And the cow-boy seeks the sedge,
Romping in the woodland hedge,
While his cattle o'er the vales
Scamper, with uplifted tails;
Others, not so wild and mad,
That can better bear the gad,
Underneath the hedge-row lunge,
Or, if nigh, in waters 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 the 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,

Th' injurious deed alike is done
By the hot, relentless sun.
E'en the dew is parched up
From the teasel's jointed cup:

poor

birds! where must ye fly,

Now your water-pots are dry?

If ye stay upon the heath,

Ye'll be choaked and clammed to death:

Therefore leave the shadeless goss,

Seek the spring-head lined with moss;

There your little feet may stand,

Safely printing on the sand;
While, in full possession, where

Purling eddies ripple clear,

TO A RED CLOVER BLOSSOM.

65

You, with ease and plenty blest,
Sip the coolest and the best.
Then away! and wet your throats;
Cheer me with your warbling 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,
Lifts its down on spindles high,
Shall be where I'll choose to lie;
Fearless of the things that creep,

Then I'll think, and then I'll sleep;
Caring not to stir at all,

Till the dew begins to fall.

John Clare.

TO A RED CLOVER BLOSSOM.

SWEET bottle-shaped flower of lushy red,

Born when the summer wakes her warmest breeze, Among the meadow's waving grasses spread,

Or 'neath the shade of hedge or clumping trees,

Bowing on slender stein thy heavy head,

In sweet delight I view thy summer bed,
And list the drone of heavy humblebees
Along thy honeyed garden gayly led,

Down corn-fields, striped balks, and pasture-leas.
Fond warmings of the soul, that long have fled,

5

Revive my bosom with their kindlings still,
As I bend musing o'er thy ruddy pride;
Recalling days when, dropt upon a hill,
I cut my oaten trumpets by thy side.

John Clare.

THE BRAMBLE FLOWER.

THY fruit full well the schoolboy knows,
Wild bramble of the brake!

So, put thou forth thy small white rose;
I love it for his sake.

Though woodbines flaunt and roses glow
O'er all the fragrant bowers,

Thou need'st not be ashamed to show
Thy satin-threaded flowers;

For dull the eye, the heart is dull,
That cannot feel how fair,

Amid all beauty beautiful,

Thy tender blossoms are;

How delicate thy gauzy frill,

How rich thy branchy stem,

How soft thy voice when woods are still
And thou sing'st hymns to them;

While silent showers are falling slow,
And, mid the general hush,

A sweet air lifts the little bough,

Lone whispering through the bush! The primrose to the grave is gone; The hawthorn flower is dead;

A PASTORAL SONG.

The violet by the mossed gray stone
Hath laid her weary head;

But thou! wild bramble! back dost bring,
In all their beauteous power,

The fresh green days of life's fair Spring,
And boyhood's blossomy hour.

Scorned bramble of the brake! once more
Thou bidd'st me be a boy,

To gad with thec the woodlands o'er,

In freedom and in joy.

A PASTORAL SONG.

HITHER! hither!

O come hither!

Lads and lasses, come and see!

Trip it neatly,

Foot it featly,

O'er the grassy turf to me!

Here are bowers

Hung with flowers,

Richly curtain'd halls for you!

Meads for rovers,

Shades for lovers,

Violet beds, and pillows too!

Purple heather

You may gather

Sandal-deep in seas of bloom,

Ebenezer Elliott.

67

Pale-faced lily,

Proud Sweet-Willy,

Gorgeous rose, and golden broom!

Odorous blossoms

For sweet bosoms,

Garlands green to bind the hair;
Crowns and kirtles,

Weft of myrtles,

Youth may choose, and Beauty wear!

Brightsome glasses

For bright faces

'Shine in ev'ry rill that flows;

Every minute

You look in it

Still more bright your beauty grows!

Banks for sleeping,

Nooks for peeping,

Glades for dancing, smooth and fine!

Fruits delicious

For who wishes,

Nectar, dew, and honey-wine!

Hither! hither!

O come hither!

Lads and lasses, come and see!

Trip it neatly,

Foot it featly,

O'er the grassy turf to me!

George Darley.