 THE SETTING SUN by John Clare Red for LibriVox.org by David Barnes THE SETTING SUN This scene, how beatious to the musing mind That now swift slides from my enchanting view The sun's sweet setting yon far hills behind In other worlds his visits to renew What spangling glories all around him shine What nameless colours cloudless and serene A heavenly prospect brightest in decline Attend his exit from this lovely scene So sets the Christian's sun in glories clear So shines his soul at his departure here No clouding doubts nor misty fears arise To dim hope's golden rays of being forgiven His sun's sweet setting in the clearest skies In safe assurance wings the soul to heaven A scene by John Clare Red for LibriVox.org by David Barnes A scene, the landscape stretching view That opens wide with dribbling brooks And rivers wider floods And hills and veils and darksome lowering woods With grains of varied hues and grasses pied The low-brown cottage in the sheltered nook The steeple peeping just above the trees Whose dangling leaves keep rustling in the breeze And thoughtful shepherd bending o'er his hook And maidens stripped hay-making to appear A hodge, a whistling at his fallow plow And herdsmen hallowing to intruding cow All these with hundreds more far off and near Approach my sight and please to such excess That language fails the pleasure to express End of poem This recording is in the public domain The Harvest Morning by John Clare Red for LibriVox.org by David Barnes The Harvest Morning Cox waked the early morn with many a crow Loud, ticking village-clock has counted four The laboring rustic hears his restless foe And weary bones and pains, complaining soar Hobbles to fetch his horses from the moor Some busy ginter team the loaded corn Which night thronged round the barn's be-crowded door Such plenteous scenes the farmer's yards adorn Such busy bustling toils now mark the Harvest Morn The bird-boy's peeling horn is loudly blow'd The wagon's jostling, we're rattling sound And hogs and geese now throng the dusty road Grunting and gabbling in contention round The barley ears that litter on the ground What printing traces mark the wagon's way What busy bustling wakens echo round How drives the sun's warm beams the mist away How labour sweats and toils and dreads the sultry day His scythe, the moor, or his shoulder leans And wetting jars with sharp and tinkling sound Then sweeps again morn corn and crackling beans And swath by swath flops lengthening of the ground While neath some friendly heaps snug sheltered round From spoiling sun lies hid their heart's delight And hearty soaks off hand the bottle round Their toils pursuing with redoubled might Refreshments cordial hail, great praise to him be due That brought thy birth to light Upon the wagon now with eager bound The lusty picker whirls the rustling sheaves Or ponderous resting creaking fork aground Boastful at once while shocks of barley heaves The loading boy, revengeful, inly grieves To find his unmatched strength and power decay Tormenting horns his garments into weaves Smarting and sweating neath the sultry day With muttering curses stung, he mauls the heaps away A motley group the clearing field surrounds Sons of humanity o'er near deny the humbler gleaner Entrance in your grounds, winters sad, cold, and poverty is nigh O grudge not providence her scant supply You'll never miss it from your ample store Who gives denial, hardened, hungry hound May never blessings crowd his hated door But he shall never lack that giveth to the poor Ah lovely Emma, mingling with the rest Thy beauties blooming in low life unseen Thy rosy cheeks, thy sweetly swelling breast But ill it suits thee in the stubs to glean O poverty, how basely you demean The imprisoned worth your rigid fates confine Not fancied charms of an Arcadian queen So sweet as Emma's real beauty shine Had fortune blessed, sweet girl, this lot had ne'er been thine The sun's increasing heat, now mounted high Refreshment must recruit exhausted power The wagon stops the busy tools thrown by And neath the shocks enjoyed the beavering hour The bashful maid, sweet health's engaging flower Lingering behind, or rake still blushing bends And when to take the horn Fondswayne's implore With feigned excuses its dislike pretends So pass the beavering hours, so harvest morning ends O rural life, what charms thy meanness hide What sweet descriptions, bards disdain to sing What loves, what graces on thy plains abide O could I saw me on the muses wing What riffled charms should my researches bring Pleased would I wonder where these charms reside Of rural sports and beauties would I sing Those beauties' wealth which you but vain deride Beauties of richest bloom superior to your pride End of poem, this recording is in the public domain Noon by John Clare Read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes Noon All how silent and how still Nothing heard but yonder mill While the dazzled eyes surveys All around a liquid blaze And amid the scorching gleams If we earn this look it seems As if crooked bits of glass Seemed repeatedly to pass Oh, for a puffing breeze to blow But breeze is all our strangers now Not a twig is seen to shake Nor the smallest bent to quake From the river's muddy side Not a curve is seen to glide And no longer on the stream Watching lies the silver brim Forcing from repeated springs Verges in successive rings Bees are faint and cease to hum Birds are overpowered and dumb And no more loves oat and strains Sweetly through the air complains Rural voices are all mute Tuneless lies the pipe and flute Shepherds with their panting sheep In the swalest corner creep And from the tormenting heat All are wishing to retreat Huddled up in grass and flowers Mowers wait for cooler hours And the cowboy seeks the sedge Ramping in the woodland hedge While his cattle over the veils Scamper with uplifted tails Others not so wild and mad That can better bear the gad Underneath the hedgerow lunge Or if nigh in water's plunge Oh, to see how flowers are took How it grieves me when I look Ragged robins once so pink Now are turned as black as ink And their leaves being scorched so much Even crumble at the touch Drowking lies the meadow-sweet Flopping down beneath one's feet While to all the flowers that blow If in open air they grow The injurious deed alike is done By the hot, relentless sun In the dew is parched up From the teasel's jointed cup Oh, poor birds, where must ye fly Now your water-pots are dry? If you stay upon the heath You'll be choked and clammed to death Therefore leave the shadeless goss Seek the spring-head lined with moss There your little feet may stand Safely printed on the sand While in full possession where Perling eddies ripple clear You with ease and plenty blessed Sip the callest and the best Then away and wet your throats Cheer me with your wobbling notes Twill hot noon the more revive While I wander to contrive For myself a place as good In the middle of a wood There, aside some mossy bank Where the grass in bunches rank Lift its down in spindles high Shall be where I'll choose to lie Fearless of the things that creep There I'll think and there I'll sleep Caring not to stir at all Until the dew begins to fall End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. What is Life? by John Clare Read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes. What is Life? And what is Life? An hourglass on the run, A mist retreating from the morning sun, A busy, bustling, still-repeated dream, Its length a moment's pause, A moment's thought, And happiness a bubble on the stream That in the act of seizing shrinks to nought. Vain hopes what are they? Puffing gales of morn That of its charms divests the dewy lawn, And robs each floweret of its gems and dies, A cobweb hiding disappointments thorn, Which stings more keenly through the thin disguise. And thou, O trouble, nothing can suppose, Ensure the power of wisdom only knows What need requireeth thee. So free and liberal as thy bounty flows, Some necessary cause must surely be. And what is Death? Is still the cause unfound, The dark, mysterious name of horrid sound, A long and lingering sleep the weary crave, And peace, where can its happiness abound? Nowhere at all but heaven and the grave. Then what is Life? Then stripped of its disguise, A thing to be desired it cannot be, Since everything that meets our foolish eyes Gives proof sufficient of its vanity. It is but a trial, almost 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. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. SUMMER by John Clare Red for LibriVox.org by David Barnes SUMMER How sweet, when weary dropping on a bank, Turning a look around on things that be, In feather-headed grasses spindling rank, A trembling to the breeze one loves to see, And yellow butter-cups, where many a be, Comes buzzing to its head and bows it down, And the great dragon-fly with gauzy wings, In gilded coat of purple, green or brown, That on broad leaves of hazel, basking clings, Fond of the sunny day, And other things past counting, Pleases one while thus I lie. But still, reflective pains are not forgot. SUMMER Sometime shall bless this spot when I, Hapt in the cold dark grave, can heed it not. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Ballad by John Clare Red for LibriVox.org by David Barnes Ballad I love thee, sweet Mary, but love thee in fear, Where I but the morning breeze, healthy and airy, With thou ghost a-walking, I'd breathe in thy ear, And whisper and sigh how I love thee, my Mary. I wish but to touch thee, but wish it in vain. Was thou but a streamlet, a winding so clearly, And thy little globules a soft-dropping rain, How fond would I press thy white bosom, my Mary. I would steal a kiss, but I dare not presume. Was thou but a rose in thy garden, sweet fairy, And I, a bold bee, for to rifle its bloom, A whole summer's day would I kiss thee, my Mary. I long to be with thee, but cannot tell how. Was thou but the elden that grows by thy dairy, And I, the blessed wood-bind, to twine on the bough? I'd embrace thee, and stick to thee ever, my Mary. To my cottage, by John Clare, read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes. To my cottage, thou lowly cot, where first my breath I drew, Past joys and dear thee childhood's past delight, Where each young summer pictures of my view, And dearer still the happy winter night, In the storm pelted down with all his might, And roared and bellowed in the chimney-top, And pattered vehement against the window-light, And o'er the threshold from the eaves did drop, How blessed I've listened on my corner-stall, Heard the storm rage and hugged my happy spot, While the fond parent wound her whirring spall, And spared a sigh for the poor wanderer's lot. In thee, sweet hut, I all these joys did prove, And these endear thee with eternal love. JOYS OF YOUTH by John Clare, read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes. How pleasing, simplest recollections seem! Now summer comes, it warms me to look back, In the sweet happiness of youth's wild track, Varied and fleeting as a summer dream. Here have I paused upon the sweeping rack That specks like wool flocks through the purple sky. Here have I careless stooped down to catch The meadow-flower that entertained my eye, And as the butterfly went whirring by, How anxious for its settling did I watch! And oft long purples on the water's brink Have tempted me to wade in spite of fate, To pluck the flowers, oh, to look back and think! What pleasing pains such simple joys create! THE MEETING Here we meet, too soon to part. Here will absence raise a smart. Here I'll press thee to my heart, Where none's a place above thee. Here to say I love thee well, had but words The power to spell, had but language Strength to tell. I would say how I love thee. Hear the rose that decks thy door, Hear the thorn that spreads thy bower, Hear the willow on the moor, The birds that rest above thee, Had they thoughts and eyes to see, Sense and looks like thee and me, Quickly would they prove to thee How dotingly I love thee. And by the night sky's purple ether, And by the even's sweetest weather, That oft has blessed us both together, The moon that shines above thee, And shows thy beauty face so blooming, And by pale ages winter coming, The charms and casualties of woman, I will forever love thee. Winter The small wind whispers through the leafless hedge, Most sharp and chill, while the light snowy flakes Rests on each twig and spike of withered sedge, Resembling scattered feathers. Veinly breaks the pale split sunbeam Through the frowning cloud on winter's frowns below. From day to day, unmelted still, He spreads his hoary shroud. In dithering pride on the pale traveller's way, Who crudling hastens from the storm behind, Fast gathering deep and black, Again to find his cottage fire And corners sheltering bounds, Where happily such uncomfortable days Makes musical the wood-saps-frizzling sounds And horse-loud bellows puffing up the blaze. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Southern Shower by John Clare, Read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes. Southern Shower. Black grows the southern clouds, Betokening rain, And humming hive-bees homeward hurry by. They feel the change, So let us shun the grain And take the broad road while our feet are dry. Aye, there some dropples moistened in my face And patted on my hat. It is 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 stoop's an ash-tree. Hark, the wind gets high! But never mind, it's 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Careless Rambles by John Clare, Read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes. Careless Rambles. I love to wander at my idle will, In summer's luscious prime about the fields, And kneel when thirsty at the little rill, To sip the draught its pebbly-bottom yields, And wear the maple-bush its fountains shields, To lie and rest a swaley hour away, And crop the swelling peace-cod from the land, Or mid the uplands woodland-walks to stray, Where oaks for eye or their old shadows stand, Neath whose dark foliage with a welcome hand I pluck the luscious strawberry ripe and red as beauty's lips, And in my fancy's dreams, as mid the velvet moss I musing tread, Feel life as lovely as her picture seems. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Bloomfield One by John Clare, Read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes. Bloomfield One. Sweet unassuming minstrel, Not to thee the dazzling fashions of the day belong, Nature's wild pictures field and cloud and tree, And quiet brooks far distant from the throng, In murmurs tender as the toiling bee, Make the sweet music of thy gentle song. Well, nature owns thee, let the crowd pass by, The tide of fashion is a stream too strong For pastoral brooks that gently flow and sing, But nature is their source, and earth and sky Their annual offerings to her current bring. Thy injured muse and memory need no sigh, For thine shall murmur on to many a spring When their proud stream is summer burnt and dry. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Woodland Thoughts by John Clare Read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes. Woodland Thoughts. How sweet the wood shades the hot summer hours, And stretches all my head its sheltering green, As I recline mid-grass and cooling flowers, And seeded stalks of blossoms that have been. Short is a pleasure in such secret nooks To muse on distant friends in memory's eye, Or glance on passages in favourite books, Whose thoughts like echoes to our own reply, Or shades recall which substance long forsook From the black nothingness of days gone by. Blessings of infant hope and love's young bliss Are thus to think the thoughts of death is sweet In shaping heaven to a scene like this With loves and friends and feelings all to meet. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Heath by John Clare Read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes The Heath Oh, I love the dear wild and the outstretching Heath With its sweet swelling uplands and downs When I toil up the path till I am half out of breath While the oakward the distance in browns With the first hues of spring And the mossy thorn-tree shines in its most delicate hue And the long withered grass reaching up to my knee Rostles loud as my feet brushes through Where the furs on the slopes turn from green into gold With their millions of blossoms And ling blushing red underneath is most sweet to behold Where the woodlark sits pruning her wing Such a freshness comes round from the wide spreading air Such a smell from the blossoms beneath Such a beautiful something refreshes me there While I ramble about on the Heath The old hills that for a man's lifetime Hath stood unmolested mid-brushes and burrs The worn ways leading along to the wood And the rabbit tracks into the furs There, nought but a shepherd cries His whoop to his sheep Or a herdsman hails hoy to his cows And the noise of the waggoner trailing the steep While crossing the pudges and sloughs Oft standing to rest them And then with a smack of his whip driving onward again While the wood in an echo repeateth the crack And the load of wood creaks on the wane Though simple to some, I delight in the sight Of such objects that bring unto me A picture of picturesque joy and delight Where beauty and harmony be Oh, I love at my heart to be strolling along Or the Heath a new impulse to find While I hum to the wind in a ballad or song Some fancy that starts in the mind All seem so delightful and bring to the mind Such quiet and beautiful joys That the mind, when it's weary, like hermits may find A retreat from earth's follies and noise End of poem. This recording is in the public domain Winter in the Fens by John Clare Read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes Winter in the Fens So moping flat and low our valleys lie So dull and muggy is our winter sky Drizzling from day to day dull threats of rain And when that falls still threading on again From one wet week so great an ocean flows That every village to an island grows And every road for even weeks to come Is stopped and none but horsemen go from home And one wet night leaves travels best in doubt And horseback travel asks if floods are out Such are the lowland scenes that winter gives And strangers wonder where our pleasure lives Yet in a little garden close at home I watch for spring and there the crocus comes And in a little close, however keen the winter comes I find a patch of green and then may Hap a letter from a friend just in the bustle of the city pen And then to show that friendship's warmth survives The winter from the busy town arrives A letter spiked of flooded roads with news New books, old friendships, authors and reviews While the intermediate blanks employ And though fenced in with winter meet with joy Though troubled waters down the meadow roars And fancy dreads the danger out of doors When every little window after dark Lights comfort in like faith in Noah's Ark End of poem, this recording is in the public domain Sabbath Bells by John Clare Read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes Sabbath Bells I've often on a Sabbath day Where pastoral quiet dwells Lay down among the new mown hay To listen distant bells That beautifully flung the sound upon the quiet wind While beans in blossom breathed around A fragrance or the mind A fragrance and a joy beside That never wears away The very air seems deified upon a Sabbath day So beautiful the flitting rack Slow passing from the eye Earth's music seemed to call them back Calm settled in the sky And I have listened till I felt a feeling not in words A love that rudest moods would melt When those sweet sounds was heard A melancholy joy at rest A pleasurable pain A love, a rapture of the breast That nothing will explain A dream of beauty that displays imaginary joys That all the world in all its ways Finds not to realise All idly stretched upon the hay The wind-flirt fanning by How soft, how sweetly swept away The music of the sky The ear it lost and caught the sound Swelled beautifully on A fitful melody around Of sweetness heard and gone I felt such thoughts I yearned to sing The humming air's delight That seemed to move the swallow's wing Into a wilder flight The butterfly in wings of brown Would find me where I lay Fluttering and bobbing up and down And settling on the hay The waving blossoms seem to throw Their fragrance to the sound While up and down and loud and low The bells were ringing round End of poem This recording is in the public domain An Idle Hour by John Clare Read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes Sauntering at ease I often love to lean O'er old bridge walls And mark the flood below Whose ripples through the weeds Of oily green Like happy travellers mutter as they go And mark the sunshine dancing on the arch Timekeeping to the merry waves beneath And on the banks see drooping blossoms Parch thirsting for water In the day's hot breath Right glad of muddrops Splashed upon their leaves by cattle Plunging from the steepie brink While waterflowers more than their share Receive and revel to their very cops in drink Just like the world Some strive and fare but ill While others riot and have plenty still End of poem This recording is in the public domain Winter Fields by John Clare Read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes Winter Fields Oh, for a pleasant book to cheat the sway of winter Where rich mirth with hearty laugh Listens and rubs his legs on corner seat For fields are mire and sludge And badly offer those who on their pudgy paths delay Their striding shepherd seeking driest way Fearing night's wet-shod feet And hacking cough that keeps him awake Until the peep of day goes shouldering onward And with ready hook progs off to ford the sloughs That nearly meet across the lands Crudling and thin to view his loathe dog follows Stops and quakes and looks for better roads Till whistled to pursue Then on with frequent jump he hurcles through