The early poems of John Clare :: :: University of Virginia Library

To yon low church with solemn sounding knell
(Which 'tother day as rigid fate decreed
Mournfully knoll'd a widows passing bell)
The village funeral's warned to proceed

Mournfull indeed the orphans friends are fled
Their fathers tender care has long been past
The widows toil was all their hopes of bread
& now the grave awaits to seize the last

But that providing power forever high
The universal friend of all distress
Is sure to hear their supplicating cry
& prove a Father to the fatherless

Now from the low mud cottage on the more
By two & two sad bend the weeping train
The coffin ready near the propt-up door
Now slow proceeds along the wayward lane

224

While as they nearer draw in solemn state
The Village neighbours are assembld round
& seem with fond anxiety to wait
The sad procession in the burial ground

Yet every face the face of sorrow wears
& now the solemn scene approaches nigh
Each to make way for the slow march prepares
& on the Coffin casts a serious eye

Now walks the Curate thro the silent crowd
In snowy surplis loosly banded round
Now meets the corse & now he reads aloud
In mournful tone along the burial ground

The church they enter & adown the isle
(Which more then usual wears a solemn hue)
They rest the Coffin on set firms awhile
Till the good priest performs the office due

& tho by duty aw'd to silence here
The orphans grief so piercing force a way
& O so moving do their griefs appear
The worthy pastor kneels in tears to pray

The funeral rites performd by custom thought
A tribute sacred & essential here
Now to the last, last place the bodys brought
Where all (dread fate) are summond to appear

225

The Churchyard round a mournfull view displays
Views where mortality is plainly pennd
Drear seems the object which the eye surveys
As objects pointing to our lat[t]er end

There the lank nettles sicken ere they seed
Where from old trees eves cordial vainly falls
To raise or comfort each dejected weed
While pattering drops decay the crumbling walls

Here stands far distant from the pomp of pride
Mean little stones thin scatterd here & there
By the scant means of poverty apply'd
The fond memorial of her friends to bear

O memory thou sweet enliv'ning power
Thou shadow of that fame all hope to find
The meanest soul exerts her utmost power
To leave some fragment of thy name behind

Now croud the sad spectators round to see
The deep sunk grave—whose heap of swelling moulds
Full of the fragments of mortality
Makes the heart shudder while the eye beholds

226

Aw'd is the mind by dreaded truths imprest
To think that dust which they before them see
Once livd like them!—chill concience tells the rest
That like that dust themselves must shortly be

The gaping grave now claims its destind prey
‘Ashes to ashes dust to dust’ is given
The parent earth recieves her kindred clay
& starts the soul to meet its home in heaven

Ah helpless babes now grief in horror shrieks
Now sorrow pauses dumb.—each looker on
Knows not the urging language which it speaks
‘—A friend,—provider,—this worlds all is gone’

Such feeling grief lost Emigrants suround
When on some foreign land they seek redress
Hopeless they cast their wishful eyes around
& see no one to notice their distress

Envy & malice now have lost their aim
Slanders reproachful tongue can rail no more
Her foes now pity where they us'd to blame
The faults & foibles of this life are oer

The orphans grief & sorrows so severe
From every heart in pitys language speaks
Een the rough sexton can't withold the tear
That steals unnotic'd down his furrowd cheeks

227

Who is but grievd to see the fatherless
Stroll with their rags unnotisc'd thro the street
What eye but moistens at their sad distress
& sheds compassions tear where ere they meet

Yon Workhouse stands as their asylum now
The place where poverty demands to live
Where parish bounty scouls his scornful brow
& grudges the scant fare he's forc'd to give—

O may I dye before I'm doom'd to seek
That last resource of hope but ill suply'd
To claim the humble pittance once a week
Which justice forces from disdainful pride

Where the lost orphan lowly bending weeps
Unnotisc'd by the heedless as they pass
There the grave closes where a mother sleeps
With brambles platted on the tufted grass