Hearth

These boats drew little water, and could be concealed very easily.

The chiefs of these bands of Vikings, as the Northmen were called, never sought refuge under a roof or emptied their drinking-horns by a hearth:—The eager prince would drink his yule at sea And play Frey's game [war] if he had his will.

From his youth up he loathed the fire boiler, Hearth, and sitting indoors,—the warm bower And the bolster full of down Their method of attack was to ascend some river, hide their boat in a favorable spot, and then fall upon the nearest village.

If they met with a determined resistance they would feign a flight, but when the enemy scattered in pursuit they would form again and renew the attack.They are well cared for, the warriors That cast dice in Harald's court! They are endowed With wealth and with fair swords, with the ore Of the Huns, and with maids from the East.

They are glad When they have hopes of a battle.

The little pottery Santa Clauses.

You'd like one, sir, to brighten Hearth and Home for the coming Yule season?

Maybe.

I saw one of them a little while ago.

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For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. To the Rural Muse by John Clare muse of the fields oft have i said farewell to thee my boon companion loved so long and hung thy sweet harp in the bushy dell for abler hands to wake an abler song much did i fear my homage did thee wrong yet loath to leave as oft i turned again and to its wires mine idle hands would cling torturing it into song it may be vain yet still i try ere fancy droops her wing and hopeless silence comes to numb its every string muse of the pasture brooks on thy calm sea of poesy i've sailed and though the will to speed were greater than my prowess be i ventured with much fear of usage ill yet more of joy though timid be my skill as not to dare the depth of mightier streams yet rocks abide in shallow ways and i have much of fear to mingle with my dreams yet lovely muse i still believe thee by and think i see thee smile and so forget i sigh muse of the cottage hearth oft did i tell my hopes to thee nor feared to plead in vain but felt around my heart thy witching spell that bade me as thy worshipper remain i did so and still worship oh again smile on my offerings and so keep them green bedeck thy fancies like the clouds of even mingling all hues which thou from heaven dost glean to me a portion of thy power be given if themes so mean as mine may merit aught of heaven for thee in youth i culled the simple flower that on thy bosom gained a sweeter hue and took thy hand along life's sunny hour meeting the sweetest joys that ever grew more friends were needless and my foes were few though freedom then be deemed as rudeness now and what once won thy praise now meet disdain yet the last wreath i braided for thy brow thy smiles did so commend it made me vain to weave another one and hopeful praise again with thee the spirit of departed years wakes that sweet voice which time hath rendered dumb and freshens like to spring love's hopes and fears that in my bosom found an early home wooing the heart to ecstasy i come to thee when sick of care of joy bereft seeking the pleasures that are found in bloom o happy hopes that time hath only left around the haunts where thou didst sojourn then smile sweet muse again and welcome my return with thee the raptures of life's early day appear and all that pleased me when a boy though pains and cares have torn the best away and winters creep between us to destroy do thou commend the recompense is joy the tempest of the heart shall soon be calm though sterner truth against my dreams rebel hope feels success and all my spirits warm to strike with happier mood thy simple shell and seize thy mantle's hem oh say not fare thee well still sweet enchantress youth's strong feelings move that from thy presence their existence took the innocent idolatry and love paying thee worship in each secret nook that fancied friends in tree and flower and brook shaped clouds to angels and beheld them smile and heard commending tongues in every wind life's grosser fancies did these dreams defile yet not entirely root them from the mind i think i hear them still and often look behind i i have heard thee in the summer wind as if commending what i sung to thee i i have seen thee on a cloud reclined kindling my fancies into poesie i saw thee smile and took the praise to me in beauties past all beauty thou wert dressed i thought the very clouds around thee knelt i saw the sun to linger in the west paying thee worship and as eve did melt in dews they seemed thy tears for sorrows i had felt Sweeter than flowers on beauty's bosom hung, Sweeter than dreams of happiness above, Sweeter than themes by lips of beauty sung, Are the young fancies of a poet's love, When round his thoughts thy trancing visions move.

in floating melody no notes may sound the world is all forgot and past his care while on thy harp thy fingers lightly bound as winning him its melody to share and heaven itself with him where is it then but there e'en now my heart leaps out from grief and all the gloom thrown round by cares o'ershading wing e'en now those sunny visions to recall like to a bird i quit dull earth and sing life's tempests swoon to calms on every string ah sweet enchantress if i do but dream if earthly visions have been only mine my weakness in thy service woos esteem and proves my truth as almost worthy thine surely true worship makes the meanest theme divine and still warm courage calming many a fear heartens my hand once more thy harp to try to join the anthem of the minstrel year for summer's music in thy praise is high the very winds about thy mantle sigh love melodies thy minstrel bards to be insects and birds exerting all their skill floating continued song for mastery while in thy haunts loud leaps the little rill to kiss thy mantle's hem and how can i be still there still i see thee fold thy mantle grey to trace the dewy lawn at morn and night and there i see thee in the sunny day withdraw thy veil and shine confest in light burning my fancies with a wild delight to win a portion of thy blushing fame though haughty fancy treat thy power as small and fashion thy simplicity disclaim should but a portion of thy mantle fall or him who woos thy love tis recompense for all not with the mighty to thy shrine i come in anxious sighs or self-applauding mirth on mount parnassus as thine heir to rome i dare not credit that immortal birth but mingling with the lesser ones on earth like as the little lark from off its nest beside the mossy hill awakes in glee to seek the morning's throne a merry guest so do i seek thy shrine if that may be to win by new attempts another smile from thee if without thee neath storms and clouds and wind i've roamed the wood and field and meadow lee and found no flowers but what the vulgar find nor met one breath of living poesy among such charms where inspirations be the fault is mine and i must bear the lot of missing praise to merit thy disdain to feel each idle plea though urged forgot i can but sigh though foolish to complain or hope so fair begun to find them end so vain then will it prove presumption thus to dare to add fresh failings to each faulty song urging thy blessings on an idle prayer to sanction silly themes it will be wrong for one so lowly to be heard so long yet sweet enchantress yet a little while forego impatience and from frowns refrain the strong are ne'er debarred thy cheering smile why should the weak who need the most complain alone in solitude soliciting in vain but if my efforts on thy harp prove true which bashful youth at first so feared to try if aught of nature be in sounds i drew from hope's young dreams and doubt's uncertainty to these late offerings not without their sigh then on thine altar shall these themes be laid and past the deeds of graven brass remain filling a space in time that shall not fade and if it be not so avert disdain till dust shall feel no sting nor know it toiled in vain End of poem read by Alan Mapstone On May Morning by John Clare This LibriVox recording is in the public domain.

lady tis thy desire to move far from the world's ungentle throng lady tis thy delight to love the muses and the sons of song nor taste alone is theme to praise for thou canst touch the minstrel wire and while that praising others lays wake notes that any may admire forgive me if in friendship's way i offer thee a wreath of may i greet thee with no gaudy flowers for thou art not to fashions prone but rather loves the woodland bowers where nature's beauties charm alone the passion flower and serious fine by wealth and pride are reared alone yet flowers more sweet nor less divine spring's humbler fields and forests own to every hand and bosom given and nourished by the jews of heaven the little violet's bloom i weave in wreaths i'm fain that thou shouldst prize although it comes at winter's eve and often in the tempest dies the primrose too a doubtful dream of what precarious spring may be yet would i not these types should seem aught fancy feigns resembling thee and thus belie thy gentle heart where worldly coldness hath no part here too are boughs of opening may and lilies of the valley fair yet not with idle praise to say their types of wot is sweet and fair i cropped one from the pasture hedge the others from the forest dell and thou hast given the muses pledge such scenes delight thy bosom well tis not thy person wakes my lays thy heart alone i mean to praise forgive me though i flatter not youth's beauties it was thine to wear have been by riper years forgot though thou hast had a happy share and i might praise for many a grace that lives and lingers yet behind but they like flowers shall change their place not so the beauties of the mind so i have ivy placed between to prove that worth is ever green the little blue forget-me-not comes too on friendship's gentle plea springs messenger in every spot smiling on all remember me but gaudy tulips find no place in garlands friendship would bestow yet here the cowslip shows its face prized for its sweetness more than show emblems to pomp and pride inclined would but offend a modest mind i would not on may's garland fling the laurel to the muse and thee for fashion's praise a common thing hath made of that once sacred tree and trust me many laurels wear that grew not on parnassus hill yet dare and speed tis yours to bear the muses laurels if you will let flattery think her wreaths divine merit by its own worth will shine oh when i view the glorious host of poets to my country born though sorrow was the lot of most and many shared the sneers of scorn that now by time and talent tried give life to fame's eternal son oh when i mark the glorious pride that england from her bards hath won e'en i the meanest of the throng warm into ecstasy and song the highest gifts each kingdom claims are minstrels on the muses throne and bards who've won the richest fames tis england's noblest pride to own shakespeare's and milton's they that air the fame's immortal o'er decay and scott's and byron's born to wear the honours of a later day who join to present past renown and sing eternity to crown these from proud laurels never won their fames and honours more divine they like the grand eternal sun confer their glories where they shine the laurel were a common bow had it not decked the poet's crown and even weeds so common now placed there would augur like renown bloom satellites in glory's way proud as the laurel and the bay lady and thou hast chosen well to give the muses thy regard their taste from pleasure bears the bell their feeling finds its own reward though genius often while she makes life's millions happy with her songs from sorrow's cup her portion takes and struggles under bitterest wrongs to cares of life and song unknown the poet's fame be thine alone poem thoughts in a churchyard a happy spot how still it seems where crowds of buried memories sleep how quiet nature o'er them dreams tis but our troubled thoughts that weep life's book shuts here its pages lost with them and all its busy claims the poor are from its memory crossed the rich leave nothing but their names there rest the weary from their toil there lie the troubled free from care who through the strife of life's turmoil sought rest and only found it there with none to fear his scornful brow there sleeps the master with the slave and heedless of all titles now repose the honoured and the brave there rest the miser and the heir both careless who their wealth shall reap e'en love finds cure for heartaches here and none enjoys a sounder sleep the fair one far from folly's freaks as quiet as her neighbour seems unconscious now of rosy cheeks without a rival in her dreams strangers alike to joy and strife heedless of all its past affairs there blotted from the list of life and absent from its teasing cares grief joy hope fear and all their crew that haunt the memory's living mind ceased when they could no more pursue and left a painless blank behind life's ignis facius light is gone no more to lead their hopes astray care's poison cup is drained and done and all its follies passed away the bills made out the reckoning paid the book is crossed the business done on them the last demand is made and heaven's eternal peace is won end of poem sonnet by john clare to napoleon the heroes of the present and the past were puny vague and nothingness to thee thou didst a span grasp mighty to the last and strain for glory when thy die was cast that little island on the atlantic sea was but a dust-pot in a lake thy mind swept space as shoreless as eternity thy giant powers outstripped this gaudy age of heroes and as looking at the sun so gazing on thy greatness made men blind to merits that had adoration won in olden times the world was on thy page of victories but a comma fame could find no parallel thy greatness to presage End of poem On an infant killed by lightning By John Clare This LibriVox recording is in the public domain.