Poems

by John Clare

Oh, sad sons of Poverty!
Victims doom’d to misery;
Who can paint what pain prevails
O’er that heart which Want assails?
Modest Shame the pain conceals:
No one knows, but he who feels.
O thou charm which Plenty crowns:
Fortune! smile, now Winter frowns:
Cast around a pitying eye!
Feed the hungry, ere they die.
Think, oh! think upon the poor,
Nor against them shut thy door:
Freely let thy bounty flow,
On the sons of Want and Woe.

Hills and dales no more are seen
In their dress of pleasing green;
Summer’s robes are all thrown by,
For the clothing of the sky;
Snows on snows in heaps combine,
Hillocks, rais’d as mountains, shine,
And at distance rising proud,
Each appears a fleecy cloud.
Plenty! now thy gifts bestow;
Exit bid to every woe:
Take me in, shut out the blast,
Make the doors and windows fast;
Place me in some corner, where,
Lolling in an elbow chair,
Happy, blest to my desire,
I may find a rouzing fire;
While in chimney-corner nigh,
Coal or wood, a fresh supply,
Ready stands for laying on,
Soon as t’other’s burnt and gone.
Now and then, as taste decreed
In a book a page I’d read;
And, inquiry to amuse,
Peep at something in the news;
See who’s married, and who’s dead,
And who, through bankrupt, beg their bread:
While on hob, or table nigh,
Just to drink before I’m dry,
A pitcher at my side should stand,
With the barrel nigh at hand,
Always ready as I will’d,
When ’twas empty, to be fill’d;
And, to be possess’d of all,
A corner cupboard in the wall,
With store of victuals lin’d complete,
That when hungry I might eat.
Then would I, in Plenty’s lap,
For the first time take a nap;
Falling back in easy lair,
Sweetly slumbering in my chair;
With no reflective thoughts to wake
Pains that cause my heart to ache,
Of contracted debts, long made,
In no prospect to be paid;
And, to Want, sad news severe,
Of provisions getting dear:
While the Winter, shocking sight,
Constant freezes day and night,
Deep and deeper falls the snow,
Labour’s slack, and wages low.
These, and more, the poor can tell,
Known, alas, by them too well,
Plenty! oh, if blest by thee,
Never more should trouble me.
Hours and weeks will sweetly glide,
Soft and smooth as flows the tide,
Where no stones or choaking grass
Force a curve ere it can pass:
And as happy, and as blest,
As beasts drop them down to rest,
When in pastures, at their will,
They have roam’d and eat their fill;
Soft as nights in summer creep,
So should I then fall asleep;
While sweet visions of delight,
So enchanting to the sight,
Sweetly swimming o’er my eyes,
Would sink me into extacies.
Nor would pleasure’s dream once more,
As they oft have done before,
Cause be to create a pain,
When I woke, to find them vain:
Bitter past, the present sweet,
Would my happiness complete.
Oh; how easy should I lie,
With the fire up-blazing high,
(Summer’s artificial bloom,)
That like an oven keeps the room,
Or lovely May, as mild and warm:
While, without, the raging storm
Is roaring in the chimney-top,
In no likelihood to drop;
And the witchen-branches nigh,
O’er my snug box towering high,
That sweet shelter’d stands beneath,
In convulsive eddies wreathe.
Then while, tyrant-like, the storm
Takes delight in doing harm.
Down before him crushing all,
Till his weapons useless fall;
And as in oppression proud
Peal his howlings long and loud,
While the clouds, with horrid sweep,
Give (as suits a tyrant’s trade)
The sun a minute’s leave to peep,
To smile upon the ruin’s made;
And to make complete the blast,
While the hail comes hard and fast,
Rattling loud against the glass;
And the snowy sleets, that pass,
Driving up in heaps remain
Close adhering to the pane,
Stop the light and spread a gloom,
Suiting sleep, around the room:—
Oh, how blest ’mid these alarms,
I should bask in Fortune’s arms,
Who, defying every frown,
Hugs me on her drowny breast,
Bids my head lie easy down,
And on Winter’s ruins rest.
So upon the troubled sea,
Emblematic simile,
Birds are known to sit secure,
While the billows roar and rave,
Slumbering in their safety sure,
Rock’d to sleep upon the wave.
So would I still slumber on,
Till hour-telling clocks had gone,
And, from the contracted day,
One or more had click’d away.
Then with sitting wearied out,
I for change’s sake, no doubt,
Just might wish to leave my seat,
And, to exercise my feet,
Make a journey to the door,
Put my nose out, but no more:
There to village taste agree;
Mark how times are like to be;
How the weather’s getting on;
Peep in ruts where carts have gone;
Or, by stones, a sturdy stroke,
View the hole the boys have broke,
Crizzling, still inclin’d to freeze;—
And the rime upon the trees.
Then to pause on ills to come,
Just look upward on the gloom;
See fresh storms approaching fast,
View them busy in the air,
Boiling up the brewing blast,
Still fresh horrors scheming there.
Black and dismal, rising high,
From the north they fright the eye:
Pregnant with a thousand storms,
Huddled in their icy arms,
Heavy hovering as they come,
Some as mountains seem—and some
Jagg’d as craggy rocks appear
Dismally advancing near:
Fancy, at the cumbrous sight,
Chills and shudders with affright,
Fearing lest the air, in vain,
Strive her station to maintain,
And wearied, yeilding to the skies,
The world beneath in ruin lies.
So may Fancy think and feign;
Fancy oft imagines vain:
Nature’s laws, by wisdom penn’d,
Mortals cannot comprehend;
Power almighty Being gave,
Endless Mercy stoops to save;
Causes, hid from mortals’ sight,
Prove “whatever is, is right.”

Then to look again below,
Labour’s former life I’d view,
Who, still beating through the snow,
Spite of storms their toils pursue,
Forc’d out by sad Necessity
That sad fiend that forces me.
Troubles, then no more my own,
Which I but too long had known,
Might create a care, a pain;
Then I’d seek my joys again:
Pile the fire up, fetch a drink,
Then sit down again and think;
Pause on all my sorrows past,
Think how many a bitter blast,
When it snow’d, and hail’d, and blew,
I have toil’d and batter’d through.
Then to ease reflective pain,
To my sports I’d fall again,
Till the clock had counted ten;
When I’d seek my downy bed,
Easy, happy, and well fed.

Then might peep the morn, in vain,
Through the rimy misted pane;
Then might bawl the restless cock,
And the loud-tongued village clock;
And the flail might lump away,
Waking soon the dreary day:
They should never waken me,
Independent, blest, and free;
Nor, as usual, make me start,
Yawning sigh with heavy heart,
Loth to ope my sleepy eyes,
Weary still, in pain to rise,
With aching bones and heavy head,
Worse than when I went to bed.
With nothing then to raise a sigh,
Oh, how happy should I lie
Till the clock was eight, or more,
Then proceed as heretofore.
Best of blessings! sweetest charm!
Boon these wishes while they’re warm;
My fairy visions ne’er despise;
As reason thinks, thou realize:
Depress’d with want and poverty
I sink, I fall, denied by thee.

NOON

ALL how silent and how still;
Nothing heard but yonder mill:
While the dazzled eye surveys
All around a liquid blaze;
And amid the scorching gleams,
If we earnest look, it seems
As if crooked bits of glass
Seem’d repeatedly to pass.
Oh, for a puffing breeze to blow!
But breezes are all strangers now;
Not a twig is seen to shake,
Nor the smallest bent to quake;
From the river’s muddy side
Not a curve is seen to glide;
And no longer on the stream
Watching lies the silver bream,
Forcing, from repeated springs,
“Verges in successive rings.”
Bees are faint, and cease to hum;
Birds are overpower’d and dumb.
Rural voices all are mute,
Tuneless lie the pipe and flute:
Shepherds, with their panting sheep,
In the swaliest corner creep;
And from the tormenting heat
All are wishing to retreat.
Huddled up in grass and flowers,
Mowers wait for cooler hours;
And the cow-boy seeks the sedge,
Ramping in the woodland hedge,
While his cattle o’er the vales
Scamper, with uplifted tails;
Others not so wild and mad,
That can better bear the gad,
Underneath the hedge-row lunge,
Or, if nigh, in waters plunge.
Oh! to see how flowers are took,
How it grieves me when I look:
Ragged-robins, once so pink,
Now are turn’d as black as ink,
And the leaves, being scorch’d so much,
Even crumble at the touch;
Drowking lies the meadow-sweet,
Flopping down beneath one’s feet
While to all the flowers that blow,
If in open air they grow,
Th’ injurious deed alike is done
By the hot relentless sun.
E’en the dew is parched up
From the teasel’s jointed cup:
O poor birds! where must ye fly,
Now your water-pots are dry?
If ye stay upon the heath,
Ye’ll be choak’d and clamm’d to death:
Therefore leave the shadeless goss,
Seek the spring-head lin’d with moss;
There your little feet may stand,
Safely printing on the sand;
While, in full possession, where
Purling eddies ripple clear,
You with ease and plenty blest,
Sip the coolest and the best.
Then away! and wet your throats;
Cheer me with your warbling notes:
T’will hot noon the more revive;
While I wander to contrive
For myself a place as good,
In the middle of a wood:
There aside some mossy bank,
Where the grass in bunches rank
Lifts its down on spindles high,
Shall be where I’ll choose to lie;
Fearless of the things that creep,
There I’ll think, and there I’ll sleep;
Caring not to stir at all,
Till the dew begins to fall.

THE UNIVERSAL EPITAPH

NO flattering praises daub my stone,
My frailties and my faults to hide;
My faults and failings all are known—
I liv’d in sin—in sin I died.