The Penguin Book of English Verse

by Paul Keegan

  And smile and fancy and so pass along

  While its low nest moist with the dews of morn

  Lye safely with the leveret in the corn

  JOHN CLARE Mist in the Meadows

  The evening oer the meadow seems to stoop

  More distant lessens the diminished spire

  Mist in the hollows reaks and curdles up

  Like fallen clouds that spread – and things retire

  Less seen and less – the shepherd passes near

  And little distant most grotesquely shades

  As walking without legs – lost to his knees

  As through the rawky creeping smoke he wades

  Now half way up the arches dissappear

  And small the bits of sky that glimmer through

  Then trees loose all but tops – I meet the fields

  And now the indistinctness passes bye

  The shepherd all his length is seen again

  And further on the village meets the eye

  JOHN CLARE Sand Martin

  Thou hermit haunter of the lonely glen

  And common wild and heath – the desolate face

  Of rude waste landscapes far away from men

  Where frequent quarrys give thee dwelling place

  With strangest taste and labour undeterred

  Drilling small holes along the quarrys side

  More like the haunts of vermin than a bird

  And seldom by the nesting boy descried

  I’ve seen thee far away from all thy tribe

  Flirting about the unfrequented sky

  And felt a feeling that I cant describe

  Of lone seclusion and a hermit joy

  To see thee circle round nor go beyond

  That lone heath and its melancholly pond

  GEORGE DARLEY from Nepenthe

  Hurry me Nymphs! O, hurry me

  Far above the grovelling sea,

  Which, with blind weakness and base roar

  Casting his white age on the shore,

  Wallows along that slimy floor;

  With his widespread webbed hands

  Seeking to climb the level lands

  But rejected still to rave

  Alive in his uncovered grave.

  JOHN HENRY NEWMAN The Pillar of the Cloud1836

  Lead, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom,

  Lead Thou me on!

  The night is dark, and I am far from home –

  Lead Thou me on!

  Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see

  The distant scene, – one step enough for me.

  I was not ever thus, nor pray’d that Thou

  Shouldst lead me on.

  I loved to choose and see my path, but now

  Lead Thou me on!

  I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,

  Pride ruled my will: remember not past years.

  So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still

  Will lead me on,

  O’er moor and fen, o’er crag and torrent, till

  The night is gone;

  And with the morn those angel faces smile

  Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile.

  1837GEORGE DARLEY The Mermaidens’ Vesper-Hymn

  Troop home to silent grots and caves!

  Troop home! and mimic as you go

  The mournful winding of the waves

  Which to their dark abysses flow.

  At this sweet hour, all things beside

  In amorous pairs to covert creep;

  The swans that brush the evening tide

  Homeward in snowy couples keep.

  In his green den the murmuring seal

  Close by his sleek companion lies;

  While singly we to bedward steal,

  And close in fruitless sleep our eyes.

  In bowers of love men take their rest,

  In loveless bowers we sigh alone,

  With bosom-friends are others blest, –

  But we have none! but we have none!

  JOHN CLARE

  I found a ball of grass among the hay

  And proged it as I passed and went away

  And when I looked I fancied somthing stirred

  And turned agen and hoped to catch the bird

  When out an old mouse bolted in the wheat

  With all her young ones hanging at her teats

  She looked so odd and so grotesque to me

  I ran and wondered what the thing could be

  And pushed the knapweed bunches where I stood

  When the mouse hurried from the crawling brood

  The young ones squeaked and when I went away

  She found her nest again among the hay

  The water oer the pebbles scarce could run

  And broad old cesspools glittered in the sun

  (1984)

  JOHN CLARE

  The old pond full of flags and fenced around

  With trees and bushes trailing to the ground

  The water weeds are all around the brink

  And one clear place where cattle go to drink

  From year to year the schoolboy thither steals

  And muddys round the place to catch the eels

  The cowboy often hiding from the flies

  Lies there and plaits the rushcap as he lies

  The hissing owl sits moping all the day

  And hears his song and never flies away

  The pinks nest hangs upon the branch so thin

  The young ones caw and seem as tumbling in

  While round them thrums the purple dragon flye

  And great white butter flye goes dancing bye

  (1984)

  JOHN CLARE from The Badger

  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 lye

  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 hurrys from the cry

  And the old hare half wounded buzzes bye

  They get a forked stick to bear him down

  And clapt the dogs and bore 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 noisey streets

  He turns about to face the loud uproar

  And drives the rebels to their very doors

  The frequent stone is hurled where ere they go

  When badgers fight and every ones 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 dimute and small

  He fights with dogs for hours and beats them all

  The heavy mastiff savage in the fray

  Lies down and licks his feet and turns away

  The bull dog 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 takes the boys away

  The blackguard laughs and hurrys on the fray

  He trys to reach the woods a awkard race

  But sticks and cudgels quickly stop the chace

  He turns agen and drives the noisey 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

  (1920)

  1838LEIGH HUNT from The
Fish, the Man, and the Spirit

  To Fish

  You strange, astonish’d-looking, angle-faced,

  Dreary-mouth’d, gaping wretches of the sea,

  Gulping salt-water everlastingly,

  Cold-blooded, though with red your blood be graced,

  And mute, though dwellers in the roaring waste;

  And you, all shapes beside, that fishy be, –

  Some round, some flat, some long, all devilry,

  Legless, unloving, infamously chaste: –

  O scaly, slippery, wet, swift, staring wights,

  What is’t ye do? what life lead? eh, dull goggles?

  How do ye vary your vile days and nights?

  How pass your Sundays? Are ye still but joggles

  In ceaseless wash? Still nought but gapes and bites,

  And drinks, and stares, diversified with boggles?

  A Fish Answers

  Amazing monster! that, for aught I know,

  With the first sight of thee didst make our race

  Forever stare! O flat and shocking face,

  Grimly divided from the breast below!

  Thou that on dry land horribly dost go

  With a split body and most ridiculous pace,

  Prong after prong, disgracer of all grace,

  Long-useless-finned, hair’d, upright, unwet, slow!

  O breather of unbreathable, sword-sharp air,

  How canst exist? How bear thyself, thou dry

  And dreary sloth? What particles canst share

  Of the only blessed life, the watery?

  I sometimes see of ye an actual pair

  Go by! link’d fin by fin! most odiously.

  (… )

  Man’s life is warm, glad, sad, ’twixt loves and graves,

  Boundless in hope, honour’d with pangs austere,

  Heaven-gazing: and his angel-wings he craves:

  The fish is swift, small-needing, vague yet clear,

  A cold, sweet, silver life, wrapp’d in round waves,

  Quicken’d with touches of transporting fear.

  THOMAS HOOD Sonnet to Vauxhall1839

  The cold transparent ham is on my fork –

  It hardly rains – and hark the bell! – ding-dingle –

  Away! Three thousand feet at gravel work,

  Mocking a Vauxhall shower! – Married and Single

  Crush – rush; – Soak’d Silks with wet white Satin mingle.

  Hengler! Madame! round whom all bright sparks lurk,

  Calls audibly on Mr and Mrs Pringle

  To study the Sublime, &c. – (vide Burke)

  All Noses are upturn’d! – Whish – ish! – On high

  The rocket rushes – trails – just steals in sight –

  Then droops and melts in bubbles of blue light –

  And Darkness reigns – Then balls flare up and die –

  Wheels whiz – smack crackers – serpents twist – and then

  Back to the cold transparent ham again!

  1842ROBERT BROWNING My Last Duchess

  Ferrara

  That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall,

  Looking as if she were alive. I call

  That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf’s hands

  Worked busily a day, and there she stands.

  Will’t please you sit and look at her? I said

  ‘Frà Pandolf’ by design, for never read

  Strangers like you that pictured countenance,

  The depth and passion of its earnest glance,

  But to myself they turned (since none puts by

  The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)

  And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,

  How such a glance came there; so, not the first

  Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, ’twas not

  Her husband’s presence only, called that spot

  Of joy into the Duchess’ cheek: perhaps

  Frà Pandolf chanced to say ‘Her mantle laps

  Over my lady’s wrist too much,’ or ‘Paint

  Must never hope to reproduce the faint

  Half-flush that dies along her throat’: such stuff

  Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough

  For calling up that spot of joy. She had

  A heart – how shall I say? – too soon made glad,

  Too easily impressed; she liked whate’er

  She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.

  Sir, ’twas all one! My favour at her breast,

  The dropping of the daylight in the West,

  The bough of cherries some officious fool

  Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule

  She rode with round the terrace – all and each

  Would draw from her alike the approving speech,

  Or blush, at least. She thanked men, – good! but thanked

  Somehow – I know not how – as if she ranked

  My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name

  With anybody’s gift. Who’d stoop to blame

  This sort of trifling? Even had you skill

  In speech – (which I have not) – to make your will

  Quite clear to such an one, and say, ‘Just this

  Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,

  Or there exceed the mark’ – and if she let

  Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set

  Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,

  – E’en then would be some stooping; and I choose

  Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,

  Whene’er I passed her; but who passed without

  Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;

  Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands

  As if alive. Will’t please you rise? We’ll meet

  The company below, then. I repeat,

  The Count your master’s known munificence

  Is ample warrant that no just pretence

  Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;

  Though his fair daughter’s self, as I avowed

  At starting, is my object. Nay, we’ll go

  Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,

  Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,

  Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

  ROBERT BROWNING from Waring

  I

  I

  What’s become of Waring

  Since he gave us all the slip,

  Chose land-travel or seafaring,

  Boots and chest or staff and scrip,