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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ADDRESS TO THE SLUGGARD |
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 | The early poems of John Clare |  |
525
ADDRESS TO THE SLUGGARD
Awake thou sluggard cou'd thy drowzy soulLay sloth aside—be resolute enough
To trace the fields and silver studded woods
While each grass point and velvet knobbed flower
Bends arching with a gem—O couldst thou but
Meet the first breath, which morning zephyrs breath
Pilfering and culling, skimming woods and fields
Who like a robber lingers for the chance
When wakening nature opens all her stores
Molests her entrance and unbid intrudes
With forcing rape—to sip her sweetest charms
Then in a heedless and make gamely fit
Scatter their beauties o'er a thankless world
O wouldst thou but
List to the hymn of day break when the woods
Echo in harmony where lark and thrush
And blackbirds music thrilling low and loud
Ah didst thou witness
What the morning is when sun beams sweet
As curdling through the dewy misted panes
Checkers the wall and urges thee to rise
Couldst thou but tell
What charms which Ign'rance passes unconcernd
At that same hour enraptur'd genius sees
And with enchanted ravishment admires
With natures charms intoxicated—how
Trace wood and field
Pause on each flower and varied leaf 'cognise
Lost in the bliss which nature yields & none
But natures children know
526
The thrilling burning extacy of soul
The throbbing beat that heaves the bosoms charm
While musing on the work of power divine
When in each meanest mite on earth or sea
Its makers Image wonderfully shines
When genius left in wonders void to pause
Thrills into adoration's silent praise
And bent enraptur'd hails the Lord of all
Didst thou know this thy shocky bed
Which seems to thee so comfortable now
Lost in its drowsy apathy and ease
Would like a dungeon seem and please no more
But when nights curtain lap't thee up to sleep
And shut in darkness natures weary eye
As sickness bed is to the fated wretch
To thee its necessary rest would seem
A forc'd releif as loath'd to be enjoy'd
| The early poems of John Clare | |