 Lover of Swamps, the quagmire overgrown with hassock tufts of sedge, where fear encamps around thy home alone. The trembling grass quakes from the human foot, nor bears the weight of man to let him pass, where he alone and mute, sitteth at rest, in safety, neath the clump of huge flag-forest, that thy haunts invest, or some old salo stump. Thriving on seams that tiny islands swell, just hilling from the mud and rancid streams, suiting thy nature well. For here thy bill, suited by wisdom good, of rude, unseemly length doth delve and drill the jellied mass for food. And here may hap when summer suns hath dressed, the maw's rude, desolate, and spongy lap may hide thy mystic nest. Mystic indeed, for aisles that ocean make, are scarcely more secure for birds to build than this flag-hidden lake. These thread the woods to their remotest shades, but in these marshy flats these stagnant floods security pervades. From year to year places untrodden lie, where man nor boy nor stock hath ventured near, nor gazed on but the sky. And foul that dread the very breath of man, hiding in spots that never knew his tread, a wild and timid clan, whigeen and teal and wild duck, restless lot, that from man's dreaded sight will ever steal to the most dreary spot. Here tempests howl around each flaggy plot, where they who dread man's sight the water-fowl hide, and are frighted not. It is power divine that heartens them to brave the roughest tempest, and at ease recline on marshes or the wave. Yet instinct knows not safety's bounds to shun, the firmer ground where skulking fowler goes with searching dogs and gun. By tepid springs scarcely one stride across, though brambles from its edge a shelter flings, thy safety is at a loss. And never choose the little sinky fos streaking the moors whence spa-red water spews from puddles fringed with moss. Free booters there, intent to kill and slay, startle with cracking guns the trepid air, and dogs thy haunts betray. From danger's reach hear thou art safe to roam, far as these washy flag-worn marshes stretch, a still and quiet home. In these haunts I've gleaned habitual love from the vague world where pride and folly taunts, I muse and look above, thy solitudes the unbounded heaven esteems, and hear my heart warms into higher moods and dignifying dreams. I see the sky, smile on the meanest spot, giving to all that creep or walk or fly a calm and cordial lot. Thine teaches me right feelings to employ, that in the drearest places peace will be a dweller and a joy. Birds Nests by John Clare Red for LibriVox.org by David Barnes How fresh the air, the birds how busy now. In every walk, if I but peep, I find nests newly made or finished all, and lined with hair and thistle down, and in the bow of little hawthorn huddled up in green, the leaves still thickening as the spring gets age, the pinks quite round and snug and closely laid, and linets of materials loose and rough, and still hedge-sparrow moping in the shade near the hedge-bottom, weaves of homely stuff, dead grass and mosses green, and hermitage for secrecy and shelter rightly made. And beautiful it is to walk beside the lanes and hedges where their homes abide. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. On Seeing Two Swallows Late in October by John Clare Red for LibriVox.org by David Barnes Lone occupiers of a naked sky, when desolate November hovers nigh, and all your fellow tribes in many crowds have left the village with the autumn clouds, careless of all defections for the scene that made them happy when the fields were green, and left them undisturbed to build their nests in each old chimney, like to welcome guests, forsaking all like untamed winds they roam, and make with summers an unsettled home, following her favours to the farthest lands, or untraced oceans and untrodden sands, like happy images they haste away, and leave us lonely till another may. But little lingerers, old esteem, detains ye happily thus to brave the chilly air, in skies grow dull with winters, heavy rains, and all the orchard trees are nearly bare, yet the old chimneys still are peeping there, above the russet thatch where summers tide of sunny joys gave you such social fare, and makes you happily wishing to abide in your old dwellings through the changing year. I wish ye well to find a dwelling here, for in the unsocial weather ye would fling gleamings of comfort through the winter-wide, twittering as won't above the old fireside, and cheat the surly winter into spring. The March Nightingale by John Clare Red for LibriVox.org by David Barnes Now sallow catkins once all downy white turn like the sunshine into golden light. The rocking clown leans o'er the spinny rail in admiration at the sunny sight. The while the black cap doth his ears assail with such a rich and such an early song. He stops his own, and thinks the Nightingale hath of her monthly reckoning counted wrong. Sweet jug-jug-jug comes loud upon his ear, those sounds that unto May by right belong. Yet in the authorne scarce a leaf appears, how can it be? Spell-struck the wandering boy listens again, again the sound he hears, and mocks it in his song for very joy. The Thrush's Nest by John Clare Red for LibriVox.org by David Barnes Within a thick and spreading Hawthorne bush that overhung a maul-hill large and round, I heard from mourn to mourn a merry thrush sing hymns to sunrise, while I drank the sound with joy, and often an intruding guest I watched her secret toils from day to day. How true she warped the moss to form her nest, and modelled it within, with wood and clay, and by and by, like heath-bells, gilt with dew, there lay her shining eggs as bright as flowers, ink-spotted over shells of green-y blue, and there I witnessed in the summer hours a brood of nature's minstrels, chirp and fly, glad as the sunshine and the laughing sky. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Wren by John Clare Red for LibriVox.org by David Barnes Why is the cuckoo's melody preferred, and nightingale's rich song so fondly praised in poets' rhymes? Is there no other bird of nature's minstrelsy that oft hath raised one's heart to ecstasy and mirth as well? I judge not how another's taste is caught. With mine there's other birds that bear the bell, whose song hath crowds of happy memories brought, such the wood-robbing singing in the dow, and little wren that many a time hath sought shelter from showers in huts where I did dwell, in early spring, the tenant of the plane, tenting my sheep, and still they come to tell the happy stories of the past again. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Nightingale's Nest by John Clare Red for LibriVox.org by David Barnes Up this green woodland ride, let softly rove, and list the nightingale. She dwelleth here, hush, let the wood gate softly clap, for fear the noise may drive her from her home of love. For here I've heard her many a merry year, at morn and eve, nay, all the live long day, as though she lived on song. This very spot, just where that old man's beard all wildly trails, rude arbours o'er the road, and stops the way, and where that child its blue-bell flowers hath got, laughing and creeping through the mossy rails, there have I hunted like a very boy, creeping on hands and knees through matted thorns to find her nest, and see her feed her young, and vainly did I many hours employ, all seemed as hidden, as a thought unborn, and where these crimping fern leaves ramp among the hazels under bowels, I've nestled down and watched her while she's sung, and her renown hath made me marvel that so famed a bird should have no better dress than Russet Brown. Her wings would tremble in her ecstasy, and feathers stand on end as to her with joy, and mouth wide open to release her heart of its outsobbing songs, the happiest part of summer's fame, she shared. For so to me did happy fancies sharpen her employ, but if I touched a bush or scarcely stirred all in a moment stopped. I watched in vain that timid bird had left the hazel bush, and at a distance hid to sing again, lost in a wilderness of listening leaves, rich ecstasy would pour its luscious strain till envy spurred the emulating thrush to start less wild and scarce inferior songs, for cares with him for half the year remained to damp the ardour of his speckled breast. While nightingales to summer's life belongs, and naked trees and winters nipping wrongs are strangers to her music and her rest, her joys are evergreen, her world is wide. Hark there she is, as usual let's be hush, for in this black thorn clump if rightly guessed her curious house is hidden. Part aside these hazel branches in a gentle way and stoop right cautious neath the rustling boughs, for we will have another search to-day, and hunt this fern-strewn thorn-clump round and round, and where this seeded woodgrass idly boughs will wade right through. It is a likely nook in such like spots, and often on the ground they'll build where rude boys never think to look. I, as I live, her secret nest is here upon this white thorn-stulp. I've searched about for hours in vain. There put that bramble by, may trample on its branches and get near. How subtle is the bird, she started out and raised a plaintive note of danger, nigh ere we were past the brambles, and now near her nest she sodden stops. As choking fear that might betray her home, so even now we'll leave it as we found it. Safety's guard of pathless solitude shall keep it still. See there, she's sitting on the old oak-bow. Mute in her fears, our presence doth retard her joys, and doubt turns all her rapture chill. Sing on, sweet bird, may no worse hat before thy visions than the fear that now deceives. We will not plunder music of its dour, nor turn this spot of happiness to thrall, for melody seems hid in every flower that blossoms near thy home. These hair-bells all seems bowing with the beautiful in song, and gaping cuckoo with its spotted leaves seems blushing of the singing it has heard. How curious is the nest! No other bird uses such loose materials or weaves their dwellings in such spots. Dead oaken leaves are placed without, and velvet moss within, and little scraps of grass, and scant and spare of what seems scarce materials down and hair. For from man's haunt she seemed with naught to win, yet nature is the builder, and contrives homes for her children's comfort, even here where solitude's disciples spend their lives unseen. Save when a wanderer passes near that loves such pleasant places. Deeper down the nest is made, and her mits mossy cell. Snugly her curious eggs in number five, of deadened green, or rather olive brown, and the old prickly thorn-bush guards them well, and here will leave them still unknown to wrong, as the old Woodlands legacy of song. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Skylark by John Clare, read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes. The rolls and harrows lies at rest beside the battered road, and spreading far and wide above the rosset clods the corn is seen, sprouting its spirey points of tender green, where squats the hair to terrors wide awake, like some brown clod the harrows fail to break, while neath the warm hedge boys stray far from home to crop the early blossoms as they come, where buttercups will make them eager run, opening their golden caskets to the sun, to see who shall be first to pluck the prize, and from their hurry up the Skylark flies, and o'er her half-formed nest with happy wings winnows the air, till in the clouds she sings, then hangs a dust-spot in the sunny skies, and drops and drops till in her nest she lies, where boys unheeding past, near dreaming then that birds which flew so high would drop again, to nests upon the ground where any thing 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, or where 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 mourn, lie safely with the leveret in the corn. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Raven's Nest by John Clare, read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes Upon the collar of a huge old oak, year after year, boys mark a curious nest of twigs made up of faggot nearing size, and boys to reach it try all sorts of schemes, but not a twig to reach with hand or foot sprouts from the pillard trunk, and as to try to swarm the massy bulked is all in vain, they scarce one effort make to hitch them up, but down they slother soon as ere they try. So long hath been there dwelling there, old men when passing by will laugh and tell the ways they had when boys to climb that very tree, and as it so would seem that very nest that ne'er was missing from that self-same spot a single year in all their memories, and they will say that the two birds are now the very birds that owned the dwelling then. Some think it's strange yet certain is at loss, and cannot contradict it so they pass as old birds living the woods patriarchs, old as the oldest men so famed and known, that even men will thirst into the fame of boys at get-out schemes that now and then may captivate a young one from the tree, with iron clawms and bands adventuring up the mealy trunk, or else by wagon ropes slung over the huge grains and so drawn up by those at bottom, one ascends secure with foot-rope stirruped, still a perilous way so perilous that one and only one in memories of the oldest men was known to wear his baldness to intention's end and reach the raven's nest, and thence achieved a theme that wonder treasured for surprise by every cottage hearth the village threw, nor yet forgot, though other dareers come with daring times that scale the steeple's top and tie their kerchiefs to the weather-cock as trophies that the dangerous deed was done. Yet even now in these adventurous days not one is bold enough to dare the way up the old monstrous oak, where every spring finds the two ancient birds at their old task repairing the huge nest, where still they live through changes, winds and storms, and are secure, and like a landmark in the chronicles of village memories treasured up, yet lives the huge old oak that wears the raven's nest. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Fixed in a white thorn-bush its summer guest, so low in grass o'er topped its tallest twig, a sedge-bird built its little benty nest close by the meadow-pole and wooden brig, where schoolboys every morn and eve did pass, in robbing birds and cunning deeply skilled, searching each bush and taller clumps of grass where air was likelihood of bird to build. Yet she did hide her habitation long, and keep her little brood from danger's eye, hidden as secret as a cricket's song, till they well fledged or widest pulls could fly, proving that Providence is often by to guard the simplest of her charge from wrong. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Autumn Robin by John Clare, read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes Sweet little bird in russet coat, the livery of the closing year, I love thy lonely plaintive note and tiny whispering song to hear, while on the style or garden seat I sit to watch the falling leaves, thy songs, thy little joys repeat, my loneliness relieves. And many are the lonely minds that hear and welcome thee anew, not taste alone, but humble hinds delight to praise and love thee too. The various clown beside his cart turns from his song with many a smile to see thee from the hedgerow start and sing upon the style. The shepherd on the fallen tree drops down to listen to thy lay, and chides his dog beside his knee who barks and frightens thee away. The hedger pauses ere he knocks the stake down in the meadow gap, the boy who every songster mocks for bears the gate to clap. When in the hedge that hides the post thy ruddy bosom he surveys, pleased with thy song, in pleasure lost he pausing mutters scraps of praise. The maiden marks at day's decline thee in the yard on broken plough, and stops her song to listen thine, while milking brindled cow. Thy simple faith in man's esteem from every heart that favours one, dangerous to thee no dangers seem, thou seemest to court them more than shun. The clown in winter takes his gun, the barn door flocking birds to slay, yet shouldst thou in the danger run he turns the tube away. The gypsy boy who seeks in glee blackberries for a dainty meal laughed loud on first beholding thee when called so near his present steel. For sure he thinks thou knew the call, and though his hunger ill can spare, the fruit he will not pluck them all, but leave some to thy share. Up on the ditches spade thou'd hop for grubs and breathing worms to search, where woodmen in the forests chop thou'd fearless on their faggots' perch, nay by the gypsy's camp I stop, and mark thee perch a moment there, to prune thy wing a while, then drop the littered crumbs to share. Domestic bird, thy pleasant face doth well thy common suit commend, to meet thee in a stranger place is meeting with an ancient friend. I track the thicket's glooms around, and there is loath to leave again, thou comest as if thou knew the sound, and loved the sight of men. The loneliest wood that man can trace to thee a pleasant dwelling gives, in every town and crowded place the sweet domestic robin lives, go where we will, in every spot thy little welcome mates appear, and like the daisy's common lot thou art met with everywhere. The swallow in the chimney-tier, the tittering martin in the eaves, with half of love and half of fear their mortared dwelling shyly weaves, the sparrows in the thatch-wheel-shield, yet they as well as ere they can contrive with doubtful faith to build beyond the reach of man. Yet thou art less timid than the wren domestic and confiding bird, and spots the nearest haunts of men are oftenest for thy home preferred. In garden-walls thou build so low, close where the bunch of fennel stands, that in a child just learn to go may reach with tiny hands. Sweet-favoured birds thy undernotes in summer's music grows unknown, the concert from a thousand throats leaves thee as if to pipe alone. No listening ear the shepherd lends, the simple plowman marks thee not, but then by all thy autumn friends thou'd missing and forgot. The far-famed nightingale that shares cold public praise from every tongue, the popular voice of music heirs, and injures much thy undersong. Yet then my walks thy theme salutes, and finds their autumn-favoured guest, gay-piping on the hazel-roots above thy mossy nest. It is wrong that thou shouldst be despised when these gay fickle birds appear, they sing when summer flowers are prized, thou at the dull and dying year. Well, let the heedless and the gay be praise the voice of loud allays, the joy thou stealst from sorrow's day is more to thee than praise. And could my notes steal ought from thine, my words but imitate thy lay, time would not then his charge resign, nor throw the meanest verse away, but ever at this mellow time he should thine autumn praise prolong, so would they share eternal prime with daisies and thy song. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. And yet so snugly made that none may spy it out save accident, and you and I had surely passed it on our walk to-day, had chance not led us by it. Nay, in now, had not the old bird heard us trampling by and fluttered out, we had not seen it lie, brown as the roadway side. Small bits of hay plucked from the old propped haystacks pleachy brow, and withered leaves make up its outward walls, that from the snub oak dottral yearly falls, and in the old hedge-bottom rot away, built like an oven with a little hole hard to discover. That snug entrance wins, scarcely admitting in two fingers in, and lined with feathers warm as silk and stole, and soft as seats of down for painless ease, and full of eggs scarce bigger in than peas. Here's one most delicate, with spots as small as dust, and of a faint and pinky red. We'll let them be, and safety guard them well, for fear's rude paths around are thickly spread, and they are left to many dangers' ways, when green grasshoppers jump might break the shells, while lowing oxen pass them morn and night, and restless sheep around them hourly stray, and no grass springs but hungry horses bite, that trample pass them twenty times a day. Yet like a miracle in safety's lap, they still abide unhurt and out of sight. Stop! Here's the bird. That woodman at the gap hath fritted from the hedge. It is olive-green. Well, I declare it is the petty chaps, not bigger than the ren, and seldom seen. I've often found their nests in chance's way, when I in pathless woods did idly roam, but never did I dream, until to-day, a spot like this would be her chosen home. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. In danger's way, where snoffing dogs their rustling haunts betray, and tracking gunners ever seem at hand, oft frightened up they startle to the shade of neighbouring wood, and through the yellow leaves drop wearied, where the breaks and ferns hath made a solitary covered. That deceives, for there the fox prowls its unnoticed ground, and danger dares them upon every ground. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The tame hedge sparrow in its russet dress is half a robin for its gentle ways, and the bird-loving dame can do no less than throw it out a crumble on cold days. In early March it into gardens strays, and in the snug clipped box-tree, green and round, it makes a nest of moss and hair, and lays when in the snow is lurking on the ground, its eggs in number five of greenish blue, bright, beautiful, and glossy shining shells, much like the fire-tails, but of brighter hue. Yet in her garden-home much danger dwells, where skulking cat with mischief in its breast catches their young before they leave the nest. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A crank and reedy cry. I look. The crane is sailing o'er that pathless world without a mate. The heath looked brown and dull before, but now it is more than desolate.