Life and Remains of John Clare Part 25

The lark's in the gra.s.s, love, A-building her nest; And the brook's running fast, love, 'Neath the carrion-crow's nest: There the wild woodbines twine, love; And, till the day's gone, Sun's set, and stars shine, love, I'll call thee my own.

THE OLD YEAR

The Old Year's gone away To nothingness and night: We cannot find him all the day, Nor hear him in the night: He left no footstep, mark, or place, In either shade or sun: The last year he'd a neighbour's face, In this he's known by none.

All nothing everywhere: Mists we on mornings see Have more of substance when they're here And more of form than he.

He was a friend by every fire, In every cot and hall-- A guest to every heart's desire, And now he's nought at all.

Old papers thrown away, Old garments cast aside, The talk of yesterday, Are things identified; But time once torn away No voices can recall: The eve of New Year's Day Left the Old Year lost to all.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS

MAYING; OR, A LOVE OF FLOWERS

Upon a day, a merry day, When summer in her best, Like Sunday belles, prepares for play, And joins each merry guest, A maid, as wild as is a bird That never knew a cage, Went out her parents' kine to herd, And Jocky, as her page,

Must needs go join her merry toils; A silly shepherd he, And little thought the aching broils That in his heart would be; For he as yet knew nought of love, And nought of love knew she; Yet without learning love can move The wildest to agree.

The wind, enamoured of the maid, Around her drapery swims, And moulds in luscious masquerade Her lovely shape and limbs.

Smith's "Venus stealing Cupid's bow"

In marble hides as fine; But hers were life and soul, whose glow Makes meaner things divine.

In sooth she was a lovely toy-- A worship-moving thing As ever brought the season joy, Or beautified the Spring; So sweet a thing no heart might hurt, Gay as a b.u.t.terfly; Tho' Cupid chased 'twas half in sport-- He meant not to destroy.

When speaking, words with breathing grace Her sweet lips seeming wooed, Pausing to leave so sweet a place Ere they could part for good-- Those lips that pouted from her face, As the wild rose bursts the bud Which June, so eager to embrace, Tempts from beneath its hood.

Her eyes, like suns, did seem to light The beauties of her face, Suffusing all her forehead white And cheeks of rosy grace, Her bosom swelled to pillows large, Till her so taper waist Scarce able seemed to bear the charge Of each lawn-bursting breast.

A very flower! how she did shine.

Her beauty all displaying!

In truth this modern Proserpine Might set the angels maying, As, like a fairy mid the flowers, She flew to this, now that; And some she braided in her hair-- Some wreathed within her hat.

Then oft she skipt, in bowers to hide, By Cupid led, I ween, Putting her bosom's lawn aside, To place some thyme at ween.

The shepherd saw her skin so white-- Two twin suns newly risen: Tho' love had chained him there till night, Who would have shunned the prison?

Then off again she skipt, and flew With foot so light and little That Cinderella's fancy shoe Had fit her to a t.i.ttle.

The shepherd's heart, like playing coal, Beat as 't would leave the socket: He sighed, but thought it, silly fool, The watch within his pocket.

But bold in love grow silly sheep, And so right bold grew he; He ran; she fled; and at bo-peep She met him round a tree.

A thorn, enamoured like the swain.

Caught at her lily arm.

And then good faith, to ease her pain, Love had a double charm.

She sighed; he wished it well, I wis; The place was sadly swollen; And then he took a willing kiss, And made believe 't was stolen; Then made another make-believe, Till thefts grew past concealing, For when love once begins to thieve There grows no end to stealing.

They played and toyed till down the skies The sun had taken flight, And still a sun was in her eyes To keep away the night; And there he talked of love so well, Or else he talked so ill, That soon the priest was sought to tell The story better still.

TWO SONNETS TO MARY

I

I met thee like the morning, though more fair, And hopes 'gan travel for a glorious day; And though night met them ere they were aware, Leading the joyous pilgrims all astray, Yet know I not, though they did miss their way, That joyed so much to meet thee, if they are To blame or bless the fate that bade such be.

Thou seem'dst an angel when I met thee first, Nor has aught made thee otherwise to me: Possession has not cloyed my love, nor curst Fancy's wild visions with reality.

Thou art an angel still; and Hope, awoke From the fond spell that early raptures nurst, Still feels a joy to think that spell ne'er broke.

II

The flower that's gathered beauty soon forsakes; The bliss grows feeble as we gain the prize; Love dreams of joy, and in possession wakes, Scarce time enough to hail it ere it dies: Life intermingles, with its cares and sighs, And rapture's dreams are ended. Heavenly flower!

It is not so with thee! Still fancy's power Throws rainbow halos round thee, and thine eyes, That once did steal their sapphire blue from even, Are beaming on; thy cheeks' bewitching dye, Where partial roses all their blooms had given, Still in fond memory with the rose can vie; And thy sweet bosom, which to view was heaven, No lily yet a fairer hue supplies.

THE VANITIES OF LIFE

[The reader has been made acquainted with the circ.u.mstances under which this poem was written. It was included by Mr. J. H. Dixon in his "Ballads and Songs of the Peasantry of England" (edited by Robert Bell), with the following prefatory note:--

"The poem was, probably, as Clare supposes, written about the commencement of the 18th century, and the unknown author appears to have been deeply imbued with the spirit of the popular devotional writers of the preceding century, as Herbert, Quarles, &c., but seems to have modelled his smoother and more elegant versification after that of the poetic school of his own times."

Montgomery's criticism on publishing it in the "Sheffield Iris" was as follows:--

"Long as the poem appears to the eye, it will abundantly repay the trouble of perusal, being full of condensed and admirable thought, as well as diversified with exuberant imagery, and embellished with peculiar felicity of language. The moral points in the closing couplets of the stanzas are often powerfully enforced."]

"Vanity of vanities, all is vanity."--Solomon.

What are life's joys and gains?

What pleasures crowd its ways, That man should take such pains To seek them all his days?

Sift this untoward strife On which the mind is bent: See if this chaff of life Is worth the trouble spent.

Is pomp thy heart's desire?

Is power thy climbing aim?

Is love thy folly's fire?

Is wealth thy restless game?

Pomp, power, love, wealth, and all Time's touchstone shall destroy, And, like base coin, prove all Vain subst.i.tutes for joy.

Dost think that pride exalts Thyself in other's eyes, And hides thy folly's faults, Which reason will despise?

Dost strut, and turn, and stride, Like a walking weatherc.o.c.k?