The early poems of John Clare 1804-1822: General editor Eric Robinson: Edited by Eric Robinson and David Powell: Associate editor Margaret Grainger |
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ELEGY HASTILY COMPOSED & WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL ON THE SPOT IN THE RUINS OF PICKWORTH RUTLAND |
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 | The early poems of John Clare |  |
402
ELEGY HASTILY COMPOSED & WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL ON THE SPOT IN THE RUINS OF PICKWORTH RUTLAND
These buried Ruins now in dust forgot
These heaps of stone the only remnants seen
The ‘Old Foundations’ still they call the spot
Which plainly tells Enqu[i]rey what has been
These heaps of stone the only remnants seen
The ‘Old Foundations’ still they call the spot
Which plainly tells Enqu[i]rey what has been
A time was once—tho now the nettle grows
In triumph oer each heap that swells the ground
When they in buildings pil'd a village rose
With here a Cot & there a Garden crownd
In triumph oer each heap that swells the ground
When they in buildings pil'd a village rose
With here a Cot & there a Garden crownd
& here while Grandeur with unequal share
Perhaps maintaind its idleness & pride
Industrys cottage rose contented there
With scarce as much as wants of life supplyd
Perhaps maintaind its idleness & pride
Industrys cottage rose contented there
With scarce as much as wants of life supplyd
Mysterious cause! Still more mysterious pland
(—Altho undoubtedly the will of heaven)
To think what carless & unequal hand
Met[e]s out each portion that to man is given
(—Altho undoubtedly the will of heaven)
To think what carless & unequal hand
Met[e]s out each portion that to man is given
403
While vain extravagance for me alone
Claims half the land their grandeur to mentain
What thousands—not a Rood to call their own
Like me but labour for support in vain
Claims half the land their grandeur to mentain
What thousands—not a Rood to call their own
Like me but labour for support in vain
Here we see Luxury surfeit with excess
There want behol[d]ing beg from door to door
Still meeting sorrow where he meets sucess
By lengthening life that livd in vain before
There want behol[d]ing beg from door to door
Still meeting sorrow where he meets sucess
By lengthening life that livd in vain before
Almighty power—but why should I repine
Or vainly live thy goodness to distrust
Since reason rules what providence designs
What ever is must certainly be just
Or vainly live thy goodness to distrust
Since reason rules what providence designs
What ever is must certainly be just
Ye scenes of desolation spread around
Prosperity to you did once belong
& doubtless where these brambles claim the ground
The glass once flowd to hail the ranting song
Prosperity to you did once belong
& doubtless where these brambles claim the ground
The glass once flowd to hail the ranting song
The ale house here might stand—each hamlets boast
& here where elders rich from ruin grows
The tempting sign—but what was once is lost
Who would be proud of what this world bestows?
& here where elders rich from ruin grows
The tempting sign—but what was once is lost
Who would be proud of what this world bestows?
How contemplation mourns your lost decay
To view thy pride laid level with the ground
To see where labour clears the soil away
What fragments of mortality abound
To view thy pride laid level with the ground
To see where labour clears the soil away
What fragments of mortality abound
404
Theres not a Rood of Land demands our toil
Theres not a foot of ground we daily tread
But gains increase from times devouring spoil
& holds some fragment of the human dead
Theres not a foot of ground we daily tread
But gains increase from times devouring spoil
& holds some fragment of the human dead
The very food thats to support us gave
Claims for its share an equal portion too
The dust of many a long forgotten grave
Serves to manure the soil from whence it grew
Claims for its share an equal portion too
The dust of many a long forgotten grave
Serves to manure the soil from whence it grew
—Since first these ruins fell—how chang'd the scene
What busy bustling mortals now unknown
Have com'd & gone as tho there nought had been
Since first oblivion call'd the spot her own
What busy bustling mortals now unknown
Have com'd & gone as tho there nought had been
Since first oblivion call'd the spot her own
Ye busy bustling mortals known before
Of what you've done—where went—or what you see
Of what your hopes attaind to (now no more)
For everlasting lyes a mystery
Of what you've done—where went—or what you see
Of what your hopes attaind to (now no more)
For everlasting lyes a mystery
Like yours awaits for me that ‘common lot’
Tis mine to be of every hope bereft
—A few more years & I shall be forgot
& not a Vestige of my memory left
Tis mine to be of every hope bereft
—A few more years & I shall be forgot
& not a Vestige of my memory left
| The early poems of John Clare | |