John Harris - Cornish Poet

John Harris was born in 1820 in Bolenowe, a small village not far from Camborne, in Cornwall. His father was a miner at Dolcoath Tin Mine where young John also started at the age of 10.He began writing poetry as a child, usually in the open air where he was inspired by nature. He published several volumes of poetry, including his masterpiece, the loco-descriptive poem 'A Story of Carn Brea'. None of his poetry is now in print. John Harris died in 1884.


Johm Harris 'A Story of Carn Brea' Extracts


"How blissful thus to muse where Nature pours
Her incense forth in hollows watch'd with hills,
And roof'd with stars, and floor'd with living flowers!
0 what a temple is the leafy wood,
The rude old carn, the ocean's solemn shore,
The valley's bosom, and the meadow's lap!
I love thee, Nature, with a fire unfeign'd,
And ever at thy feet thy child would sit
In pleasant meditation, where the eye
Of selfish man beholds not my retreat,
In storm or calm, when heaven is blue or black,
Learning thy lore, and treasuring up thy truth." Extract Book One



"HOW often hast thou fed my early Muse,
Crag-heap'd Carn Brea, when from my father's meads
I scann'd thy front, mist-clad or clear, deeming
My mount and thee twin-sisters beautiful!
One bright May morn, when violets were rare,
I trick'd old Labour, and equipp'd myself
With poets' baggage, pencil, sheet, and lyre,
And, walking o'er the moors, I turn'd my face
Towards its summit shining in the dawn,
As't were an old bard welcoming the young.
I cross'd the meadows, follow'd by our dog,
Who snuff'd the air and bark'd among the flowers,
Right happy to be free! The larks were up,
Singing among the cloudlets, and sweet song
Gush'd from a hundred hollows. In the fields
The cottagers were busy with their spades,
And ploughs, and harrows; and perhaps they thought
I was a crazy fellow wandering weird.
I reach'd the mountain's base, where an old man
And a young lad were cutting granite blocks,
Perchance to build a cottage of their own;
And hard enough they work'd. So on I went
To gain the summit of this famous carn,
Which look'd so distant from my father's door,
That oft in childhood I have thought the sun
Stopp'd on the rocks and started forth again,
Renew'd by resting on its ridgy brow;
And in my dreams within my own dear bower
I oft believed, if I could wander there,
I should be sure to see great Phœbus' bed,
And mark the door from whence the moon came out,
And view the' uncover'd stars." Extract Book Two

At the moment, I am revisiting my early love of the Romantic poets and am reading a biography of William Wordsworth. Many poets, artists and writers find their early spiritual experiences in Nature in what Wordsworth describes as 'spots of time'.These moments are transcendent, timeless moments when the individual feels a profound sense of unity with nature and a harmony which can be revisited in the imagination later in life and which acts as a spring of inspiration and healing.Wordsworth began to question why, as a child, he once was able to see an immortal presence within nature but as an adult that was fading away except in these few moments:

'There are in our existence spots of time,
That with distinct pre-eminence retain
A renovating virtue, whence–depressed
By false opinion and contentious thought,
Or aught of heavier or more deadly weight,
In trivial occupations, and the round
Of ordinary intercourse–our minds
Are nourished and invisibly repaired;
A virtue, by which pleasure is enhanced,
That penetrates, enables us to mount,
When high, more high, and lifts us up when fallen.'

The Prelude W.Wordsworth

It is worthwhile pausing for a moment and reflecting on these moments in our own life, particularly early moments in childhood to draw a sense of healing and strength.The power of nature to enable us to overcome the difficulties of our daily 'trivial occupations' is profound. In John Harris's vision of Carn Brea, he resembles Wordsworth as he sets out on an early morning ramble to greet the dawn imagining himself as poet, artist and minstrel with his pencil, sheet and lyre. He feels free from the daily grind of a miner's life as he passes a miner and his son cutting granite blocks for their cottage. The way he describes the 'ridgy brow' of the 'craggy carn' which he views as a mountain personifies it.It is a living entity of mythic and eternal significance to him and he sees it every day. I love the way he sees himself as slightly mad; a 'crazy fellow wandering weird'and in this day and age as he cheats the mundane work day he must have been viewed as such by the community of sombre Methodists. This sense of seeing the carn as a quest and adventure to be enjoyed really moved me as I too have set forth in the same way on a May morning and it is true that still the Carn Brea valley is alive with birdsong and blossom at this time of year.Like Wordworth and many a Romantic he will wonder in his imagination back to this moment when he is dreaming in his 'bower'. Wordsworth says:
'For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;

when he describes his vision of the daffodils in his famous poem. As winter draws in it is comforting to lie on the sofa and dream of those moments of harmony and spiritual inspiration in nature. I like the way Harris walks out from his father's door. He can imbue this carn with the grandeur of a mountain and by climbing it he is closer to the infinite, just as Wordsworth climbed Helvellyn and other Lakeland peaks. Many poets seek their muse in high places like the prophets and bards of ancient Greece sought their Gods and Goddesses on Mount Olympus. Thus each of us can find in ourselves the poet and the pilgrim as we set out from our ordinary front doors in search of these extraordinary moments.

Blessed Be x x x

Carwynnen Quoit

"There is present little doubt amongst antiquaries with respect to the originall Cromlech; it is generally believed to be a sepulchral monument used by the Druids to mark the places of interment of the Druid chief or such princes as were favourable to their order" John Greig 1808A couple of Sundays ago I went for a walk with my sister and neices to Carwynnen Quoit on the outskirts of Troon and on the edge of the Pendarves estate. It was a beautifully mellow late Autumn afternoon and the woods were copper and golden with pathways of deeply fallen leaves and guilded with rays of sun through the branches. I love these woods. They seem very old and are full of earth works possibly from mining, but the area itself is full of fascinating history from the 19th century hamlet of Treslothan to the ancient hut circles on Copper Hill recorded by Charles Thomas.This quoit can easily be approached from the road from Troon to Carwynnen and is discovered at the bottom of a gated field.Known as the Giants Quoit, it has also been called 'The Devil's Frying Pan' set in what was known in old tithe records as 'Frying Pan Field'. The quoit is now being preserved by the Sustainable Trust who hope to resurrect it and the land in which it reposes. Old photos on an information board at the site show a picnic around a capstoned quoit very much like Lanyon Quoit in West Penwith. The quoit is Neolithic (3,500-2,500BC).The capstone of this tomb once stood on three supports and was 1.5m high. It collapsed in 1834, was rebuilt and then fell again in 1967. It has remained collapsed ever since.It is difficult to seethat it is a quoit as it looks more like a pile of boulders but if one looks more closely one can see the capstone beneath two former support stones and a third beneath.A meeting of the Camborne branch of the Old Cornwall Society was held at the stones in the summer of 1925 and the Bards of the Cornish Gorseth held their annual gathering at the quoit in 1948.

When we visited we shared our time with a resident horse who was very protective of his patch and rather too friendly so we didn't stay long as none of us were terribly confident with being followed quite so closely.
John Harris, a major 19th century poet, was a miner who loved to walk in the Pendarves area. He is buried at Treslothan Churchyard with his beloved daughter Lucretia.

"Our curious cromlechs! Let no hand of man
Destroy these stony prophets which the Lord
Has placed upon the tarns and sounding downs
With tones for distant ages."
'Destruction of the Cornish Toman' by John Harris