John Clare

And what is Life?--An hour-glass on the run, A mist retreating from the morning sun, A busy, bustling, still repeated dream; Its length?--A minute's pause, a moment's thought; And happiness?-A bubble on the stream, That in the act of seizing shrinks to nought.

What are vain Hopes?--The puffing gale of morn, That of its charms divests the dewy lawn, And robs each floweret of its gem,--and dies; A cobweb hiding disappointment's thorn, Which stings more keenly through the thin disguise.

And thou, O Trouble?--Nothing can suppose, (And sure the power of wisdom only knows,) What need requireth thee: So free and liberal as thy bounty flows, Some necessary cause must surely be; But disappointments, pains, and every woe Devoted wretches feel, The universal plagues of life below, Are mysteries still neath Fate's unbroken seal.

And what is Death? is still the cause unfound? That dark, mysterious name of horrid sound? A long and lingering sleep, the weary crave. And Peace? where can its happiness abound?-- No where at all, save heaven, and the grave.

Then what is Life?--When stripped of its disguise, A thing to be desired it cannot be; Since every thing that meets our foolish eyes Gives proof sufficient of its vanity. Tis but a trial all must undergo; To teach unthankful mortals how to prize That happiness vain man's denied to know, Until he's called to claim it in the skies.

Above the russet clods the corn is seen Sprouting its spiry points of tender green, Where squats the hare, to terrors wide awake, Like some brown clod the harrows failed to break. Opening their golden caskets to the sun, The buttercups make schoolboys eager run, To see who shall be first to pluck the prize-- Up from their hurry see the Skylark flies, And oer her half-formed nest, with happy wings, Winnows the air till in the cloud she sings, Then hangs a dust spot in the sunny skies, And drops and drops till in her nest she lies, Which they unheeded passed--not dreaming then That birds, which flew so high, would drop again To nests upon the ground, which anything May come at to destroy. Had they the wing Like such a bird, themselves would be too proud And build on nothing but a passing cloud! As free from danger as the heavens are free From pain and toil, there would they build and be, And sail about the world to scenes unheard Of and unseen,--O were they but a bird! So think they, while they listen to its song, And smile and fancy and so pass along; While its low nest, moist with the dews of morn, Lies safely, with the leveret, in the corn.

When midnight comes a host of dogs and men Go out and track the badger to his den, And put a sack within the hole, and lie Till the old grunting badger passes bye. He comes and hears--they let the strongest loose. The old fox hears the noise and drops the goose. The poacher shoots and hurries from the cry, And the old hare half wounded buzzes bye. They get a forked stick to bear him down And clap the dogs and take him to the town, And bait him all the day with many dogs, And laugh and shout and fright the scampering hogs. He runs along and bites at all he meets: They shout and hollo down the noisy streets.

He turns about to face the loud uproar And drives the rebels to their very door. The frequent stone is hurled where eer they go; When badgers fight, then every one's a foe. The dogs are clapt and urged to join the fray; The badger turns and drives them all away. Though scarcely half as big, demure and small, He fights with dogs for bones and beats them all. The heavy mastiff, savage in the fray, Lies down and licks his feet and turns away. The bulldog knows his match and waxes cold, The badger grins and never leaves his hold. He drives the crowd and follows at their heels And bites them through--the drunkard swears and reels.

The frighted women take the boys away, The blackguard laughs and hurries on the fray. He tries to reach the woods, an awkward race, But sticks and cudgels quickly stop the chace. He turns agen and drives the noisy crowd And beats the many dogs in noises loud. He drives away and beats them every one, And then they loose them all and set them on. He falls as dead and kicked by boys and men, Then starts and grins and drives the crowd agen; Till kicked and torn and beaten out he lies And leaves his hold and cackles, groans, and dies.

The dewdrops on every blade of grass are so much like silver drops that I am obliged to stoop down as I walk to see if they are pearls, and those sprinkled on the ivy-woven beds of primroses underneath the hazels, whitethorns and maples are so like gold beads that I stooped down to feel if they were hard, but they melted from my finger. And where the dew lies on the primrose, the violet and whitethorn leaves they are emerald and beryl, yet nothing more than the dews of the morning on the budding leaves; nay, the road grasses are covered with gold and silver beads, and the further we go the brighter they seem to shine, like solid gold and silver. It is nothing more than the sun's light and shade upon them in the dewy morning; every thorn-point and every bramble-spear has its trembling ornament: till the wind gets a little brisker, and then all is shaken off, and all the shining jewelry passes away into a common spring morning full of budding leaves, primroses, violets, vernal speedwell, bluebell and orchis, and commonplace objects.

Black grows the southern sky, betokening rain, And humming hive-bees homeward hurry bye: They feel the change; so let us shun the grain, And take the broad road while our feet are dry. Ay, there some dropples moistened on my face, And pattered on my hat--tis coming nigh! Let's look about, and find a sheltering place. The little things around, like you and I, Are hurrying through the grass to shun the shower. Here stoops an ash-tree--hark! the wind gets high, But never mind; this ivy, for an hour, Rain as it may, will keep us dryly here: That little wren knows well his sheltering bower, Nor leaves his dry house though we come so near.

I wandered out one rainy day And heard a bird with merry joys Cry "wet my foot" for half the way; I stood and wondered at the noise,

When from my foot a bird did flee-- The rain flew bouncing from her breast I wondered what the bird could be, And almost trampled on her nest.

The nest was full of eggs and round-- I met a shepherd in the vales, And stood to tell him what I found. He knew and said it was a quail's,

For he himself the nest had found, Among the wheat and on the green, When going on his daily round, With eggs as many as fifteen.

Among the stranger birds they feed, Their summer flight is short and low; There's very few know where they breed, And scarcely any where they go.

Huge elm, with rifted trunk all notched and scarred, Like to a warrior's destiny! I love To stretch me often on thy shadowed sward, And hear the laugh of summer leaves above; Or on thy buttressed roots to sit, and lean In careless attitude, and there reflect On times, and deeds, and darings that have been-- Old castaways, now swallowed in neglect; While thou art towering in thy strength of heart, Stirring the soul to vain imaginings, In which life's sordid being hath no part. The wind of that eternal ditty sings, Humming of future things, that burn the mind To leave some fragment of itself behind.

I went in the fields with the leisure I got, The stranger might smile but I heeded him not, The hovel was ready to screen from a shower, And the book in my pocket was read in an hour.

The bird came for shelter, but soon flew away; The horse came to look, and seemed happy to stay; He stood up in quiet, and hung down his head, And seemed to be hearing the poem I read.

The ploughman would turn from his plough in the day And wonder what being had come in his way, To lie on a molehill and read the day long And laugh out aloud when he'd finished his song.

The pewit turned over and stooped oer my head Where the raven croaked loud like the ploughman ill-bred, But the lark high above charmed me all the day long, So I sat down and joined in the chorus of song.

The foolhardy ploughman I well could endure, His praise was worth nothing, his censure was poor, Fame bade me go on and I toiled the day long Till the fields where he lived should be known in my song.