As grows the flower amid the wild,
Such was thy fortune-Nature's child!

No pompous learning-no parade
Of pedantry, and cumbrous lore,
On thy elastic bosom weigh'd;

Instead, were thine a mazy store
Of feelings delicately wrought,
And treasures glean'd by silent thought.

Obscurity, and low-born Care,

Labour, and Want-all adverse things Combined to bow thee to despair; And of her young untutor'd wings To rob thy genius-'Twas in vain ; With one proud soar she burst her chain.

The beauties of the budding Spring;
The glories of the Summer's reign;
Rich, russet Autumn, triumphing

In ripen'd fruits and golden grain ; Winter, with storms around his shrine; Each, in their turns, were themes of thine.

And lowly life, the peasant's lot,
Its humble hopes, and simple joys;
By mountain-stream the shepherd's cot;

And what the rustic hour employs ;
White flocks on Nature's carpet spread;
Birds blithely carolling over-head.

These were thy themes, and thou wert blest;
Yea! blest beyond the wealth of kings;
Calm joy is seated in the breast

Of the wrapt poet as he sings;
And all that Truth or Hope can bring
Of beauty gilds the Muse's wing.

And, Bloomfield, thine were blissful days, (If flowers of bliss may thrive on earth ;) Thine was the glory and the praise

Of genius link'd with modest worth; To Wisdom wed, remote from strife, Calmly pass'd o'er thy stormless life.

And thou art dead-no more, no more

To charm the land with sylvan strain ;

Thy harp is hush'd, thy song is o'er.

But what is sung shall long remain, When cold this hand, and lost this verse, Now hung in reverence on thy hearse!

THE

NOVEMBER GARDEN.

IN Spring I visited this spot;

A thousand herbs and flowers were blooming;

And eglantine o'erhung this grot,

Mild April's balmy breeze perfuming;

The primrose open'd to the sun;

And languidly the daffodillies

Reclining bashful had begun

To smile beneath the sprouting lilies.

I came in Summer-shrub and flower,

Though changed in hue, were still before me ;

Twas cloudless noon, I sought the flower

That threw its welcome shadows o'er me;

And, as I rested on its seat,

Absorb'd in silent meditation,

The bee was treasuring liquid sweet,
From the bosom of the soft carnation.

Again I come to view the scene,

Whose summer hues I well remember; 'Tis stripp'd of pride, 'tis shorn of green, Beneath the rude sway of November! The melody of song is mute,

Except the robin's lonely singing:

The trees have shed their leaves and fruit,
And weeds in every walk are springing.

The morn is cold; the sky is pale,

The winds no more are silence keeping;

Like childhood at a mournful tale,

O'er vanish'd bloom the flowers are weeping;

I look upon the sullen sky

It wanes as when a daughter's duty, Stay'd by a tyrannous father's eye,

Opposes love, and withers beauty.