Chapter 12

Yet happy love, that warms the heart Through darkest storms severe, Keeps many a tender flower to start When Spring shall re-appear. Affection's hope shall roses meet, Like those of Summer bloom, And joys and flowers shall be as sweet In seasons yet to come.

MARY DOVE

Sweet Summer, breathe your softest gales To charm my lover's ear: Ye zephyrs, tell your choicest tales Where'er she shall appear; And gently wave the meadow grass Where soft she sets her feet, For my love is a country lass, And bonny as she's sweet.

The hedges only seem to mourn, The willow boughs to sigh, Though sunshine o'er the meads sojourn, To cheer me where I lie: The blackbird in the hedgerow thorn Sings loud his Summer lay; He seems to sing, both eve and morn, "She wanders here to-day."

The skylark in the summer cloud One cheering anthem sings, And Mary often wanders out To watch his trembling wings.

* * * * *

I'll wander down the river way, And wild flower posies make, For Nature whispers all the day She can't her promise break. The meads already wear a smile, The river runs more bright, For down the path and o'er the stile The maiden comes in sight.

The scene begins to look divine; We'll by the river walk. Her arm already seems in mine, And fancy hears her talk. A vision, this, of early love: The meadow, river, rill, Scenes where I walked with Mary Dove, Are in my memory still.

SPRING'S NOSEGAY

The prim daisy's golden eye On the fallow land doth lie, Though the Spring is just begun: Pewits watch it all the day, And the skylark's nest of hay Is there by its dried leaves in the sun.

There the pilewort, all in gold, 'Neath the ridge of finest mould, Blooms to cheer the ploughman's eye: There the mouse his hole hath made, And 'neath the golden shade Hides secure when the hawk is prowling by.

Here's the speedwell's sapphire blue: Was there anything more true To the vernal season still? Here it decks the bank alone, Where the milkmaid throws a stone At noon, to cross the rapid, flooded rill.

Here the cowslip, chill with cold, On the rushy bed behold, It looks for sunshine all the day. Here the honey bee will come, For he has no sweets at home; Then quake his weary wing and fly away.

And here are nameless flowers, Culled in cold and rawky hours For my Mary's happy home. They grew in murky blea, Rush fields and naked lea, But suns will shine and pleasing Spring will come.

THE LOST ONE

I seek her in the shady grove, And by the silent stream; I seek her where my fancies rove, In many a happy dream; I seek her where I find her not, In Spring and Summer weather: My thoughts paint many a happy spot, But we ne'er meet together.

The trees and bushes speak my choice, And in the Summer shower I often hear her pleasant voice, In many a silent hour: I see her in the Summer brook, In blossoms sweet and fair; In every pleasant place I look My fancy paints her there.

The wind blows through the forest trees, And cheers the pleasant day; There her sweet voice is sure to be To lull my cares away. The very hedges find a voice, So does the gurgling rill; But still the object of my choice Is lost and absent still.

THE TELL-TALE FLOWERS

And has the Spring's all glorious eye No lesson to the mind? The birds that cleave the golden sky-- Things to the earth resigned-- Wild flowers that dance to every wind-- Do they no memory leave behind?

Aye, flowers! The very name of flowers, That bloom in wood and glen, Brings Spring to me in Winter's hours, And childhood's dreams again. The primrose on the woodland lea Was more than gold and lands to me.

The violets by the woodland side Are thick as they could thrive; I've talked to them with childish pride As things that were alive: I find them now in my distress-- They seem as sweet, yet valueless.

The cowslips on the meadow lea, How have I run for them! I looked with wild and childish glee Upon each golden gem: And when they bowed their heads so shy I laughed, and thought they danced for joy.

And when a man, in early years, How sweet they used to come, And give me tales of smiles and tears, And thoughts more dear than home: Secrets which words would then reprove-- They told the names of early love.

The primrose turned a babbling flower Within its sweet recess: I blushed to see its secret bower, And turned her name to bless. The violets said the eyes were blue: I loved, and did they tell me true?

The cowslips, blooming everywhere, My heart's own thoughts could steal: I nip't them that they should not hear: They smiled, and would reveal; And o'er each meadow, right or wrong, They sing the name I've worshipped long.

The brook that mirrored clear the sky-- Full well I know the spot; The mouse-ear looked with bright blue eye, And said "Forget-me-not." And from the brook I turned away, But heard it many an after day.

The king-cup on its slender stalk, Within the pasture dell, Would picture there a pleasant walk With one I loved so well. It said "How sweet at eventide 'T would be, with true love at thy side."

And on the pasture's woody knoll I saw the wild bluebell, On Sundays where I used to stroll With her I loved so well: She culled the flowers the year before; These bowed, and told the story o'er.

And every flower that had a name Would tell me who was fair; But those without, as strangers, came And blossomed silent there: I stood to hear, but all alone: They bloomed and kept their thoughts unknown.

But seasons now have nought to say, The flowers no news to bring: Alone I live from day to day-- Flowers deck the bier of Spring; And birds upon the bush or tree All sing a different tale to me.

THE SKYLARK

Although I'm in prison Thy song is uprisen, Thou'rt singing away to the feathery cloud, In the blueness of morn, Over fields of green corn, With a song sweet and trilling, and rural and loud.

When the day is serenest, When the corn is the greenest, Thy bosom mounts up and floats in the light, And sings in the sun, Like a vision begun Of pleasure, of love, and of lonely delight.

The daisies they whiten Plains the sunbeams now brighten, And warm thy snug nest where thy russet eggs lie, From whence thou'rt now springing, And the air is now ringing, To show that the minstrel of Spring is on high.

The cornflower is blooming, The cowslip is coming, And many new buds on the silken grass lie: On the earth's shelt'ring breast Thou hast left thy brown nest, And art towering above it, a speck in the sky.

Thou'rt the herald of sunshine, And the soft dewy moonshine Gilds sweetly the sleep of thy brown speckled breast: Thou'rt the bard of the Spring, On thy brown russet wing, And of each grassy close thou'rt the poet and guest.

There's the violet confiding, In the mossy wood riding, And primrose beneath the old thorn in the glen, And the daisies that bed In the sheltered homestead-- Old friends with old faces, I see them again.

And thou, feathered poet, I see thee, and know it-- Thou'rt one of the minstrels that cheered me last Spring: With Nature thou'rt blest, And green grass round thy nest Will keep thee still happy to mount up and sing.

POETS LOVE NATURE--A FRAGMENT

Poets love Nature, and themselves are love. Though scorn of fools, and mock of idle pride. The vile in nature worthless deeds approve, They court the vile and spurn all good beside. Poets love Nature; like the calm of Heaven, Like Heaven's own love, her gifts spread far and wide: In all her works there are no signs of leaven * * * *

Her flowers * * * * They are her very Scriptures upon earth, And teach us simple mirth where'er we go. Even in prison they can solace me, For where they bloom God is, and I am free.

HOME YEARNINGS

O for that sweet, untroubled rest That poets oft have sung!-- The babe upon its mother's breast, The bird upon its young, The heart asleep without a pain-- When shall I know that sleep again?

When shall I be as I have been Upon my mother's breast-- Sweet Nature's garb of verdant green To woo to perfect rest-- Love in the meadow, field, and glen, And in my native wilds again?

The sheep within the fallow field, The herd upon the green, The larks that in the thistle shield, And pipe from morn to e'en-- O for the pasture, fields, and fen! When shall I see such rest again?

I love the weeds along the fen, More sweet than garden flowers, For freedom haunts the humble glen That blest my happiest hours. Here prison injures health and me: I love sweet freedom and the free.

The crows upon the swelling hills, The cows upon the lea, Sheep feeding by the pasture rills, Are ever dear to me, Because sweet freedom is their mate, While I am lone and desolate.

I loved the winds when I was young, When life was dear to me; I loved the song which Nature sung, Endearing liberty; I loved the wood, the vale, the stream, For there my boyhood used to dream.

There even toil itself was play; 'T was pleasure e'en to weep; 'T was joy to think of dreams by day, The beautiful of sleep. When shall I see the wood and plain, And dream those happy dreams again?

MY SCHOOLBOY DAYS

The Spring is come forth, but no Spring is for me Like the Spring of my boyhood on woodland and lea, When flowers brought me heaven and knew me again, In the joy of their blooming o'er mountain and plain. My thoughts are confined and imprisoned: O when Will freedom find me my own valleys again?

The wind breathes so sweet, and the day is so calm; In the woods and the thicket the flowers look so warm; And the grass is so green, so delicious and sweet; O when shall my manhood my youth's valleys meet-- The scenes where my children are laughing at play-- The scenes that from memory are fading away?

The primrose looks happy in every field; In strange woods the violets their odours will yield, And flowers in the sunshine, all brightly arrayed, Will bloom just as fresh and as sweet in the shade, But the wild flowers that bring me most joy and content Are the blossoms that glow where my childhood was spent.

The trees are all naked, the bushes are bare, And the fields are as brown as if Winter was there; But the violets are there by the dykes and the dell, Where I played "hen and chickens" and heard the church bell, Which called me to prayer-book and sermons in vain: O when shall I see my own valleys again?

The churches look bright as the sun at noon-day; There the meadows look green ere the winter's away; There the pooty still lies for the schoolboy to find, And a thought often brings these sweet places to mind; Where trees waved and wind moaned; no music so well: There nought sounded harsh but the school-calling bell.

There are spots where I played, there are spots where I loved, There are scenes where the tales of my choice where approved, As green as at first, and their memory will be The dearest of life's recollections to me. The objects seen there, in the care of my heart, Are as fair as at first, and will never depart.

Though no names are mentioned to sanction my themes, Their hearts beat with mine, and make real my dreams; Their memories with mine their diurnal course run, True as night to the stars and as day to the sun; And as they are now so their memories will be, While sense, truth, and reason remain here with me.

LOVE LIVES BEYOND THE TOMB

Love lives beyond the tomb, And earth, which fades like dew! I love the fond, The faithful, and the true.

Love lives in sleep: 'T is happiness of healthy dreams: Eve's dews may weep, But love delightful seems.

'T is seen in flowers, And in the morning's pearly dew; In earth's green hours, And in the heaven's eternal blue.

'T is heard in Spring, When light and sunbeams, warm and kind, On angel's wing Bring love and music to the mind.

And where's the voice, So young, so beautiful, and sweet As Nature's choice, Where Spring and lovers meet?

Love lives beyond the tomb, And earth, which fades like dew! I love the fond, The faithful, and the true.

MY EARLY HOME

Here sparrows build upon the trees, And stockdove hides her nest; The leaves are winnowed by the breeze Into a calmer rest; The black-cap's song was very sweet, That used the rose to kiss; It made the Paradise complete: My early home was this.

The red-breast from the sweetbriar bush Drop't down to pick the worm; On the horse-chestnut sang the thrush, O'er the house where I was born; The moonlight, like a shower of pearls, Fell o'er this "bower of bliss," And on the bench sat boys and girls: My early home was this.

The old house stooped just like a cave, Thatched o'er with mosses green; Winter around the walls would rave, But all was calm within; The trees are here all green agen, Here bees the flowers still kiss, But flowers and trees seemed sweeter then: My early home was this.

MARY APPLEBY

I look upon the hedgerow flower, I gaze upon the hedgerow tree, I walk alone the silent hour, And think of Mary Appleby. I see her in the brimming streams, I see her in the gloaming hour, I hear her in my Summer dreams Of singing bird and blooming flower.

For Mary is the dearest bird, And Mary is the sweetest flower, That in Spring bush was ever heard-- That ever bloomed on bank or bower. O bonny Mary Appleby! The sun did never sweeter shine Than when in youth I courted thee, And, dreaming, fancied you'd be mine.

The lark above the meadow sings, Wood pigeons coo in ivied trees, The butterflies, on painted wings, Dance daily with the meadow bees. All Nature is in happy mood, The sueing breeze is blowing free. And o'er the fields, and by the wood, I think of Mary Appleby.

O bonny Mary Appleby; My once dear Mary Appleby! A crown of gold thy own should be, My handsome Mary Appleby! Thy face is like the Summer rose, Its maiden bloom is all divine, And more than all the world bestows I'd give had Mary e'er been mine.

AMONG THE GREEN BUSHES

Among the green bushes the songs of the thrushes Are answering each other in music and glee, While the magpies and rooks, in woods, hedges, near brooks, Mount their Spring dwellings on every high tree. There meet me at eve, love, we'll on grassy banks lean love, And crop a white branch from the scented may tree, Where the silver brook wimples and the rosy cheek dimples, Sweet will the time of that courting hour be.

We'll notice wild flowers, love, that grow by thorn bowers, love, Though sinful to crop them now beaded with dew; The violet is thine, love, the primrose is mine, love, To Spring and each other so blooming and true. With dewdrops all beaded, the feather grass seeded, The cloud mountains turn to dark woods in the sky; The daisy bud closes, while sleep the hedge roses; There's nothing seems wakeful but you love and I.

Larks sleep in the rushes, linnets perch on the bushes, While mag's on her nest with her tail peeping out; The moon it reveals her, yet she thinks night conceals her, Though birdnesting boys are not roving about. The night winds won't wrong her, nor aught that belong her, For night is the nurse of all Nature in sleep; The moon, love, is keeping a watch o'er the sleeping, And dews for real pleasure do nothing but weep.

Among the green bushes we'll sit with the thrushes, And blackbirds and linnets, an hour or two long, That are up at the dawning, by times in the morning, To cheer thee when milking with music and song. Then come at the eve, love, and where the banks lean, love, By the brook that flows on in its dribbles of song; While the moon looks so pale, love, and the trees look so hale, love, I will tell thee a tale, love, an hour or two long.

TO JANE

The lark's in the sky, love, The flowers on the lea, The whitethorn's in bloom, love, To please thee and me; 'Neath its shade we can rest, love, And sit on the hill, And as last we met, love, Enjoy the Spring still.

The Spring is for lovers, The Spring is for joy: O'er the moor, where the plovers Whirr, startled, and cry, We'll seek the white hawthorn, love, And sit on the hill; In the sweet sunny morn, love, We'll be lovers still;

Where the partridge is craking From morning to e'en, In the wheat lands awaking, The sprouts young and green, Where the brook dribbles past, love, Down the willowy glen, And as we met last, love, Be lovers again.

The lark's in the grass, 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 butterfly; 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 tittle. 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 circumstances 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.