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

The sabbath day of every day the best
The poor mans happiness a poor man sings
When labour has no claim to break his rest
& the light hours flye swift on easy wings

360

What happiness this holy morning brings
How sweet its opening on his view does steal
How sweet the village bells first warning rings
& o how comfortable does he feel
When wi his family at ease he takes his early meal

While carfull wife displays her frugal hurd
& both partake in comfort tho theyre poor
While loves sweet offsprings crowd the lowly board
Their little liknesses in minature
Tho thro the week he labour does endure
& weary limbs has often heard complain
This welcome morning always brings a cure
It teems wi joys his soul to entertain
& doubly sweet does seem the pleasure after pain

Ah who can tell the bliss from labour freed
His leisure meeteth on a sunday morn
Fixt in a chair some godly book to read
Or wandering round to view the crops of corn
In best cloths fitted out & beard new shorn
Dropping adown in some warm shelterd dell
Wi six days labour weak & weary worn
Listning around each distant chiming bell
That on the softning breeze mellodiously doth swell

& oft he takes his family abroad
In short excursions oer the field & plain
Marking each little object on his road
An insect sprig of grass & ear of grain
Endeavouring thus most simply to mentain
That the same power that bids the mite to crawl
That browns the weat lands in their summer stain
That power which formd the simple flower with all
Formd all that lives & grows upon this earthly ball

361

The good mans childern neer are seen to lurch
About wi others itching after crimes
But all are made to clean em selves for church
In readiness gen the bells summons chimes
To hear whats good & know their god betimes
The smooth the scripture says the way to woe
& tother like a waste of foreign climes
On goodness path tho briars & brambles grow
The end is bliss & he oft preaches to them so

The bell when knowld its summons once & twice
Now chimes in conscert calling all to prayers
The rustic boy still ankering a'ter vice
That bout religion little knows or cares
Scrambs up his marbles & by force repairs
Tho dallying on while the last bell has rung—
The poor man takes his book devoutly there
& often as he walks the graves among
Looks on the untravelld dust from whence his being sprung

The service ended boys their play resumes
In some snug corner from the parsons view
& where the searching clerk neer peeping comes
There they their games & rural sports pursue
Wi chock & marbles wearing sunday thro
The good man seeks his cottage hearth again
& there to read the text he does presume
From which the parsons good discourse was taen
& wells he can to them its meaning does explain

Hail sacred sabbath hail thou poor mans joy
Thou oft has been a comfort to my care
When faint & weary wi the weeks employ
I met thy presence in my corner chair

362

Musing & bearing up wi troubles there
Thrice hail thou heavenly boon by gods decree
At first creation pland that all might share
Both man & beast some hours from labour free
To offer thanks to him whose mercy sent us thee

This day the field a sweeter clothing wears
A sunday scene looks brighter to the eye
& hastning on to monday mornings cares
Wi double speed the wingd hour gallops bye
How swift the sun streaks down the western skye
Scarcly percievd till it begins to wane
When plough boys mark his setting wi a sigh
Dreading the mondays 'proaching hours wi pain
When capons restless calls awake to toil again

As the day closes on its peace & rest
The godly man sits down & takes a book
To close it in a manner deemd the best
& for a suiting chapter doth he look
That may for comfort & a guide be took
He reads of patient job his trials thrall
How men are troubld when by god forsook
& prays wi david to bear up wi all
When sleep shuts up the scene soft as the night dews fall