 | John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion |  |
413
SLANDER
There is a viper that doth hide its head
In the recesses of the human heart
There is a serpent that doth make its bed
On manhoods prime & Gods own counterpart
It feeds upon the honours of the great
It mars the reputation of the just
It eats its being into worths estate
& levels all distinctions in the dust
Goodness is smitten by its bitter gibes
Greatness is wounded by the slime it breeds
It lives the worst of all its evil tribes
For poisonous actions & for damning deeds
Nay slanders keener then a serpents breath
It poisons deeper & it brings not death
In the recesses of the human heart
There is a serpent that doth make its bed
On manhoods prime & Gods own counterpart
It feeds upon the honours of the great
It mars the reputation of the just
It eats its being into worths estate
& levels all distinctions in the dust
Goodness is smitten by its bitter gibes
Greatness is wounded by the slime it breeds
It lives the worst of all its evil tribes
For poisonous actions & for damning deeds
Nay slanders keener then a serpents breath
It poisons deeper & it brings not death
It feeds on falshood & on clamour lives
& truth like sunshine waters in its eyes
It cannot bear the searching light she gives
But in her splendour—struggles—wreaths—& lies
A crushed & wounded worm that vainly turns
All ways for rest & ease & findeth none
Of its own venom breath it wastes & burns
Away—like putrid waters to the sun
—Its stains as footmarks in a frosty morn
Left on the bruising grass by early swain
Truths Spring soon comes & laughs them all to scorn
Stains dissapear & grass is green again
So hearts that feed the falshood slander frames
Are all that wear at last the venom of its fames
& truth like sunshine waters in its eyes
It cannot bear the searching light she gives
But in her splendour—struggles—wreaths—& lies
A crushed & wounded worm that vainly turns
All ways for rest & ease & findeth none
Of its own venom breath it wastes & burns
Away—like putrid waters to the sun
—Its stains as footmarks in a frosty morn
Left on the bruising grass by early swain
Truths Spring soon comes & laughs them all to scorn
Stains dissapear & grass is green again
So hearts that feed the falshood slander frames
Are all that wear at last the venom of its fames
| John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion | |