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

O'er pathless plains, at early hours,
The sleepy rustic sloomy goes;
The dews, brush'd off from grass and flowers,
Bemoistening sop his harden'd shoes;

For every leaf that forms a shade,
And every flowret's silken top,
And every shivering bent and blade,
Stoops, bowing with a diamond drop.

551

But soon shall fly those pearly drops,
The red, round sun advances higher;
And stretching o'er the mountain tops,
Is gilding sweet the village spire.

Again the bustling maiden seeks
Her cleanly pail, and eager now,
Rivals the morn with rosy cheeks,
And hastens off to milk her cow;

While echo tells of Colin near,
Blithe, whistling o'er the misty hills:
The powerful magic fills her ear,
And through her beating bosom thrills.

'Tis sweet to meet the morning breeze,
Or list the giggling of the brook;
Or stretch'd beneath the shade of trees
Peruse and pause on nature's book;

When nature every sweet prepares
To entertain our wish'd delay,—
The images which morning wears,
The wakening charms of early day!

Now let me tread the meadow paths,
While glittering dew the ground illumes,
As, sprinkled o'er the withering swaths,
Their moisture shrinks in sweet perfumes;

And hear the beetle sound his horn;
And hear the skylark whistling nigh,
Sprung from his bed of tufted corn,
A hailing minstrel in the sky.

First sunbeam, calling night away,
To see how sweet thy summons seems,
Split by the willow's wavy grey,
And sweetly dancing on the streams:

552

How fine the spider's web is spun,
Unnoticed to vulgar eyes;
Its silk thread glittering in the sun,
Art's bungling vanity defies.

Roaming where the dewey field
Neath its morning burthen leans
While its crops my searches shield
Sweet I scent the blossomd beans

Making oft remarking stops
Watching tiny nameless things
Climb the grasses spiry tops
As they try their silken wings

So emerging into light,
From the ignorant and vain,
Fearful Genius takes her flight,
Skimming o'er the lowly plain,

While in gay green glossy coat
On the shivering benty baulk
The grass hopper chirps his note
Bounding on from stalk to stalk

While the bee at early hours
Sips the bowing beans perfumes
Butter flys infest the flowers
Just to show their Glossy plumes

As oft industry seeks the sweet[s]
Which weary labour ought to gain
As oft the bliss the idle meets
& heaven bestows the bliss in vain

553

Pleasd I list the rural themes
Heartning up the ploughmans toil
Urging on the gingling teams
As they turn the mellow soil

Industrys care abounds again
As now the peace of night is gone
Many a murmur wakes the plain
Many a waggon rumbles on

The swallow wheels his circling flight
& oer the waters surface skims
Then on the cottage chimney lights
& twittering chaunts his morning hymns

Stationd high a towering height
On the sun gilt weather cock
Now the jack daw takes his flight
Frighted by the striking clock

Snug the wary watching thrush
Sits to prune her speckled breast
Where the wood bine round the bush
Weaving hides her mortard nest

Till the cows with hungry low
Pick the rank grass from her bower
Startld then—dead leaves below
Quick recieve the pattering shower

Now the sythe the morn salutes
In the meadow tinkling soon
While on mellow tutling flutes
Sweetly breathes the shepherds tune

Where the bank the stream oerlooks
& the wreathing worms are found
Anglers sit to bait their hooks
On the hill with wild tyhme crownd

554

While the treach'rous watching stork
Nigh the heedless gudgeon flies
Bobbing sinks the vanishd cork
& the roach becomes a prize

Neath the black thorns stunted bush
Cropt by wanton oxen down
Wistling oer each culling rush
Cowboys plats a rural crown

As slow the hazy mist retires
Crampt circle more distinctly seen
Thin scatterd huts & neighbouring spires
Drops in to stretch the bounded scene

Brisk winds the Lightnd Branches shake
By pattering plashing drops confest
& where oaks dripping shade the lake
Prints crimpling dimples on its breast

The misted brook its edges reek
Sultry noon is drawing on
The east has lost its ruddy streak
& proves that mornings sweets are gone

In torturd haste retreating cows
Plunge head long in the spangld flood
Or sweeping by the oaken boughs
Brusing trace the tangld wood

In all directions buzzing by
Wakend by the sultry heat
Once again the tiresome flye
Bold intruding plagues repeat

Now as morning takes her leave
& while swelterd nature mourns
Let me waiting soothing eve
Seek my cot till she returns