John Clare

The Harvest Morning

Cocks wake the early morn with many a crow;
Loud-striking village clock has counted four;
The labouring rustic hears his restless foe,
And weary, of his pains complaining sore,
Hobbles to fetch his horses from the moor:
Some busy ’gin to teem the loaded corn,
Which night throng’d round the barn’s becrowded door;
Such plenteous scenes the farmer’s yard adorn,
Such noisy, busy toils now mark the Harvest Morn.

The bird-boy’s pealing horn is loudly blow’d;
The waggons jostle on with 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 waggon’s way;
What busy bustling wakens echo round;
How drive the sun’s warm beams the mist away;
How labour sweats and toils, and dreads the sultry day!

His scythe the mower o’er his shoulder leans,
And whetting, jars with sharp and tinkling sound;
Then sweeps again ’mong corn and crackling beans,
And swath by swath flops lengthening o’er the ground;
While ’neath some friendly heap, snug shelter’d round
From spoiling sun, lies hid the heart’s delight;
And hearty soaks oft hand the bottle round,
Their toils pursuing with redoubled might--
Great praise to him is due that brought its birth to light.

Upon the waggon now, with eager bound,
The lusty picker whirls the rustling sheaves;
Or, resting ponderous creaking fork aground,
Boastful at once whole shocks of barley heaves:
The loading boy revengeful inly grieves
To find his unmatch’d strength and power decay;
The barley horn his garments interweaves;
Smarting and sweating ’neath the sultry day,
With muttering curses stung, he mauls the heaps away.

A motley group the clearing field surround;
Sons of Humanity, oh ne’er deny
The humble gleaner entrance in your ground;
Winter’s sad cold, and Poverty are nigh.
Grudge not from Providence the scant supply:
You’ll never miss it from your ample store.
Who gives denial--harden’d, 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 imprison’d worth your rigid fates confine:
Not fancied charms of an Arcadian queen
So sweet as Emma’s real beauties shine:
Had Fortune blest, sweet girl, this lot had ne’er been thine.

The sun’s increasing heat now mounted high,
Refreshment must recruit exhausted power;
The waggon stops, the busy tool’s thrown by,
And ’neath a shock’s enjoy’d the bevering hour.
The bashful maid, sweet health’s engaging flower
Lingering behind, o’er rake still blushing bends;
And when to take the horn fond swains implore,
With feign’d excuses its dislike pretends.
So pass the bevering 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:
Oh, could I soar me on the Muse’s wing,
What rifled charms should my researches bring!
Pleas’d would I wander where these charms reside;
Of rural sports and beauties would I sing;
Those beauties, Wealth, which you in vain deride,
Beauties of richest bloom, superior to your pride.