘Tis thus they live - a picture to the place;
A quiet, pilfering, unprotected race.

Nigh Leopard’s Hill* stand All-n’s hells
The public know the same
Where lady sods and buggers dwell
To play the dirty game

A man there is a prisoner there
Locked up from week to week
He’s very fond they do declare
To play at hide and seek

With sweethearts so they seem to say
And such like sort of stuff
Well — one did come the other day
With half a pound of snuff

The snuff went here the snuff went there
And is not that a bad house
To cheat a prisoner of his fare
In a well-ordered madhouse

They’ll cheat you of your money, friend,
By takeing too much care o’t
And if your wives their cun-ys send
They’re sure to have a share o’t

Now where this snuff could chance to stop
Perhaps gifts hurded are up
Till Mat and steward open shop
And have a jolly flare-up

Madhouses they must shut up shop
And tramp to fairs and races
Master and men as madmen stop
Life lives by changing places

BALLAD — FRAGMENT*

O Lord God Almighty How Usefull Art Thou

To Darn The Knave’s Cloak And To Paint The Thieve’s Brow

As Good As A Laundress Thy Kindness Has Been

To Help Starving Sinners And Wash The Unclean

Thou’rt As Good As A Nurse To the Sickly And Lame

That Live In Bad Houses And Die In III Fame

For The Worst In The World Have A Passport For Heaven

While The Best Go To Hell Like A Deed Unforgiven

And I’ll Hazard Hell Upon Life’s Roughest Waves

Before I’ll Be Cheated By Ruffians and Knaves

Plain Honesty Still Is The Truth Of My Song

And I’ll Still Stick For Right To Be Out Of The Wrong

The Honest And True My Example Shall Be

For While A Man’s Honest His Conscience Is Free

Part of THE SALE OF OLD WIGS AND SUNDRIES, or DON JUAN*

‘Poets are born’ - and so are whores - the trade is
Grown universal — in these canting days
Women of fashion must of course be ladies
And whoreing is the business that still pays
Playhouses Ballrooms - there the masquerade is
- To do what was of old - and nowadays
Their maids - nay wives so innoscent and blooming
Cuckold their spouses to seem honest women

Milton sung Eden and the fall of man
Not woman for the name implies a wh — e
And they would make a ruin of his plan
Falling so often they can fall no lower
Tell me a worse delusion if you can
For innoscence - and I will sing no more
Wherever mischief is, ‘tis woman’s brewing
Created from manself- to be man’s ruin

The flower in bud hides from the fading sun
And keeps the hue of beauty on its cheek
But when full-blown they into riot run
The hue turns pale and lost each ruddy streak
So ’tis with woman who pretends to shun
Immodest actions which they inly seek
Night hides the wh — e - and cupboards tart and pasty
Flora was p-x-d - and woman’s quite as nasty

Marriage is nothing but a driveling hoax
To please old codgers when they’re turned of forty
I wed and left my wife like other folks
But not untill I found her false and faulty
O woman fair - the man must pay thy jokes
Such makes a husband very often naughty
Who falls in love will seek his own undoing
The road to marriage is — the road to ruin’

Love worse then debt or drink or any fate
It is the damnest smart of matrimony
A hell incarnate is a woman-mate
The knot is tied - and then we loose the honey
A wife is just the prototype to hate
Commons for stock and warrens for the coney
Are not more tresspassed over in right’s plan
Then this incumberance on the rights of man

There’s much said about love and more of women
I wish they were as modest as they seem
Some borrow husbands till their cheeks are blooming
Not like the red rose blush — but yellow cream
Lord what a while those good days are in coming
Routs Masques and Balls - I wish they were a dream
- I wish for poor men luck - an honest praxis
Cheap food and cloathing — no corn laws or taxes

I wish — but there is little got bye wishing
I wish that bread and great coats ne‘er had risen
I wish that there was some such word as ‘pishun’
For rhymes’ sake for my verses must be dizen
With dresses fine — as hooks with baits for fishing
I wish all honest men were out of prison
I wish M.P’s. would spin less yarn-nor doubt
But burn false bills and cross bad taxes out

I wish young married dames were not so frisky
Nor hide the ring to make believe they’re single
I wish small beer was half as good as whiskey
And married dames with buggers would not mingle
There’s some too cunning far and some too frisky
And here I want a rhyme — so write down ‘jingle’
And there’s such putting in - in whores’ crim. con.
Some mouths would eat forever and eat on

Childern are fond of sucking sugar-candy
And maids of sausages — larger the better
Shopmen are fond of good sigars and brandy
And I of blunt* - and if you change the letter
To C or K it would be quite as handy
And throw the next away — but I’m your debtor
For modesty - yet wishing nought between us
I’d hawl close to a she as Vulcan did to Venus

I really can’t tell what this poem will be
About - nor yet what trade I am to follow
I thought to buy old wigs - but that will kill me
With cold starvation - as they’re beaten hollow*
Long speeches in a famine will not fill me
And madhouse-traps still take me by the collar
So old wig bargains now must be forgotten
The oil that dressed them fine has made them rotten

I wish old wigs were done with ere they’re mouldy
I wish — but here’s the papers large and lusty
With speeches that full fifty times they’ve told ye
- Noble Lord John* to sweet Miss Fanny Fusty
Is wed — a lie good reader I ne’er sold ye
- Prince Albert goes to Germany and must he
Leave the Queen’s snuff-box where all fools are
strumming
From addled eggs no chickens can be coming

Whigs strum state fiddle-strings untill they snap
With cuckoo cuckold cuckoo year by year
The razor plays it on the barber’s strap
- The sissars grinder thinks it rather quere
That labour won’t afford him ‘one wee drap’
Of ale or gin or half and half or beer
- I wish Prince Albert and the noble dastards
Who wed the wives — would get the noble bastards

I wish Prince Albert on his German journey
I wish the Whigs were out of office and
Pickled in law books of some good atorney
For ways and speeches few can understand
They’ll bless ye when in power — in prison scorn ye
And make a man rent his own house and land —
I wish Prince Albert’s Queen was undefiled
— And every man could get his wife with child

I wish the devil luck with all my heart
As I would any other honest body
His bad name passes bye me like a f — t
Stinking of brimstone — then, like a whisky toddy,
We swallow sin which seems to warm the heart
- There’s no imputing any sin to God - he
Fills hell with work - and isn’t it a hard case
To leave old whigs and give to hell the carcass

Me-b — ne may throw his wig to little Vicky
And so resign* his humbug and his power
And she with the young princess* mount the dickey
On ass-milk diet for her German tour
Asses like ministers are rather tricky
I and the country proves it every hour
W-ll — gt-n and M-lb — ne in their station
Coblers to queens - are phisic to the nation

These batch of toadstools on this rotten tree
Shall be the cabinet of any queen
Though not such coblers as her servants be
They’re of Gods making — that is plainly seen
Nor red nor green nor orange — they are free
To thrive and flourish as the Whigs have been
But come tomorrow — like the Whigs forgotten
You’ll find them withered, stinking, dead and rotten

Death is an awfull thing, it is, by God
I’ve said so often and I think so now
‘Tis rather droll to see an old wig nod
Then doze and die the devil don’t know how
Odd things are wearisome and this is odd -
’Tis better work then kicking up a row
I’m weary of old Whigs and old whigs’ heirs
And long been sick of teazing God with prayers

I’ve never seen the cow turn to a bull
I’ve never seen a horse become an ass
I’ve never* seen an old brawn cloathed in wool
But I have seen full many a bonny lass
And wish I had one now beneath the cool
Of these high elms — Muse tell me where I was
O — talking of turning I’ve seen Whig and Tory
Turn imps of hell and all for England’s glory

I love good fellowship and wit and punning
I love ‘true love’ and, God my taste defend,
I hate most damnably all sorts of cunning -
I love the Moor and Marsh and Ponders End* -
I do not like the song of ’Cease your funning’*
I love a modest wife and trusty friend
— Bricklayers want lime as I want rhyme for fillups
- So here’s a health to sweet Eliza Phillips*

Song

Eliza now the summer tells
Of sports where love and beauty dwells
Come and spend a day with me
Underneath the forest tree
Where the restless water flushes
Over mosses, mounds and rushes
And where love and freedom dwells
With orchis flowers and foxglove bells
Come dear Eliza set me free
And o’er the forest roam with me

Here I see the morning sun
Among the beachtree’s shadows run
That into gold the short sward turns
Where each bright yellow blossom burns
With hues that would his beams outshine
Yet nought can match those smiles of thine
I try to find them all the day
But none are nigh when thou’rt away
Though flowers bloom now on every hill
Eliza is the fairest still

The sun wakes up the pleasant morn
And finds me lonely and forlorn
Then wears away to sunny noon
The flowers in bloom the birds in tune
While dull and dowie all the year
No smiles to see no voice to hear
I in this forest prison lie
With none to heed my silent sigh
And underneath this beachen tree
With none to sigh for Love but thee ...

There’s Doctor Bottle, * imp who deals in urine,
A keeper of state-prisons for the queen
As great a man as is the Doge of Turin
And save in London is but seldom seen
Yclep’d old A-11-n - mad-brained ladies curing
Some p-x-d like Flora and but seldom clean
The new road o’er the forest is the right one
To see red hell and, further on, the white one*

Earth hells or b-gg-r sh-ps or what you please
Where men close prisoners are and women ravished
I’ve often seen such dirty sights as these
I’ve often seen good money spent and lavished
To keep bad houses up for doctors’ fees
And I have known a b-gg-r’s tally travers’d
Till all his good intents began to falter
- When death brought in his bill and left the halter ...

Now this day is the eleventh of July
And being Sunday I will seek no flaw
In man or woman — but prepare to die.
In two days more I may that ticket draw
And so may thousands more as well as I
Today is here — the next who ever saw?
And In a madhouse I can find no mirth pay
- Next Tuesday* used to be Lord Byron’s birthday

‘Lord Byron? Poh, — the man wot rites the werses?’*
And is just what he is and nothing more?’
Who with his pen lies like the mist disperses
And makes all nothing as it was before
Who wed two wives* and oft the truth rehearses
And might have had some twenty thousand more
Who has been dead, so fools their lies are giving,
And still in Allen’s madhouse caged and living ...

I have two wives and I should like to see them
Both by my side before another hour
If both are honest I should like to be them
For both are fair and bonny as a flower
And one o Lord - now do bring in the tea, mem.
Were bards’ pens steamers, each often horse-power,
I could not bring her beautys fair to weather
So I’ve towed both in harbour blest together

Now i’n’t this canto worth a single pound
From anybody’s pocket? Who will buy?
As thieves are worth a halter I’ll be bound
Now honest reader take the book and try
And if as I have said it is not found
I’ll write a better canto bye and bye
So reader now the money-till, unlock it,
And buy the book* and help to fill my pocket

PRISON AMUSEMENTS, or CHILD HAROLD*

Many are poets* — though they use no pen
To show their labours to the shuffling age
Real poets must be truly honest men
Tied to no mongrel laws or flattery’s page
No zeal* have they for wrong or party rage
- The life of labour is a rural song
That hurts no cause - nor warfare tries to wage
Toil like the brook in music wears along -
Great little minds* claim right to act the wrong

Ballad

Summer morning is risen
And to even it wends
And still I’m in prison
Without any friends

I had joy’s assurance
Though in bondage I lie
- I am still left in durance
Unwilling to sigh

Still the forest is round me
Where the trees bloom in green
As if chains ne‘er had bound me
Or cares had ne’er been

Nature’s love is eternal
In forest and plain
Her course is diurnal
To blossom again

For homes and friends vanished
I have kindness not wrath
For in days care has banished
My heart possessed both

My hopes are all hopeless
My skys have no sun
Winter fell in youth’s Mayday
And still freezes on

But Love like the seed is
In the heart of a flower
It will blossom with truth
In a prosperous hour

True love is eternal
For God is the giver
And love like the soul will
Endure - and forever

And he who studies nature’s volume through
And reads it with a pure unselfish mind
Will find God’s power all round in every view
As one bright vision of the almighty mind
His eyes are open though the world is blind
No ill from him creation’s works deform
The high and lofty one is great and kind
Evil may cause the blight and crushing storm
His is the sunny glory and the calm

Song

The sun has gone down with a veil on her brow
While I in the forest sit museing alone
The maiden has been o’er the hills for her cow
While my heart’s affections are freezing to stone
Sweet Mary I wish that the day was my own
To live in a cottage with beauty and thee
The past I will not as a mourner bemoan
For abscence leaves Mary still dearer to me

How sweet are the glooms of the midsummer even
Dark night in the bushes seems going to rest
And the bosom of Mary with fancys is heaving
Where my sorrows and feelings for seasons were blest
Nor will I repine though in love we’re divided
She in the Lowlands* and I in the glen
Of these forest beeches — by nature we’re guided
And I shall find rest on her bosom again

How soft the dew falls on the leaves of the beeches
How fresh the wild flower seems to slumber below
How sweet are the lessons that nature still teaches
For truth is her tidings wherever I go
From schooldays of boyhood her image was cherished
In manhood sweet Mary was fairer then flowers
Nor yet has her name or her memory perished
Though absence like winter o’er happiness lowers

Though cares still will gather like clouds in my sky
Though hopes may grow hopeless and fetters recoil
While the sun of existance sheds light in my eye
I’ll be free in a prison and cling to the soil
I’ll cling to the spot where my first love was cherished
Where my heart nay my soul unto Mary I gave
And when my last hope and existance is perished
Her memory will shine like a sun on my grave

Mary thou ace of hearts thou muse of song
The pole-star of my being and decay
Earth’s coward-foes my shattered bark may wrong
Still thou‘rt the sunrise of my natal day
Born to misfortunes - where no sheltering bay
Keeps off the tempest* - wrecked where e’er I flee
I struggle with my fate — in trouble strong —
Mary thy name loved long still keeps me free
Till my lost life becomes a part of thee

Song

I’ve wandered * many a weary mile
Love in my heart was burning
To seek a home in Mary’s smile
But cold is love’s returning
The cold ground was a feather-bed
Truth never acts contrary
I had no home above my head
My home was love and Mary

I had no home in early youth
When my first love was thwarted
But if her heart still beats with truth
We’ll never more be parted
And changing as her love may be
My own shall never vary
Nor night nor day I’m never free
But sigh for abscent Mary

Nor night nor day nor sun nor shade
Week month nor rolling year
Repairs the breach wronged love hath made
There madness - misery here
Life’s lease was lengthened by her smiles
- Are truth and love contrary?
No ray of hope my life beguiles
I’ve lost love home and Mary

Love is the main spring of existance-It
Becomes a soul wherebye I live to love
On all I see that dearest name is writ
Falsehood is here* - but truth has life above
Where every star that shines exists in love
Skys vary in their clouds — the seasons vary
From heat to cold - change cannot constant prove
The South is bright — but smiles can act contrary
My guide-star gilds the North — and shines with Mary

Song

Here’s where Mary loved to be
And here are flowers she planted
Here are books she loved to see
And here the kiss she granted

Here on the wall with smileing brow
Her picture used to cheer me
Both walls and rooms are naked now
No Mary’s nigh to hear me

The church-spire* still attracts my eye
And leaves me broken-hearted
Though grief hath worn their channels dry
I sigh o’er days departed

The churchyard where she used to play
My feet could wander hourly
My school-walks there was every day
Where she made winter flowery

But where is angel Mary now?
Love’s secrets, none disclose ’em
Her rosey cheeks and broken vow
Live in my aching bosom

My life hath been one love - no blot it out
My life hath been one chain of contradictions
Madhouses Prisons wh-re shops - never doubt
But that my life hath had some strong convictions
That such was wrong — religion makes restrictions
I would have followed - but life turned a bubble
And clumb the giant stile of maledictions
They took me from my wife and to save trouble
I wed again and made the error double

Yet abscence claims them both and keeps them too
And locks me in a shop in spite of law
Among a levy-lived set and dirty crew
Here let the Muse* oblivion’s curtain draw
And let man think - for God hath often saw
Things here too dirty for the light of day
For in a madhouse there exists no law -
Now stagnant grows my too refined clay
I envy birds their wings to flye away

How servile is the task to please alone
Though beauty woo and love inspire the song
Mere painted beauty* with her heart of stone
Thinks the world worships while she flaunts along
The flower of sunshine, butterflye of song
Give me the truth of heart in woman’s life
The love to cherish one - and do no wrong
To none — o peace of every care and strife
Is true love in an estimable wife

How beautifull this hill of fern swells on
So beautifull the chappel peeps between
The hornbeams - with its simple bell - alone
I wander here hid in a palace green
Mary is abscent — but the forest queen
Nature is with me — morning noon and gloaming
I write my poems in these paths unseen
And when among these brakes and beeches roaming
I sigh for truth and home and love and woman

I sigh for one and two — and still I sigh
For many are the whispers I have heard
From beauty’s lips - love’s soul in many an eye
Hath pierced my heart with such intense regard
I looked for joy and pain was the reward
I think of them I love, each girl and boy,
Babes of two mothers - on this velvet sward
And nature thinks - in her so sweet employ
While dews fall on each blossom weeping joy

Here is the chappel-yard enclosed with pales
And oak trees nearly top its little bell
Here is the little bridge with guiding rail
That leads me on to many a pleasant dell
The fernowl chitters like a startled knell
To nature — yet ’tis sweet at evening still —
A pleasant road curves round the gentle swell
Where nature seems to have her own sweet will
Planting her beech and thorn about the sweet fern-hill

I have had many loves - and seek no more -
These solitudes my last delights shall be
The leaf-hid forest-and the lonely shore
Seem to my mind like beings that are free
Yet would I had some eye to smile on me
Some heart where I could make a happy home in
Sweet Susan that was wont my love to be
And Bessey* of the glen — for I’ve been roaming
With both at morn and noon and dusky gloaming

Cares gather round I snap their chains in two
And smile in agony and laugh in tears
Like playing with a deadly serpent — who
Stings to the death - there is no room for fears
Where death would bring me happiness — his sheers
Kills cares that hiss to poison many a vein
The thought to be extinct my fate endears
Pale death the grand phisician cures all pain
The dead rest well — who lived for joys in vain

Written in a Thunderstorm*July 15th 1841

The heavens are wrath — the thunder’s rattling peal
Rolls like a vast volcano in the sky
Yet nothing starts the apathy I feel
Nor chills with fear eternal destiny

My soul is apathy - a ruin vast
Time cannot clear the ruined mass away
My life is hell — the hopeless die is cast
And manhood’s prime is premature decay

Roll on, ye wrath of thunders - peal on peal
Till worlds are ruins and myself alone
Melt heart and soul cased in obdurate steel
Till I can feel that nature is my throne

I live in love, sun of undying light,
And fathom my own heart for ways of good
In its pure atmosphere day without night
Smiles on the plains the forest and the flood

Smile on ye elements of earth and sky
Or frown in thunders as ye frown on me
Bid earth and its delusions pass away
But leave the mind as its creator free

This twilight seems a veil of gause and mist
Trees seem dark hills between the earth and sky
Winds sob awake and then a gusty hist
Fanns through the wheat like serpents gliding bye
I love to stretch my length ‘tween earth and sky
And see the inky foliage o’er me wave
Though shades are still my prison where I lie
Long use grows nature which I easy brave
And think how sweet cares rest within the grave

Remind me not of other years or tell
My broken hopes of joys they are to meet
While thy own falshood rings the loudest knell
To one fond heart that aches too cold to beat
Mary how oft* with fondness I repeat
That name alone to give my troubles rest
The very sound though bitter seemeth sweet -
In my love’s home and thy own faithless breast
Truth’s bonds are broke and every nerve distrest

Life is to me a dream that never wakes
Night finds me on this lengthening road alone
Love is to me a thought that ever aches
A frost-bound thought that freezes life to stone
Mary in truth and nature still my own
That warms the winter of my aching breast
Thy name is joy nor will I life bemoan —
Midnight when sleep takes charge of nature’s rest
Finds me awake and friendless - not distrest

Tie all my cares up in thy arms, O sleep,
And give my weary spirits peace and rest
I’m not an outlaw in this midnight deep
If prayers are offered from sweet woman’s breast
One and one only made my being blest
And fancy shapes her form in every dell
On that sweet bosom I’ve had hours of rest
Though now, through years of abscence doomed to dwell,
Day seems my night and night seems blackest hell

England my country though my setting sun
Sinks in the ocean-gloom and dregs of life
My muse can sing my Mary’s heart was won
And joy was heaven when I called her wife
The only harbour in my days of strife
Was Mary when the sea roiled mountains high
When joy was lost and every sorrow rife
To her sweet bosom I was wont to flye
To undecieve by truth life’s treacherous agony

Friend of the friendless from a host of snares
From lying varlets and from friendly foes
I sought thy quiet truth to ease my cares
And on the blight of reason found repose
But when the strife of nature ceased her throes
And other hearts would beat for my return
I trusted fate to ease my world of woes
Seeking love’s harbour - where I now sojourn
— But hell is heaven, could I cease to mourn

For her, for one whose very name is yet
My hell or heaven - and will ever be.
Falsehood is doubt — but I can ne’er forget
Oaths virtuous falsehood volunteered to me
To make my soul new bonds which God made free
God’s gift is love and do I wrong the giver
To place affections wrong from God’s decree?*
— No, when farewell upon my lips did quiver
And all seemed lost — I loved her more than ever

I loved her in all climes beneath the sun
Her name was like a jewel in my heart
‘Twas heaven’s own choice - and so God’s will be
done
Love-ties that keep unbroken cannot part
Nor can cold abscence sever or desert
That simple beauty blessed with matchless charms
Oceans have rolled between us — not to part
E’en Iceland’s snows true love’s delirium warms
For there I’ve dreamed - and Mary filled my arms

Song

O Mary sing thy songs to me
Of love and beauty’s melody
My sorrows sink beneath distress
My deepest griefs are sorrowless
So used to glooms and cares am I
My fearless troubles seem as joy
O Mary sing thy songs to me
Of love and beauty’s melody

‘To be beloved* is all I need
And them I love are loved indeed’
The soul of woman is my shrine
And Mary made my songs divine
O for that time that happy time
To hear thy sweet piano’s chime
In music so divine and clear
That woke my soul in heaven to hear

But heaven itself without thy face
To me would be no resting-place
And though the world was one delight
No joy would live but in thy sight
The soul of woman is my shrine
Then Mary make those songs divine
For music, love, and melody
Breathe all of thee and only thee

Song

Lovely Mary when we parted
I ne‘er felt so lonely-hearted
As I do now in field and glen
When hope says ‘we shall meet agen’
And by yon spire that points to heaven
Where my earliest vows was given
By each meadow field and fen
I’ll love thee till we meet agen

True as the needle to the pole
My life I love thee heart and soul
Wa‘n’t thy love in my heart enrolled
Though love was fire ’twould soon be cold
By thy eyes of heaven’s own blue
My heart for thine was ever true
By sun and moon, by sea and shore,
My life I love thee more and more

And by that hope that lingers last
For heaven when life’s hell is past
By time the present - past and gone
I’ve loved thee — and I love thee on
Thy beauty made youth’s life divine
Till my soul grew a part of thine
Mary I mourn no pleasures gone —
The past has made us both as one

Now melancholly 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

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

Thus saith the great and high and lofty one
Whose name is holy — home, eternity:
‘In the high and holy place I dwell alone
And with them also that I wish to see
Of contrite humble spirits — from sin free —
Who trembles at my word - and good receive.’
— Thou high and lofty one — O give to me
Truth’s low estate and I will glad believe
If such I am not - such I’m feign to live

That form from boyhood loved and still loved on
That voice - that look - that face of one delight
Love’s register for years, months, weeks - time past and
gone
Her looks was ne’er forgot or out of sight
- Mary the muse of every song I write
Thy cherished memory never leaves my own
Though care’s chill winter doth my manhood blight
And freeze like Niobe* my thoughts to stone -
Our lives are two — our end and aim is one

Ballad

Sweet days while God your blessings send
I call your joys my own
- And if I have an only friend
I am not left alone

She sees the fields the trees the spires
Which I can daily see
And if true love her heart inspires
Life still has joys for me

She sees the wild flower in the dells
That in my rambles shine
The sky that o’er her homestead dwells
Looks sunny over mine

The cloud that passes where she dwells
In less then half an hour
Darkens around these orchard dells
Or melts a sudden shower

The wind that leaves the sunny South
And fans the orchard tree
Might steal the kisses from her mouth
And waft her voice to me

O when will autumn bring the news
Now harvest browns the fen
That Mary as my vagrant muse
And I shall meet again

‘Tis pleasant now day’s hours begin to pass
To dewy eve — To walk down narrow close
And feel one’s feet among refreshing grass
And hear the insects in their homes discourse
And startled blackbird flye from covert close
Of whitethorn hedge with wild fear’s fluttering wings
And see the spire and hear the clock toll hoarse
And whisper names - and think o’er many things
That love hurds up in truth’s imaginings

Fame blazed upon me like a comet’s glare
Fame waned and left me like a fallen star
Because I told the evil what they are
And truth and falsehood never wished to mar
My Life hath been a wreck - and I’ve gone far
For peace and truth - and hope - for home and rest
- Like Eden’s gates - fate throws a constant bar -
Thoughts may o’ertake the sunset in the West
- Man meets no home within a woman’s breast

Though they are blazoned in the poet’s song
As all the comforts which our lives* contain
I read and sought such joys my whole life long
And found the best of poets sung in vain
But still I read and sighed and sued again
And lost no purpose where I had the will
I almost worshiped when my toils grew vain
Finding no antidote my pains to kill
I sigh a poet and a lover still

Song

Dying gales of sweet even
How can you sigh so
Though the sweet day is leaving
And the sun sinketh low
How can you sigh so
For the wild flower is gay
And her dew-gems all glow
For the abscence of day

Dying gales of sweet even
Breathe music from toil
Dusky eve is love’s heaven
And meets beauty’s smile
Love leans on the stile
Where the rustic brooks flow
Dying gales all the while
How can you sigh so

Dying gales round a prison
To fancy may sigh
But day here hath risen
Over prospects of joy
Here Mary would toy
When the sun it got low
Even gales whisper joy
And never sigh so

Labour lets man his brother
Retire to his rest
The babe meets its mother
And sleeps on her breast —
The sun in the West
Has gone down in the ocean
Dying gales gently sweep
O’er the heart’s ruffled motion
And sing it to sleep

Song

The spring may forget that he reigns in the sky
And winter again hide her flowers in the snow
The summer may thirst when her fountains are dry
But I’ll think of Mary wherever I go
The bird may forget that her nest is begun
When the snow settles white on the new-budding tree
And nature in tempests forget the bright sun
But I’ll ne’er forget her - that was plighted to me

How could I - how should I - that loved her so early
Forget - when I’ve sung of her beauty in song
How could I forget — what I’ve worshiped so dearly
From boyhood to manhood - and all my life long -
As leaves to the branches in summer comes duly
And blossoms will bloom on the stalk and the tree
To her beauty I’ll cling — and I’ll love her as truly
And think of sweet Mary wherever I be

Song

No single hour can stand for nought
No moment-hand* can move
But calenders an aching thought
Of my first lonely love

Where silence doth the loudest call
My secrets to betray
As moonlight holds the night in thrall
As suns reveal the day

I hide it in the silent shades
Till silence finds a tongue
I make its grave where time invades
Till time becomes a song

I bid my foolish heart be still
But hopes will not be chid
My heart will beat — and burn — and chill
First love will not be hid

When summer ceases to be green
And winter bare and blea —
Death may forget what I have been
But I must cease to be

When words refuse before the crowd
My Mary’s name to give
The muse in silence sings aloud
And there my love will live

Now harvest smiles embrowning all the plain
The sun of heaven o‘er its ripeness shines
‘Peace-plenty’* has been sung nor sung in vain
As all bring forth the maker’s grand designs
— Like gold that brightens in some hidden mines
His nature is the wealth that brings increase
To all the world — his sun forever shines
— He hides his face and troubles they increase
He smiles - the sun looks out in wealth and peace

This life* is made of lying and grimace
This world is filled with whoring and decieving
Hypocrisy ne’er masks an honest face
Stories are told - but seeing is believing
And I’ve seen much from which there’s no retrieving
I’ve seen deception take the place of truth
I’ve seen knaves nourish — and the country grieving
Lies was the current gospel in my youth
And now a man — I’m further off from truth

Song

They ne’er read the heart
Who would read it in mine
That love can desert
The first truth on his shrine
Though in Lethe I steep it
And sorrows prefer
In my heart’s core I keep it
And keep it for her

For her and her only
Through months and through years
I’ve wandered thus lonely
In sorrow and fears
My sorrows I smother
Though troubles anoy
In this world and no other
I cannot meet joy

No peace nor yet pleasure
Without her will stay
Life looses its treasure
When Mary’s away
Though the nightingale often
In sorrow may sing
- Can the blast of the winter
Meet blooms of the spring

Thou first, best, and dearest
Though dwelling apart
To my heart still the nearest
Forever thou art
And thou wilt be the dearest
Though our joys may be o’er
And to me thou art nearest
Though I meet thee no more

Song

Did I know where to meet thee
Thou dearest in life
How soon would I greet thee
My true love and wife
How soon would I meet thee
At close of the day
Though cares would still cheat me
If Mary would meet me
I’d kiss her sweet beauty and love them away

And when evening discovers
The sun in the West
I long like true lovers
To lean on thy breast
To meet thee my dearest
— Thy eyes beaming blue
Abscent pains the severest
Feel Mary’s the dearest
And if Mary’s abscent — how can I be true?

How dull the glooms cover
This meadow and fen
Where I as a lover
Seek Mary agen
But silence is teazing
Wherever I stray
There’s nothing seems pleasing
Or aching thoughts easing
Though Mary lives near me - she seems far away

O would these gales murmur
My love in her ear
Or a bird’s note inform her
While I linger here
But nature, contrary,
Turns night into day
No bird — gale — or fairy
Can whisper to Mary
To tell her who seeks her - while Mary’s away

Dull must that being live who sees unmoved
The scenes and objects that his childhood knew
The school-yard and the maid he early loved
The sunny wall where long the old Elms grew
The grass that e’en till noon retains the dew
Beneath the wallnut shade I see them still
Though not such fancys do I now pursue
Yet still the picture turns my bosom chill
And leaves a void — nor love nor hope may fill

After long abscence how the mind recalls
Pleasing associations of the past
Haunts of his youth — thorn-hedges and old walls
And hollow trees that sheltered from the blast
And all that map of boyhood overcast
With glooms and wrongs and sorrows not his own
That o’er his brow like the scathed lightening passed
That turned his spring to winter and alone
Wrecked name and fame and all — to solitude unknown

So on he lives in glooms and living death
A shade like night forgetting and forgot
Insects that kindle in the spring’s young breath
Take hold of life and share a brighter lot
Then he the tennant* of the hall and Cot
The princely palace too hath been his home
And Gipsey’s camp when friends would know him not
In midst of wealth a beggar still to roam
Parted from one whose heart was once his home

And yet not parted — still love’s hope illumes
And like the rainbow brightest in the storm
It looks for joy beyond the wreck of tombs
And in life’s winter keeps love’s embers warm
The ocean’s roughest tempest meets a calm
Care’s thickest cloud shall break in sunny joy
O’er the parched waste, showers yet shall fall like balm
And she the soul of life for whom I sigh
Like flowers shall cheer me when the storm is bye

Song

O Mary dear, three springs* have been
Three summers too have blossomed here
Three blasting winters crept between
Though abscence is the most severe
Another summer blooms in green
But Mary never once was seen

I’ve sought her in the fields and flowers
I’ve sought her in the forest groves
In avanues and shaded bowers
And every scene that Mary loves
E’en round her home I seek her there*
But Mary’s abscent everywhere

’Tis autumn and the rustling corn
Goes loaded on the creaking wain
I seek her in the early morn
But cannot meet her face again
Sweet Mary she is abscent still
And much I fear she ever will

The autumn morn looks mellow as the fruit
And ripe as harvest - every field and farm
Is full of health and toil — yet never mute
With rustic mirth and 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 valley’s native charm -
I seek tor charms that autumn best can yield
In mellowing wood and time ybleaching field

Song

’Tis autumn now and nature’s scenes
The pleachy fields and yellowing trees
Looses their blooming hues and greens
But nature finds no change in me
The fading woods the russet grange
The hues of nature may desert
But nought in me shall find a change
To wrong the angel of my heart
For Mary is my angel still
Through every month and every ill

The leaves they loosen from the branch
And fall upon the gusty wind
But my heart’s silent love is staunch
And nought can tear her from my mind
The flowers are gone from dell and bower
Though crowds from summer’s lap was given
But love is an eternal flower
Like purple amaranths in heaven
To Mary first my heart did bow
And if she’s true she keeps it now

Just as the summer keeps the flower
Which spring conscealed in hoods of gold
Or unripe harvest met the shower
And made earth’s blessings manifold
Just so my Mary lives for me
A silent thought for months and years
The world may live in revellry
Her name my lonely quiet cheers
And cheer it will what e’er may be
While Mary lives to think of me

Sweet comes the misty mornings in September
Among the dewy paths how sweet to stray
Greensward or stubbles, as I well remember
I once have done - the mist curls thick and grey
As cottage smoke — like net-work on the spray
Or seeded grass the cobweb draperies run
Beaded with pearls of dew at early day
And o’er the pleachy stubbles peeps the sun
The lamp of day when that of night is done

What mellowness these harvest days unfold
In the strong glances of the midday sun
The homestead’s very grass seems changed to gold
The light in golden shadows seems to run
And tinges every spray it rests upon
With that rich harvest hue of sunny joy
Nature life’s sweet companion cheers alone -
The hare starts up before the shepherd-boy
And partridge coveys wir on russet wings of joy

The meadow flags now rustle bleached and dank
And misted o’er with down as fine as dew
The sloe and dewberry shine along the bank
Where weeds in bloom’s luxuriance lately grew
Red rose the sun and up the morehen flew
From bank to bank* the meadow-arches stride
Where foamy floods in winter tumbles through
And spread a restless ocean foaming wide
Where now the cowboys sleep nor fear the coming tide

About the meadows now I love to sit
On banks, bridge-walls, and rails, as when a boy
To see old trees bend o’er the flaggy pit
With hugh roots bare that time does not destroy
Where sits the angler at his day’s employ
And there the ivy* leaves the bank to climb
The tree - and now how sweet to weary joy
- Aye nothing seems so happy and sublime
As sabbath-bells and their delightfull chime

Sweet solitude thou partner of my life
Thou balm of hope and every pressing care
Thou soothing silence o’er the noise of strife
These meadow-flats and trees — the autumn air
Mellows my heart to harmony — I bear
Life’s burthen happily - these fenny dells
Seem Eden in this sabbath rest from care
My heart with love’s first early memory swells
To hear the music of those village bells

For in that hamlet lives my rising sun
Whose beams hath cheered me all my lorn life long
My heart to nature there was early won
For she was nature’s self — and still my song
Is her through sun and shade through right and wrong
On her my memory forever dwells
The flower of Eden — evergreen of song
Truth in my heart the same love-story tells
— I love the music of those village bells

Song

Here’s a health* unto thee bonny lassie O
Leave the thorns o’ care wi’ me
And whatever I may be
Here’s happiness to thee
Bonny lassie O

Here’s joy unto thee bonny lassie O
Though we never meet again
I well can bear the pain
If happiness is thine
Bonny lassie O

Here is true love unto thee bonny lassie O
Though abscence cold is ours
The spring will come wi’ flowers
And love will wait for thee
Bonny lassie O

So here’s love unto thee bonny lassie O
Aye wherever I may be
Here’s a double health to thee
Till life shall cease to love
Bonny lassie O

The blackbird startles from the homestead-hedge
Raindrops and leaves fall yellow as he springs
Such images are nature’s sweetest pledge
To me there’s music in his rustling wings
‘Prink prink’ he cries and loud the robin sings
The small hawk like a shot drops from the sky
Close to my feet for mice and creeping things
Then swift as thought again he suthers bye
And hides among the clouds from the pursueing eye

Song

Her cheeks are like roses
Her eyes they are blue
And her beauty is mine
If her heart it is true

Her cheeks are like roses -
And though she’s away
I shall see her sweet beauty
On some other day

Ere the flowers of the spring
Deck the meadow and plain
If there’s truth in her bosom
I shall see her again.

I will love her as long
As the brooks they shall flow
For Mary is mine
Wheresoever I go

Honesty and good intentions are
So mowed and hampered in with evil lies
She hath not room to stir a single foot
Or even strength to break a spider’s web
- So lies keep climbing round love’s sacred stem
Blighting fair truth whose leaf is evergreen
Whose roots are the heart’s fibres and whose sun
The soul that cheers and smiles it into bloom
Till heaven proclaims that truth can never die

The lightening’s vivid flashes rend the cloud
That rides like castled crags along the sky
And splinters them to fragments — while aloud
The thunders, heaven’s artillery, vollies bye
Trees crash, earth trembles - beasts prepare to flye
Almighty, what a crash — yet man is free
And walks unhurt while danger seems so nigh —
Heaven’s archway now the rainbow seems to be
That spans the eternal round of earth and sky and sea
A shock, a moment, in the wrath of God

Is long as hell’s eternity to all
His thunderbolts leave life but as the clod
Cold and inanimate - their temples fall
Beneath his frown to ashes — the eternal pall
Of wrath sleeps o’er the ruins where they fell
And nought of memory may their creeds recall
The sin of Sodom was a moment’s yell
Fire’s death-bed theirs, their first grave the last hell

The towering willow with its pliant boughs
Sweeps its grey foliage to the autumn wind
The level grounds where oft a group of cows
Huddled together close - or propped behind
An hedge or hovel ruminate and find
The peace — as walks and health and I pursue
For nature’s every place is still resigned
To happiness — new life’s in every view
And here I comfort seek and early joys renew

The lake that held a mirror to the sun
Now curves with wrinkles in the stillest place
The autumn wind sounds hollow as a gun
And water stands in every swampy place
Yet in these fens peace, harmony, and grace,
The attributes of nature, are allied
The barge with naked mast in sheltered place
Beside the brig, close to the bank, is tied
While small waves plashes by its bulky side

Song

The floods come o’er the meadow leas
The dykes are full and brimming
Field-furrows reach the horses’ knees
Where wild ducks oft are swimming
The skyes 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 and fadeing sedge
And 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

Absence in love is worse then any fate
Summer is winter’s desert and the spring
Is like a ruined city desolate
Joy dies and hope retires on feeble wing
Nature sinks heedless, birds unheeded sing
’Tis solitude in citys, *crowds all move
Like living death though all to life still cling
The strongest bitterest thing that life can prove
Is woman’s undisguise of hate and love

Song

I think of thee at early day
And wonder where my love can be
And when the evening shadow’s grey
O how I think of thee

Along the meadow banks I rove
And down the flaggy fen
And hope, my first and early love,
To meet thee once again

I think of thee at dewy morn
And at the sunny noon
And walks with thee - now left forlorn
Beneath the silent moon

I think of thee I think of all
How blest we both have been -
The sun looks pale upon the wall
And autumn shuts the scene

I can’t expect to meet thee now
The winter floods begin
The wind sighs through the naked bough
Sad as my heart within

I think of thee the seasons through
In spring when flowers I see
In winter’s lorn and naked view
I think of only thee

While life breathes on this earthly ball
What e’er my lot may be
Whether in freedom or in thrall
Mary I think of thee

‘Tis winter and the fields are bare and waste
The air one mass of ‘vapour clouds and storms’
The sun’s broad beams are buried and o’ercast
And chilly glooms the midday light deforms
Yet comfort now the social bosom warms
Friendship of nature which I hourly prove
Even in this winter scene of frost and storms
Bare fields, the frozen lake, and leafless grove
Are nature’s grand religion and true love

Song

Thou’rt dearest to my bosom
As thou wilt ever be
While the meadows wear a blossom
Or a leaf is on the tree
I can forget thee never
While the meadow grass is green
While the flood rolls down the river
Thou art still my bonny queen

While the winter swells the fountain
While the spring awakes the bee
While the chamois loves the mountain
Thou‘lt be ever dear to me
Dear as summer to the sun
As spring is to the bee
Thy love was soon as won
And so ’twill ever be

Thou‘rt love’s eternal summer
The dearest maid I prove
With bosom white as ivory
And warm as virgin love
No falsehood gets between us
There’s nought the tie can sever
As Cupid dwells with Venus
Thou’rt my own love forever

Song

In this cold world without a home
Disconsolate I go
The summer looks as cold to me
As winter’s frost and snow
Though winter’s scenes are dull and drear
A colder lot I prove
No home had I through all the year
But Mary’s honest love

But Love inconstant as the wind
Soon shifts another way
No other home my heart can find
Life wasting day by day
I sigh and sit and sit and sigh
For better days to come
For Mary was my hope and joy
Her truth and heart my home

Her truth and heart was once my home
And May was all the year
But now through seasons as I roam
‘Tis winter everywhere
Hopeless I go through care and toil
No friend I e’er possest
To reccompence for Mary’s smile
And the love within her breast

My love was ne’er so blest as when
It mingled with her own
Told often to be told agen
And every feeling known
But now love’s hopes are all bereft
A lonely man I roam
And abscent Mary long hath left
My heart without a home

The Paigles Bloom* In Showers In Grassy Close
How Sweet To Be Among Their Blossoms Led
And Hear Sweet Nature To Herself Discourse
While Pale The Moon Is Bering Over Head
And Hear The Grazeing Cattle Softly Tread
Cropping The Hedgerow’s Newly Leafing Thorn
Sounds Soft As Visions Murmured O‘er In Bed
At Dusky Eve or Sober Silent Morn
For Such Delights ’Twere Happy Man Was Born

Green bushes and green trees where fancy feeds
On the retireing solitudes of May
Where the sweet foliage like a volume reads
And weeds are gifts too choice to throw away
How sweet the evening now succeeds the day
The velvet hillock forms a happy seat
The whitethorn bushes bend with snowey may
Dwarf furze in golden blooms and violets sweet
Make this wild scene a pleasure-ground’s retreat

Where are my friends and childern where are they
The childern of two mothers born in joy
One roof has held them — all have been at play
Beneath the pleasures of a mother’s eye
— And are my late hopes blighted — need I sigh?
Hath care commenced his long perpetual reign?
The spring and summer hath with me gone bye
Hope views the bud a flower and not in vain
Long is the night that brings no morn again

Now Come The Balm And Breezes Of The Spring
Not With The Pleasures Of My Early Days
When Nature Seemed One Endless Song To Sing
A Joyous Melody And Happy Praise
Ah Would They Come Agen - But Life Betrays
Quicksands and Gulphs And Storms That Howl And
Sting
All Quiet Into Madness And Delays
Care Hides The Sunshine With Its Raven Wing
And Hell Glooms Sadness O’er The Songs Of Spring

Like Satan’s Warcry First In Paradise
When Love Lay Sleeping On The Flowery Slope
Like Virtue Wakeing In The Arms Of Vice
Or Death’s Sea Bursting In The Midst Of Hope
Sorrows Will Stay - And Pleasures Will Elope
In The Uncertain Certainty Of Care
Joy’s Bounds Are Narrow But A Wider Scope
Is Left For Trouble Which Our Life Must Bear
Of Which All Human Life Is More Or Less The Heir

My Mind Is Dark And Fathomless And Wears
The Hues Of Hopeless Agony And Hell
No Plummet Ever Sounds The Soul’s Affairs
There Death Eternal Never Sounds The Knell
There Love Imprisoned Sighs The Long Farewell
And Still May Sigh In Thoughts No Heart Hath Penned
Alone In Loneliness Where Sorrows Dwell
And Hopeless Hope Hopes On And Meets No End
Wastes Without Springs And Homes Without A Friend

Song

Say What Is Love — To Live In Vain
To Live And Die And Live Again

Say What Is Love- Is It To Be
In Prison Still And Still Be Free

Or Seem As Free - Alone And Prove
The Hopeless Hopes Of Real Love

Does Real Love On Earth Exist
’Tis Like A Sunbeam On The Mist

That Fades And No Where Will Remain
And Nowhere Is O’ertook Again

Say What Is Love — A Blooming Name
A Rose Leaf On The Page Of Fame

That Blooms Then Fades - To Cheat No More
And Is What Nothing Was Before

Say What Is Love — What E’er It be
It Centers Mary Still With Thee

What is the Orphan Child Without A Friend
That Knows No Father’s Care Or Mother’s Love
No Leading Hand His Infant Steps Defend
And None To Notice But His God Above
No Joys Are Seen His Little Heart To Move
Care Turns All Joys to Dross And Nought To Gold
And He In Fancy’s Time May Still Disprove
Growing To Cares And Sorrows Menifold
Bird Of The Waste A Lamb Without A Fold

No Mother’s Love or Father’s Care Have They
Left To The Storms Of Fate Like Creatures Wild
They Live Like Blossoms In The Winter’s Day
E’en Nature Frowns Upon The Orphan Child
On Whose Young Face A Mother Never Smiled
Foolhardy Care Increasing With His Years
From Friends And Joys Of Every Kind Exiled
Even Old In Care The Infant Babe Appears
And Many A Mother Meets Its Face In Tears

The Dog Can Find A Friend And Seeks His Side
The Ass Can Know Its Owner And Is Fed
But None Are Known To Be The Orphan’s Guide
Toil Breaks His Sleep And Sorrow Makes His Bed
No Mother’s Hand Holds Out The Sugared Bread
To Fill His Little Hand - He Hears No Song
To Please His Pouting Humours - Love Is Dead
With Him And Will Be All His Whole Life Long
Lone Child Of Sorrow And Perpetual Wrong

But Providence That Grand Eternal Calm
Is With Him Like The Sunshine In The Sky
Nature Our Kindest Mother Void Of Harm
Watches The Orphan’s Lonely Infancy
Strengthening The Man When Childhood’s Cares Are
Bye
She Nurses Still Young Unreproached Distress
And Hears The Lonely Infant’s Every Sigh
Who Finds At Length To Make Its Sorrows Less
Mid Earth’s Cold Curses There Is One To Bless

Sweet Rural Maids Made Beautifull By Health
Brought Up Where Nature’s Calm Encircles All
Where Simple Love Remains As Sterling Wealth
Where Simple Habits Early Joys Recall
Of Youthfull Feelings Which No Wiles Enthrall
The Happy Milk Maid* In Her Mean Array
Fresh As The New-Blown Rose Outblooms Them All
E’en Queens Might Sigh To Be As Blest As They
While Milkmaids Laugh And Sing Their Cares Away

How Doth Those Scenes Which Rural Mirth Endears
Revise Old Feelings That My Youth Hath Known
And Paint The Faded Bloom Of Earlier Years
And Soften Feelings Petrefied To Stone
Joy Fled And Care Proclaimed Itself My Own
Farewells I Took OfJoys In Earliest Years
And Found The Greatest Bliss To Be Alone
My Manhood Was Eclipsed But Not In Fears
- Hell Came In Curses And She Laugh’d At Tears

But Memory Left Sweet Traces Of Her Smiles
Which I Remember Still And Still Endure
The Shadows Of First Loves My Heart Beguiles
Time Brought Both Pain and Pleasure But No Cure
Sweet Bessey Maid Of Health And Fancys Pure
How Did I Woo Thee Once - Still Unforgot
But Promises In Love Are Never Sure
And Where We Met How Dear Is Every Spot
And Though We Parted Still I Murmur Not

For Loves However Dear Must Meet With Clouds
And Ties Made Tight Get Loose And May Be Parted
Spring’s First Young Flowers The Winter Often
Shrouds
And Love’s First Hopes Are Very Often Thwarted
E‘en Mine Beat High And Then Fell Broken-Hearted
And Sorrow Mourned In Verse to Reconscile
My Feelings To My Fate Though Lone And Parted
Love’s Enemies Are Like The Scorpion Vile
That O’er Its Ruined Hopes Will Hiss And Smile

Ballad

The Blackbird Has Built In The Pasture Agen

And The Thorn O’er The Pond Shows A Delicate Green

Where I Strolled With Patty Adown In The Glen

And Spent Summer Evenings And Sundays Unseen

How Sweet The Hill Brow

And The Low Of The Cow

And The Sunshine That Gilded The Bushes So Green

When Evening Brought Dews Nature’s Thirst To Allay

And Clouds Seemed To Nestle Round Hamlets And Farms

While In The Green Bushes We Spent The Sweet Day

And Patty Sweet Patty Was Still in My Arms

The Love Bloom That Redded Upon Her Sweet Lips

The Love Light That Glistened Within Her Sweet Eye

The Singing Bees There That The Wild Honey Sips

From Wild Blossoms Seemed Not So Happy As I

How Sweet Her Smile Seemed

While The Summer Sun Gleamed

And The Laugh Of The Spring Shadowed Joys From On High

While The Birds Sung About Us And Cattle Grazed Round

And Beauty Was Blooming On Hamlets and Farms

How Sweet Steamed The Inscence Of Dew From The Ground

While Patty Sweet Patty Sat Locked In My Arms

Yet Love Lives On In Every Kind Of Weather

In Heat And Cold In Sunshine And In Gloom

Winter May Blight And Stormy Clouds May Gather

Nature Invigorates And Love Will Bloom

It Fears No Sorrow In A Life To Come

But Lives Within Itself From Year To Year

As Doth The Wild Flower In Its Own Perfume

As In The Lapland Snows Spring’s Blooms Appear

So True Love Blooms And Blossoms Every Where

Ballad

The Rose Of The World Was Dear Mary To Me
In The Days Of My Boyhood And Youth
I Told Her In Songs Where My Heart Wished To Be
And My Songs Were The Language Of Truth

I Told Her In Looks When I Gazed In Her Eyes
That Mary Was Dearest To Me
I Told Her In Words And The Language Of Sighs
Where My Whole Heart’s Affections Would Be

I Told her in love that all nature was true
I convinced her that nature was kind
But love in his trials had labour to do
Mary would be in the mind*

Mary met me in spring where the speedwell-knots grew
And the kingcups were shining like flame
I chose her all colours red yellow and blue
But my love was one hue and the same

Spring summer and winter and all the year through
In the sunshine the shower and the blast
I told the same tale and she knows it all true
And Mary’s my blossom at last

Love is of heaven still the first akin
’Twas born in Paradise and left its home
For desert lands stray hearts to nurse and win
Though pains like plagues pursue them where they
roam
Its joys are evergreen and blooms at home
The sailor rocking on the giddy mast
The soldier when the cannons cease to boom
And every heart its doubts or dangers past
Beats on its way for love and home at last

Nature thou truth of heaven if heaven be true
Falsehood may tell her ever changeing lie
But nature’s truth looks green in every view
And love in every Landscape glads the eye
How beautiful these slopeing thickets lie
Woods on the hills and plains all smooth and even
Through which we see the ribboned evening sky
Though Winter here in floods and snows was driven
Spring came like God and turned it all to heaven

There Is A Tale For Every Day To Hear
For Every Heart To Feel And Tongue To Tell
The Daughter’s Anxious Dread The Lover’s Fear
Pains That In Cots And Palaces May Dwell
Not Short And Passing Like The Friend’s Farewell
Where Tears May Fall And Leave A Smile Beneath
Eternal Grief Rings In The Passing-Bell
’Tis Not The Sobs of Momentary Breath
Ties Part Forever In The Tale Of Death

The Dew falls on the weed and on the flower
The rose and thistle bathe their heads in dew
The lowliest heart may have its prospering hour
The saddest bosom meet its wishes true
E’en I may joy, love, happiness renew
Though not the sweets of my first early days
When one sweet face was all the loves I knew
And my soul trembled on her eyes to gaze
Whose very censure seemed intended praise

A soul within the heart that loves the more
Giving to pains and fears eternal life
Burning the flesh till it consumes the core
So Love is still the eternal calm of strife
Thou soul within a soul thou life of life
Thou Essence of my hopes and fears and joys
M — y my dear first love and early wife
And still the flower my inmost soul enjoys
Thy love’s the bloom no canker-worm destroys

Flow on my verse though barren thou mayest be
Of thought - Yet sing and let thy fancys roll
In Early days thou swept a mighty sea
All calm in troublous deeps and spurned controul
Thou fire and iceberg to an aching soul
And still an angel in my gloomy way
Far better opiate than the draining bowl
Still sing my muse to drive care’s fiends away
Nor heed what loitering listener hears the lay

My themes be artless cots and happy plains
Though far from man my wayward fancies flee
Of fields and woods rehearse in willing strains
And I mayhap may feed on joys with thee
These cowslip-fields, this sward, my pillow be
So I may sleep the sun into the West
My cot this awthorn hedge, this spreading tree
— Mary and Martha* once my daily guests
And still as mine both wedded, loved, and blest

I rest my wearied life in these sweet fields
Reflecting every smile in nature’s face
And much ofjoy this grass, these hedges yields
Not found in citys where crowds daily trace.
Heart-pleasures there hath no abideing place
The star-gemmed early morn, the silent even
Hath pleasures that our broken hopes deface
To love too well leaves nought to be forgiven
The Gates of Eden is the bounds of heaven

The apathy that fickle love wears through
The doubts and certaintys are still akin
Its every joy has sorrow in the view
Its holy truth like Eve’s beguileing sin
Seems to be losses even while we win
Tormenting joys and cheating into wrong
And still we love - and fall into the gin
My sun of love was short - and clouded long
And now its shadow fills a feeble song

Song

I saw her in my spring’s young choice
Ere love’s hopes looked upon the crowd
Ere love’s first secrets found a voice
Or dared to speak the name aloud

I saw her in my boyish hours
A Girl as fair as heaven above
When all the world seemed strewn with flowers
And every pulse and look was love

I saw her when her heart was young
I saw her when my heart was true
When truth was all the themes I sung
And Love the only muse I knew

Ere infancy had left her brow
I seemed to love her from her birth
And thought her then as I do now
The dearest angel upon earth

O she was more then fair - divinely fair
Can language paint the soul in those blue eyes?
Can fancy read the feelings painted there
- Those hills of snow that on her bosom lies,
Or beauty speak for all those sweet replies
That through love’s visions like the sun is breaking,
Wakeing new hopes and fears and stifled sighs?
From first love’s dreams my love is scarcely waking
The wounds might heal but still the heart is aching

Her looks was like the spring, her very voice
Was spring’s own music more then song to me
Choice of my boyhood, nay, my soul’s first choice
From her sweet thralldom I am never free
Yet here my prison is a spring to me
Past memories bloom like flowers where e’er I rove
My very bondage, though in snares, is free
I love to stretch me in this shadey grove
And muse upon the memories of love

Hail, Solitude, still Peace, and Lonely good
Thou spirit of all joys to be alone
My best of friends these glades and this green wood
Where nature is herself and loves her own
The heart’s hid anguish here I make it known
And tell my troubles to the gentle wind
Friends’ cold neglects have froze my heart to stone
And wrecked the voyage of a quiet mind
With wives and friends and every hope disjoined

Wrecked of all hopes save one to be alone
Where Solitude becomes my wedded mate
Sweet Forest with rich beauties overgrown
Where solitude is queen and riegns in state
Hid in green trees I hear the clapping gate*
And voices calling to the rambling cows
I Laugh at Love and all its idle fate
The present hour is all my lot alows
An age of sorrow springs from lovers’ vows

Sweet is the song of Birds for that restores
The soul to harmony the mind to love
Tis nature’s song of freedom out of doors
Forests beneath, free winds and clouds above
The Thrush and Nightingale and timid dove
Breathe music round me where the gipseys dwell -
Pierced hearts left burning in the doubts of love
Are desolate where crowds and citys dwell —
The splendid palace seems the gates of hell

Lord hear my prayer when trouble glooms
Let sorrow find a way
And when the day of trouble comes
Turn not thy face away
My bones like hearth-stones burn away
My life like vapoury smoke decays

My heart is smitten like the grass
That withered lies and dead
And I so lost to what I was
Forget to eat my bread
My voice is groaning all the day
My bones prick through this skin of clay

The wilderness’s pelican
The desert’s lonely owl
I am their like, a desert man*
In ways as lone and foul
As sparrows on the cottage top
I wait till I with faintness drop

I bear my enemies’ reproach
All silently I mourn
They on my private peace encroach
Against me they are sworn
Ashes as bread my trouble shares
And mix my food with weeping cares

Yet not for them is sorrow’s toil
I fear no mortal’s frown
But thou hast held me up awhile
And thou hast cast me down
My days like shadows waste from view
I mourn like withered grass in dew

But thou Lord shalt endure forever
All generations through
Thou shalt to Zion be the giver
Of joy and mercey too
Her very stones are in their trust
Thy servants reverence her dust

Heathens shall hear and fear thy name
All kings of earth thy glory know
When thou shalt build up Zion’s fame
And live in glory there below
He’ll not despise their prayers though mute
But still regard the destitute

’Tis Martinmass* from rig to rig
Ploughed fields and meadow lands are blea
In hedge and field each restless twig
Is dancing on the naked tree
Flags in the dykes are bleached and brown
Docks by its sides are dry and dead
All but the ivy-boughs are brown
Upon each leaning dotterel’s head

Crimsoned with awes the awthorns bend
O‘er meadow-dykes and rising floods
The wild geese seek the reedy fen
And dark the storm comes o’er the woods
The crowds of lapwings load the air
With buzes of a thousand wings
There flocks of starnels too repair
When morning o‘er the valley springs

‘THE ENGLISH BASTILLE’*

I have nothing to write about for I see Nothing and
hear nothing

Letter to his son, Charles, 8July1850

I have written a good lot and as I should think nearly sufficient.

Letter to W. F. Knight, 11 April 1851

8 March 1860

Dear Sir

I am in a Madhouse and quite forget your Name or who you are. You must excuse me for I have nothing to communicate or tell of and why I am shut up I don’t know. I have nothing to say so I conclude

Yours respectfully

John Clare

For five months — July to December 1841 — Clare lived with his wife and children in Northborough, by now convinced that he was married to two women — his ‘first’ wife, Mary, and his second wife, Martha. The biblical resonances of their names were not lost on him, as he continued to work on his ‘Prison Amusements’ (‘Child Harold’), and continued to deny that Mary was in fact dead.

The tensions soon proved too much for his family and friends, and on 28 December, Dr Page and Dr Skrimshire certified that Clare was ‘in a state of Lunacy’: to the question, ‘Was it preceded by any severe or long continued mental emotion or exertion?’ the answer given was: ‘after years addicted to Poetical prossing’ (sic).

Clare was taken to Northampton General Lunatic Asylum the following day, and remained there for twenty-three years, until his death. His shifts of identity - his changes of persona - proliferated: some days he was Nelson (a friend of Clare’s former patron, Admiral Lord Radstock): on others, Randall or Ben Caunt (pugilists); Shakespeare; or, above all, Robert Burns: in the manuscript in which he wrote his continuation of ‘Prison Amusements,’ he noted:

Anecdotes of Burns Poems the ‘On the daisey’
and ’The Mouse’
On turning up a mouse with the plough
This poem was written on the west wide of Royce
Wood while driving Plough for my brother Jem
occasioned by turning one up with a Plough

Robt Burns

On the daisey on burying one under the furrow was written in the same field at Royce wood end which had been part of the green or Cowpasture

Robt Burns

Tam O’Shanter was written in a part of the same field called Tenters Nook* while at work in a garden of his master a Publican of the Bluebell Public house

Robt Burns (MS 19, p. 119)

Internal evidence suggests that Clare was writing this sequence from the spring of 1844 to the early summer of 1845, clearly envisaging it as a continuation of the 1841 sequence; the Byronic persona was still available, but was mingled with that of Burns: as a result, the songs that occur in the continuation of ‘Prison Amusements’ were mostly written in the Scots English of Burns, often with unfelicitous results. For this reason, I have included only a selection of them in this edition.

Clare’s conduct in this sequence is exactly as it had been in the earlier one, and he interweaves within a wavering, restless, fluid and fleeting natural scene a variety of paradoxical speculations involving sexuality, love, fidelity, infidelity, integrity and social deceit.