Woodlands Of England

Glade. New Forest. 1906

The literature of trees ranges from the recorded myths of antiquity to the learned treatise of timber research scientists in this, the electronic age. Some have always known the value of their forests, not merely as a material asset but also for the religious personification that seemed to be vested in the great flora. Indeed, all civilisations have cherished them in poetry and religious allegory. This legacy of the tree is still apparent even in the more sober writings of the latter-day arborists and conservationists, though it may now appeal to a minority audience. The most prosaic would agree that trees, apart from their functional and structural attributes, are natural works of art, possessing dimensions that no other living things display. As single specimens on open land, large spreading trees cchallenge the artist and excite the poet. The mathematically-minded find problems of purchase and strength to tease them, the apparent paradox of grace and strength often seeming at odds with the rules and formulae of the theory of structures, yet never in conflict. In their natural state, trees owe nothing to human-kind for their growth and development, being self-generating and self-supporting, only asking space for their fulfilment. Little wonder at their universal appeal.

To A Fallen Elm

Old Elm that murmured in our chimney top
The sweetest anthem autumn ever made
And into mellow whispering calms would drop
When showers fell on thy many coloured shade
And when dark tempests mimic thunder made
While darkness came as it would strangle light
With the black tempest of a winter night
That rocked thee like a cradle to thy root
How did I love to hear the winds upbraid
Thy strength without while all within was mute
It seasoned comfort to our hearts desire
We felt thy kind protection like a friend
And pitched our chairs up closer to the fire
Enjoying comforts that was was never penned

Old favourite tree thoust seen times changes lower
But change till now did never come to thee
For time beheld thee as his sacred dower
And nature claimed thee her domestic tree
Storms came and shook thee with aliving power
Yet stedfast to thy home thy roots hath been
Summers of thirst parched round thy homely bower
Till earth grew iron—still thy leaves was green
The children sought thee in thy summer shade
And made their play house rings of sticks and stone
The mavis sang and felt himself alone
While in they leaves his early nest was made
And I did feel his happiness mine own
Nought heeding that our friendship was betrayed

Friend not inanimate—tho stocks and stones
There are and many cloathed in flesh and bones
Thou ownd a lnaguage by which hearts are stirred
Deeper than by the attribute of words
Thine spoke a feeling known in every tongue
Language of pity and the force of wrong
What cant assumes what hypocrites may dare
Speaks home to truth and shows it what they are

I see a picture that thy fate displays
And learn a lesson from thy destiny
Self interest saw thee stand in freedoms ways
So thy old shadow must a tyrant be
Thoust heard the knave abusing those in power
Bawl freedom loud and then oppress the free
Thoust sheltered hypocrites in many an hour
That when in power would never shelter thee
Thoust heard the knave supply his canting powers
With wrongs illusions when he wanted friends
That bawled for shelter when he lived in showers
And when clouds vanished made thy shade ammends
With axe at root he felled thee to the ground
And barked of freedom—O I hate that sound

It grows the cant terms of enslaving tools
To wrong another by the name of right
It grows a liscence with oer bearing fools
To cheat plain honesty by force of might
Thus came enclosure—ruin was her guide
But freedoms clapping hands enjoyed the sight
Tho comforts cottage soon was thrust aside
And workhouse prisons raised upon the scite
Een natures dwelling far away from men
The common heath became the spoilers prey
The rabbit had not where to make his den
And labours only cow was drove away
No matter—wrong was right and right was wrong
And freedoms brawl was sanction to the song

Such was thy ruin music making Elm
The rights of freedom was to injure thine
As thou wert served so would they overwhelm
In freedoms name the little so would they over whelm
And these are knaves that brawl for better laws
And cant of tyranny in stronger powers
Who glut their vile unsatiated maws
And freedoms birthright from the weak devours

John Clare 1793-1864

The Forest of Arden

The National Forest

a forest in the making: a place of

200 square miles spanning three

counties in the English Midlands.

you can witness and enjoy its

physical creation and be involved in

its development as part of

the nation's future heritage.

The Royal Forest of Dean

an opportunity to see this part

of the English countryside at

its best. The Royal Forest of Dean

was designated as a

National Forest Park in 1938,

the first in England.

The Trees That Made Britain

Tony Kirkham and Jon Hammerton,

two of TV's best known tree lovers,

return to the small screen in a

nationwide search for the trees that

made Britain. Fridays on BBC Two

at 7.30pm from 15 September

.

related internet links

As You Like It

Scene IV

by William Shakespeare

in the Forest of Arden

In The Forest of Arden

a novel by

Hamilton Wright Mabie

1846-1916

published in 1891

.

photograph credits

the photograph of Moseley Bog is

to be found in the Tolkien Trail

section of a truly amazing website,

Virtual Brum, everything you wanted

to know about Birmingham , UK,

and more

A Glade in the New Forest: 1906

Memorials of Hampshire

Edited by G. E. Jeans, M.A., F.S.A .

the image and others are to be found

on a really eclectic website

run by Liam Quin

Massive thanks Liam!

the photograph at the head of this table,

a general prospect of The New Forest

can be found on the NLP

(Neuro-Linguistics Programme)

website. Thanks people!