Or see his purpled shoulders darkly lower Mingles his waters with the briny tide, Yet ne'ertheless, whate'er we owe to thee, As the proud swan on summer lake displays, They change, and veer, and turn like living things. So fairly rigg'd, with shrouding, sails and mast, In very truth, compared to these thou art To whose free robes the graceful right is given Half sad, half proud, half angry, and half pleased. TO MRS. SIDDONS. GIFTED of Heaven! who hast, in days gone by, Th' impassion'd changes of thy beauteous face, The burst of stifled love, the wail of grief, Of soul-exciting sound the mightiest spell. But though time's lengthen'd shadows o'er thee And pomp of regal state is cast aside, *The common vulgar name of a water-bird frequent- While feverish fancy oft doth fondly trace ing that coast. Within her curtain'd couch thy wondrous face. Yea; and to many a wight, bereft and lone, Yet, ne'ertheless, in strong array, Freemen, children of the free, (Where, blest by many a heart, long mayst thou Proves under their firm tread and vige a stroke stand) Amongst the virtuous matrons of the land. A deck of royal oak. A VOLUNTEER SONG. YE, who Britain's soldiers be, Blest in your hands be sword and spear! On whom some fond mate hath not smiled, Such men behold with steady pride And bravely act, mid the wild battle's roar, Let veterans boast, as well they may, Doth with the first sound of the hostile drum Come then, ye hosts that madly pour Come then, ye hosts that madly pour TO A CHILD. WHOSE imp art thou, with dimpled check, And arm and shoulders round and sleek, Thy downcast glances, grave, but cunning, But far afield thou hast not flown, With mocks and threats half lisp'd, nalf spoken I feel thee pulling at my gown, Of right goodwill thy simple token. And thou must laugh and wrestle too, Thy after kindness more engaging. The wilding rose, sweet as thyself, To taste again thy youthful pleasure. 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. 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 ex 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 dic-horted not to waste his time, and neglect his emtionary, 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. ployment, 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." 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 In 1784, anxious to avoid a part in some disputes £200 in addition to the £50 originally stipulated which had arisen between the journeymen and for, and by securing to him a moiety of the copymaster shoemakers, by whom himself and his right of his poem, which, on its appearance, was brother were employed, Robert returned to his received with a burst of wonder and applause from relation at Sapiston, and, for two months, worked all quarters. The most eminent critics and literati at farming. At the expiration of that time he was of the day were profuse in their praise of both the put apprentice to Mr. Dudbridge, a ladies' snoe-author and his poem; and the most polished circles maker, 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, gives the following interesting account of the affair:-"He brought his poem to our office; and, though his unpolished appearance, his coarse handwriting, and wretched orthography, afforded no VOL. III.-26 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. His good fortune, which, he said, appeared to hini as a dream, enabled him to remove to a comfortable and commodious habitation in the City Road, where, having given up his situation at the Seal office, in consequence of ill health, he worked at 401 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 t 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, 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; Bear me through regions where gay fancy dwells: But mould to truto'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 po 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 nie, 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 gladej There his first thoughts to nature's charms inclines, That stamps devotion on th' inquiring mind. A little farm his generous master till❜d, Fled now the sullen murmurs of the north, While health impregnates every breeze that blows. In fancy sees his trembling oats uprun, These, hung in triumph round the spacious field, This task had Giles, in fields remote from home: 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 coor, 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, |