Imágenes de páginas
PDF
EPUB

Yea; and to many a wight, bereft and lone,
In musing hours, though all to thee unknown,
Soothing his earthly course of good and ill,
With all thy potent charm thou actest still.
And now in crowded room or rich saloon,
Thy stately presence recognised, how soon
The glance of many an eye is on thee cast,
In grateful memory of pleasures past!
Pleased to behold thee with becoming grace
Take, as befits thee well, an honour'd place
(Where, blest by many a heart, long mayst thou
stand)

Amongst the virtuous matrons of the land.

Yet, ne'ertheless, in strong array,
Prepare ye for a well-fought day.
Let banners wave, and trumpets sound,
And closing cohorts darken round,
And the fierce onset raise its mingled roar,
New sound on England's shore!

Freemen, children of the free,
Are brave alike on land or sea ;*
And every rood of British ground,
On which a hostile glave is found,

Proves under their firm tread and vigorous stroke,
A deck of royal oak.

A VOLUNTEER SONG.

YE, who Britain's soldiers be,
Freemen, children of the free,
Who freely come at danger's call
From shop and palace, cot and hall,

And brace ye bravely up in warlike geer
For all that ye hold dear!

Blest in your hands be sword and spear!
There is no banded Briton here

On whom some fond mate hath not smiled,
Or hung in love some lisping child;
Or aged parent, grasping his last stay
With locks of honour'd gray.

Such men behold with steady pride
The threaten'd tempest gathering wide,
And list, with onward forms inclined,
To sound of foemen on the wind,

And bravely act, mid the wild battle's roar,
In scenes untried before.

Let veterans boast, as well they may,
Nerves steel'd in many a bloody day;
The generous heart, who takes his stand
Upon his free and native land,

Doth with the first sound of the hostile drum
A fearless man become.

Come then, ye hosts that madly pour
From wave-toss'd floats upon our shore!
If fell or gentle, false or true,
Let those inquire who wish to sue:
Nor fiend nor hero from a foreign strand
Shall lord it in our land.

Come then, ye hosts that madly pour
From wave-toss'd floats upon our shore!
An adverse wind or breezeless main,
Lock'd in their ports our tars detain,
To waste their wistful spirits, vainly keen,
Else here ye had not been.

TO A CHILD.

WHOSE imp art thou, with dimpled cheek,
And curly pate and merry eye,

And arm and shoulders round and sleek,
And soft and fair? thou urchin sly!

What boots it who, with sweet caresses,

First call'd thee his, or squire or hind ?-
For thou in every wight that passes,
Dost now a friendly playmate find.

Thy downcast glances, grave, but cunning,
As fringed eyelids rise and fall,

Thy shyness, swiftly from me running,—
'Tis infantine coquetry all!

But far afield thou hast not flown,

With mocks and threats half lisp'd, half spoken,

I feel thee pulling at my gown,

Of right goodwill thy simple token.

And thou must laugh and wrestle too,
A mimic warfare with me waging,
To make, as wily lovers do,

Thy after kindness more engaging.

The wilding rose, sweet as thyself,

And new-cropt daisies are thy treasure: I'd gladly part with worldly pelf,

To taste again thy youthful pleasure.

But yet for all thy merry look,

Thy frisks and wiles, the time is coming, When thou shalt sit in cheerless nook,

The weary spell or horn-book thumbing. Well; let it be! through weal and wo, Thou know'st not now thy future range; Life is a motley, shifting show,

And thou a thing of hope and change.

* It was then frequently said, that our seamen excelled our soldiers.

ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.

ROBERT BLOOMFIELD, the son of a tailor at Honington, in Suffolk, was born on the 3d of December, 1766. His mother, who was the village school-mistress, gave him the only education he ever received, and placed him first, with a farmer of Sapiston, as his assistant, and afterward with George, the brother of our poet, who was a shoemaker in London. His principal occupation was to wait upon the journeymen, in fetching their dinners, &c.; and, in his intervals of leisure, he read the newspaper, and, with the help of a dictionary, was soon able to comprehend and admire the speeches of Burke, Fox, and other statesmen of the day. His next step toward improvement was in his attendance at a dissenting meeting-house, where, he says, he soon learned to accent "hard words," besides which, he also visited a debating society, went sometimes to the theatre, and read the History of England, the British Traveller, and a book of geography. A perusal of some poetry in the London Magazine, led to his earliest attempts in verse, which he sent to a newspaper, under the title of the Milk-maid, or the First of May, and the Sailor's Return. Indeed, says his biographer, in the Annual Obituary, he had so generally and diligently improved himself, that, although only sixteen or seventeen years of age, his brother George and his fellow workmen began to be instructed by his conversation.

prospect that his production could be printed, yet he found attention by his repeated calls, and by the humility of his expectations, which were limited to half-a-dozen copies of the magazine. At length, on his name being announced when a literary gentleman, particularly conversant in rural economy, happened to be present, the poem was finally reexamined, and its general aspect excited the risibility of that gentleman in so pointed a manner, that Bloomfield was called into the room, and exhorted not to waste his time, and neglect his employment, in making vain attempts, and particularly in treading on the ground which Thomson had sanctified. His earnestness and confidence, however, led the editor to advise him to consult his countryman, Mr. Capel Lofft, of Trooton, to whom he gave him a letter of introduction. On his departure, the gentleman present warmly complimented the editor on the sound advice which he had given the poor fellow;' and it was mutually conceived that an industrious man was thereby likely to be saved from a ruinous infatuation."

[ocr errors]

The poem at length reached the hands of Mr. Capel Lofft, who sent it, with the strongest recommendations, to Mr. Hill, the proprietor of the Monthly Mirror, who negotiated the sale of the poem with the publishers, Messrs. Vernor and Hood. These gentlemen acted with great liberality towards Bloomfield, by voluntarily giving him £200 in addition to the £50 originally stipulated for, and by securing to him a moiety of the copyright of his poem, which, on its appearance, was received with a burst of wonder and applause from all quarters. The most eminent critics and literati of the day were profuse in their praise of both the author and his poem; and the most polished circles of society were smitten with the charms of rural life, as depicted by the Farmer's Boy. He also received some substantial proofs of the estimation in which he was held, by presents from the Duke of York and other persons of distinction; and the Duke of Grafton, after having had him down to Whittlebury Forest, of which his grace was ranger, settled upon him a gratuity of a shilling a-day, and subsequently appointed him under-sealer in the Seal office. Subscriptions were also entered into for his benefit at various places; in addition to which, he derived considerable emolument from the sale of his work, of which, in a short space of time, near forty thousand copies were sold.

In 1784, anxious to avoid a part in some disputes which had arisen between the journeymen and master shoemakers, by whom himself and his brother were employed, Robert returned to his relation at Sapiston, and, for two months, worked at farming. At the expiration of that time he was put apprentice to Mr. Dudbridge, a ladies' snoemaker, and soon became expert at his trade. In 1790, he married the daughter of a boat-builder, and after some years of conjugal poverty, hired a room up one pair of stairs, at No. 14 Bell Alley, Coleman Street. The master of the house, it is said, giving him leave to work in the light garret, two pair of stairs higher, he not only there carried on his occupation, but, in the midst of six or seven other workmen, actually completed his Farmer's Boy: the parts of Autumn and Winter having been composed in his head before a line of them was committed to paper. When the manuscript was fit for publication, he offered it, but in vain, to various booksellers, and to the editor of the Monthly Magazine, who, in his number for September, 1823, His good fortune, which, he said, appeared to him gives the following interesting account of the as a dream, enabled him to remove to a comfortable affair:-"He brought his poem to our office; and, and commodious habitation in the City Road, though his unpolished appearance, his coarse hand-where, having given up his situation at the Seal writing, and wretched orthography, afforded no office, in consequence of ill health, he worked at 2L2 401

51

his trade as a shoemaker, and also sold Æolian harps of his own construction. He continued to employ his poetical powers, and, besides contributing several pieces to the Monthly Mirror, published three volumes of poems, in 1802, 1804, and 1806, successively. In 1811, appeared his Banks of the Wye, the result of a tour made by him into New South Wales, the mountain scenery of which country made a novel and pleasing impression upon his mind. Not long afterward, owing, as some say, to his engaging in the book trade, he became a bankrupt; and about the same time, suffering much from the dropsy, he left London, and took up his abode at Shefford, in Bucks, for the benefit of his health. It seems, that the decreasing sale of his works, and an indiscriminate liberality toward his friends and relations, who were poor and numerous, had materially diminished his finances; and this, together with the illness before mentioned, preying upon his mind, threw him into a state which threatened to terminate in mental aberration. This event was, however, prevented by his death, which took place at Shefford, on the 19th of August, 1823, in the fifty-seventh year of his age. He left a widow and four children; and had published, shortly before his death, May Day with the Muses, and Hazlewood Hall, a Village Drama, in three acts.

The characteristics of the poem of the Farmer's Boy are too well known to need a repetition of them here; it is sufficient to say, that the popularity of the work is justified by the unqualified eulogy of Parr, Southey, Aikin, Watson, (Bishop of Llandaff,)

and all the most eminent critics and poets of a later date. Dr. Drake, in his Literary Hours, has taken a very masterly view of the merits of this poem, which he considers not inferior to the Seasons of Thomson, from which Bloomfield probably took the idea of the Farmer's Boy; though there is no other affinity between the two, than, as Mr. Lofft observes, "flowing numbers, feeling piety, poetic imagery and animation, a taste for the picturesque, force of thought, and a true sense of the natural and pathetic." The great difference between the composition of Thomson and Bloomfield consists in that of the latter being exclusively pastoral throughout; and, indeed, says Dr. Drake, “such are its merits, that in true pastoral imagery and simplicity, I do not think any production can be put in competition with it since the days of Theocratus." A Latin version of the Farmer's Boy, by Mr. Clubbe, was published in 1805, and it has been translated, by M. Etienne Allard, into French, under the title of le Valet du Fermier. We conclude our memoir of Bloomfield, who appears to have blended with great genius, an innate modesty and amiableness of character, with the following verse, from a very eloquent tribute to his memory, by Bernard Barton:

It is not quaint and local terms

Besprinkled o'er thy rustic lay,,
Though well such dialect confirms

Its power unletter'd minds to sway;
But 'tis not these that most display

Thy sweetest charms, thy gentlest thrall,-
Words, phrases, fashions, pass away,

But Truth and Nature live through all.

THE FARMER'S BOY.

SPRING.

ARGUMENT.

Invocation, &c. Seed-time. Harrowing. Morning walks. Milking. The dairy. Suffolk cheese. Spring coming forth. Sheep fond of changing. Lambs at play. The butcher, &c.

O COME, blest spirit! whatsoe'er thou art, Thou kindling warmth that hoverest round my heart, Sweet inmate, hail! thou source of sterling joy, That poverty itself cannot destroy,

Be thou my muse; and faithful still to me,

Retrace the paths of wild obscurity.

No deeds of arms my humble lines rehearse;
No Alpine wonders thunder through my verse,
The roaring cataract, the snow-topt hill,
Inspiring awe, till breath itself stands still;
Nature's sublimer scenes ne'er charm'd mine eyes,
Nor science led me through the boundless skies;
From meaner objects far my raptures flow:
O point these raptures! bid my bosom glow!
And lead my soul to ecstasies of praise
For all the blessings of my infant days!
Bear me through regions where gay fancy dwells:
But mould to truta's fair form what memory tells.

Live trifling incidents, and grace my song, That to the humblest menial belong: To him whose drudgery unheeded goes, His joys unreckon'd, as his cares or woes, Though joys and cares in every path are sown, And youthful minds have feelings of their own, Quick springing sorrows, transient as the dew, Delights from trifles, trifles ever new. 'Twas thus with Giles: meek, fatherless and poor; Labour his portion, but he felt no more; No stripes, no tyranny his steps pursued; His life was constant, cheerful servitude; Strange to the world, he wore a bashful look, The fields his study, nature was his book! And as revolving seasons changed the scene From heat to cold, tempestuous to serene, Though every change still varied his employ, Yet each new duty brought its share of joy.

Where noble Grafton spreads his rich domains Round Euston's water'd vale, and sloping plains, Where woods and groves in solemn grandeur rise, Where the kite brooding unmolested flies; The woodcock and the painted pheasant race, And skulking foxes, destined for the chase; There Giles, untaught and unrepining, stray'd Through every copse, and grove, and winding glade; There his first thoughts to nature's charms inclined, That stamps devotion on th' inquiring mind.

A little farm his generous master till'd,
Who with peculiar grace his station fill'd;
By deeds of hospitality endear'd,

Served from affection, for his worth revered;
A happy offspring blest his plenteous board,
His fields were fruitful, and his barns well stored,
And fourscore ewes he fed, a sturdy team,
And lowing kine that grazed beside the stream.
Unceasing industry he kept in view;
And never lack'd a job for Giles to do.

Fled now the sullen murmurs of the north,
The splendid raiment of the Spring peeps forth;
Her universal green, and the clear sky,
Delight still more and more the gazing eye.
Wide o'er the fields, in rising moisture strong,
Shoots up the simple flower or creeps along
The mellow'd soil; imbibing fairer hues,
Or sweets from frequent showers and evening dews;
That summon from their sheds the slumbering
ploughs,

While health impregnates every breeze that blows.
No wheels support the diving, pointed share;
No groaning ox is doom'd to labour there;
No helpmates teach the docile steed his road;
(Alike unknown the ploughboy and the goad ;)
But, unassisted through each toilsome day,
With smiling brow the ploughman cleaves his way,
Draws his fresh parallels, and widening still,
Treads slow the heavy dale, or climbs the hill:
Strong on the wing his busy followers play, [day;
Where writhing earth worms meet th' unwelcome
Till all is changed, and hill and level down
Assume a livery of sober brown:
Again disturb'd, when Giles with wearying strides
From ridge to ridge the ponderous harrow guides;
His heels deep sinking every step he goes,
Till dirt adhesive loads his clouted shoes.
Welcome, green headland! firm beneath his feet;
Welcome the friendly bank's refreshing seat;
There, warm with toil, his panting horses browse
Their sheltering canopy of pendent boughs;
Till rest, delicious, chase each transient pain,
And new-born vigour dwell in every vein.
Hour after hour, and day to day succeeds;
Till every clod and deep-drawn furrow spreads
To crumbling mould; a level surface clear,
And strew'd with corn to crown the rising year;
And o'er the whole Giles once transverse again,
In earth's moist bosom buries up the grain.
The work is done; no more to man is given;
The grateful farmer trusts the rest to Heaven.
Yet oft with anxious heart he looks around,
And marks the first green blade that breaks the
ground:

In fancy sees his trembling oats uprun,
His tufted barley yellow with the sun;
Sees clouds propitious shed their timely store,
And all his harvest gather'd round his door,
But still unsafe the big swoln grain below,
A favourite morsel with the rook and crow;
From field to field the flock increasing goes:
To level crops most formidable foes;
Their danger well the wary plunderers know,
And place a watch on some conspicuous bough;
Yet oft the skulking gunner by surprise
Will scatter death amongst them as they rise.

These, hung in triumph round the spacious field,
At best will but a shortlived terror yield:
Nor guards of property; (not penal law,
But harmless riflemen of rags and straw ;)
Familiarized to these, they boldly rove,
Nor heed such sentinels that never move.
Let then your birds lie prostrate on the earth
In dying posture, and with wings stretch'd forth
Shift them at eve or morn from place to place,
And death shall terrify the pilfering race;
In the mid air, while circling round and round,
They call their lifeless comrades from the ground;
With quickening wing, and note of loud alarm,
Warn the whole flock to shun th' impending harm.

This task had Giles, in fields remote from home:
Oft has he wish'd the rosy morn to come:
Yet never famed was he nor foremost found
To break the seal of sleep; his sleep was sound;
But when at daybreak summon'd from his bed,
Light as the lark that caroll'd o'er his head.-
His sandy way, deep worn by hasty showers,
O'erarch'd with oaks that form'd fantastic bowers,
Waving aloft their towering branches proud,
In borrow'd tinges from the eastern cloud,
Gave inspiration, pure as ever flow'd,
And genuine transport in his bosom glow'd.
His own shrill matin join'd the various notes
Of nature's music, from a thousand throats:
The blackbird strove with emulation sweet,
And echo answer'd from her close retreat;
The sporting whitethroat on some twig's end borne,
Pour'd hymns to freedom and the rising morn;
Stopt in her song, perchance the starting thrush
Shook a white shower from the blackthorn bush,
Where dewdrops thick as early blossoms hung,
And trembled as the minstrel sweetly sung.
Across his path, in either grove to hide,
The timid rabbit scouted by his side;
Or pheasant boldly stalk'd along the road,
Whose gold and purple tints alternate glow'd.

But groves no farther fenced the devious way,
A wide-extended heath before him lay,
Where on the grass the stagnant shower had run,
And shone a mirror to the rising sun,
Thus doubly seen to light a distant wood,
To give new life to each expanding bud;
And chase away the dewy footmarks found,
Where prowling Reynard trod his nightly round;
To shun whose thefts was Giles's evening care,
His feather'd victims to suspend in air,

High on the bough that nodded o'er his head,
And thus each morn to strew the field with dead.
His simple errand done, he homeward hies;
Another instantly its place supplies.
The clattering dairy maid, immersed in steam,
Singing and scrubbing midst her milk and cream,
Bawls out "Go fetch the cows!"-he hears no more;
For pigs, and ducks, and turkeys throng the door,
And sitting hens, for constant war prepared;
A concert strange to that which late he heard.
Straight to the meadow then he whistling goes;
With well known halloo calls his lazy cows;
Down the rich pasture heedlessly they graze,
Or hear the summons with an idle gaze;
For well they know the cowyard yields no more
Its tempting fragrance, nor its wintry store,

Reluctance marks their steps, sedate and slow;
The right of conquest all the law they know:
The strong press on, the weak by turns succeed,
And one superior always takes the lead;
Is ever foremost, wheresoe'er they stray:
Allow'd precedence, undisputed sway:
With jealous pride her station is maintain'd,
For many a broil that post of honour gain'd.
At home, the yard affords a grateful scene;
For Spring makes e'en a miry cowyard clean.
Thence from its chalky bed behold convey'd
The rich manure that drenching Winter made,
Which piled near home, grows green with many a
A promised nutriment for Autumn's seed. [weed,
Forth comes the maid, and like the morning smiles;
The mistress too, and follow'd close by Giles.
A friendly tripod forms their humble seat,
With pails bright scour'd, and delicately sweet.
Where shadowing elms obstruct the morning ray,
Begins the work, begins the simple lay;

The full charged udder yields its willing streams,
While Mary sings some lover's amorous dreams;
And crouching Giles, beneath a neighbouring tree,
Tugs o'er his pail, and chants with equal glee:
Whose hat with tatter'd brim, of nap so bare,
From the cow's side purloins a coat of hair,
A mottled ensign of his harmless trade,
An unambitious, peaceable cockade,
As unambitious too that cheerful aid
The mistress yields beside her rosy maid:
With joy she views her plenteous, reeking store,
And bears a brimmer to the dairy door;
Her cows dismiss'd the luscious mead to roam,
Till eve again recalls them loaded home.
And now the dairy claims her choicest care,
And half her household find employment there:
Slow rolls the churn, its load of clogging cream
At once foregoes its quality and name;
From knotty particles first floating wide
Congealing butter's dash'd from side to side;
Streams of new milk through flowing coolers stray,
And snow-white curd abounds, and wholesome
whey.

Due north th' unglazed windows, cold and clear
For warming sunbeams are unwelcome here.
Brisk goes the work beneath each busy hand,
And Giles must trudge, whoever gives command;
A Gibeonite, that serves them all by turns:
He drains the pump, from him the fagot burns;
From him the noisy hogs demand their food;
While at his heels run many a chirping broed,
Or down his path in expectation stand,
With equal claims upon his strewing hand.
Thus wastes the morn, till each with pleasure sees
The bustle o'er, and press'd the new-made cheese.
Unrivall'd stands thy country cheese, O Giles!
Whose very name alone engenders smiles;
Whose fame abroad by every tongue is spoke,
The well-known butt of many a flinty joke,
That pass like current coin the nation through:
And, ah! experience proves the satire true.
Provision's grave, thou ever craving mart,
Dependant, huge metropolis! where art
Her poring thousands stows in breathless rooms,
Midst poisonous smokes and steams, and rattling
looms;

Where grandeur revels in unbounded stores;
Restraint, a slighted stranger at their doors!
Thou, like a whirlpool, drain'st the country round,
Till London market, London price, resound
Through every town, round every passing load,
And dairy produce throngs the eastern road:
Delicious veal, and butter, every hour,

From Essex lowlands, and the banks of Stour:
And further far, where numerous herds repose,
From Orwell's brink, from Waveny, or Ouse.
Hence Suffolk dairy wives run mad for cream,
And leave their milk with nothing but its name;
Its name derision and reproach pursue,

And strangers tell of "three times skimm'd sky. blue."

To cheese converted, what can be its boast;
What, but the common virtues of a post!
If drought o'ertake it faster than the knife,
Most fair it bids for stubborn length of life,
And, like the oaken shelf whereon 'tis laid,
Mocks the weak efforts of the bending blade;
Or in the hog-trough rests in perfect spite,
Too big to swallow, and too hard to bite.
Inglorious victory! Ye Cheshire meads,
Or Severn's flowery dales, where plenty treads,
Was your rich milk to suffer wrongs like these,
Farewell your pride! farewell renowned cheese!
The skimmer dread, whose ravages alone,
Thus turn the mead's sweet nectar into stone.

Neglected now the early daisy lies:

Nor thou, pale primrose, bloom'st the only prize!
Advancing Spring profusely spreads abroad
Flowers of all hues, with sweetest fragrance stored;
Where'er she treads, Love gladdens every plain,
Delight on tiptoe bears her lucid train ;
Sweet Hope with conscious brow before her flies,
Anticipating wealth from summer skies;
All nature feels her renovating sway;
The sheep-fed pasture, and the meadow gay,
And trees, and shrubs, no longer budding seen,
Display the new-grown branch of lighter green;
On airy downs the idling shepherd lies,
And sees to-morrow in the marbled skies.
Here then, my soul, thy darling theme pursue,
For every day was Giles a shepherd too.

Small was his charge; no wilds had they to

roam;

But bright enclosures circling round their home.
No yellow-blossom'd furze, nor stubborn thorn,
The heath's rough produce, had their fleeces torn ;
Yet ever roving, ever seeking thee,
Enchanting spirit, dear Variety!
O happy tenants, prisoners of a day!
Released to ease, to pleasure, and to play;
Indulged through every field by turns to range,
And taste them all in one continual change.
For though luxuriant their grassy food,
Sheep long confined but loathe the present good;
Bleating around the homeward gate they meet,
And starve, and pine, with plenty at their feet.
Loosed from the winding lane, a joyful throng,
See, o'er yon pasture, how they pour along!
Giles round their boundaries takes his usual stroll;
Sees every pass secured, and fences whole;
High fences, proud to charm the gazing eye,
Where many a nestling first essays to fly;

« AnteriorContinuar »