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And as revolving seasons changed the scene
From heat to cold, tempestuous to serene,
Through every change still varied his employ,
Yet each new duty brought its share of joy.

It is interesting to contrast the cheerful tone of Bloomfield's descriptions of rural life in its hardest and least inviting forms, with those of Crabbe, also a native of Suffolk. Both are true, but coloured with the respective peculiarities, in their style of observation and feeling, of the two poets. Bloomfield describes the various occupations of a farm-boy in seed-time, at harvest, tending cattle and sheep, and other occupations. In his tales, he embodies more moral feeling and painting, and his incidents are pleasing and well arranged. His want of vigour and passion, joined to the humility of his themes, is perhaps the cause of his being now little read; but he is one of the most characteristic and faithful of our national poets.

Harvest.

A glorious sight, if glory dwells below,

Where heaven's munificence makes all things shew,
O'er every field and golden prospect found,

That glads the ploughman's Sunday-morning's round;
When on some eminence he takes his stand,
To judge the smiling produce of the land.
Here Vanity slinks back. her head to hide;
What is there here to flatter human pride?
The towering fabric, or the dome's loud roar,
And steadfast columns may astonish more,
Where the charmed gazer long delighted stays,
Yet traced but to the architect the praise;
Whilst here the veriest clown that treads the sod,
Without one scruple gives the praise to God;
And twofold joys possess his raptured mind,
From gratitude and admiration joined.

Here midst the boldest triumphs of her worth,
Nature herself invites the reapers forth;

Dares the keen sickle from its twelvemonth's rest,
And gives that ardour which in every breast
From infancy to age alike appears,

When the first sheaf its plumy top uprears.

No rake takes here what Heaven to all bestows-
Children of want, for you the bounty flows!
And every cottage from the plenteous store
Receives a burden nightly at its door.

Hark! where the sweeping scythe now rips along;
Each sturdy mower, emulous and strong,
Whose writhing form meridian heat defies,
Bends o'er his work. and every sinew tries;
Prostrates the waving treasure at his feet,
But spares the rising clover, short and sweet.
Come Health! come Jollity! light-footed come;
Here hold your revels, and make this your home.
Each heart awaits and hails you as its own;
Each moistened brow that scorns to wear a frown;
The unpeopled dwelling mourns its tenants strayed:
E'en the domestic laughing dairymaid

Hies to the field the general toil to share.
Meanwhile the farmer quits his elbow-chair,

His cool brick floor, his pitcher, and his ease,
And braves the sultry beams, and gladly sees
His gates thrown open, and his team abroad,
The ready group attendant on his word
To turn the swath, the quivering load to rear,
Or ply the busy rake the land to clear.
Summer's light garb itself now cumbrous grown,
Each his thin doublet in the shade throws down:
Where oft the mastiff skulks with half-shut eye,
And rouses at the stranger passing by;

While unrestrained the social converse flows,
And every breast Love's powerful impulse knows,
And rival wits with more than rustic grace
Confess the presence of a pretty face.

Rosy Hannah.

A spring o'erhung with many a flower,
The gray sand dancing in its bed,
Embanked beneath a hawthorn bower,
Sent forth its waters near my head.
A rosy lass approached my view;

I caught her blue eyes' modest beam; The stranger nodded How-d'ye-do?' And leaped across the infant stream.

The water heedless passed away;

With me her glowing image stayed; I strove, from that auspicious day,

To meet and bless the lovely maid. I met her where beneath our feet

Through downy moss the wild thyme grew; Nor moss elastic, flowers though sweet, Matched Hannah's cheek of rosy hue.

I met her where the dark woods wave,
And shaded verdure skirts the plain;
And when the pale moon rising gave
New glories to her rising train.
From her sweet cot upon the moor,

Our plighted vows to heaven are flown; Truth made me welcome at her door, And rosy Hannah is my own.

Lines addressed to my Children.

Occasioned by a visit to Whittlebury Forest, Northamptonshire, in August 1800. Genius of the forest shades!

Lend thy power, and lend thine ear;
A stranger trod thy lonely glades,

Amidst thy dark and bounding deer;
Inquiring childhood claims the verse,
O let them not inquire in vain;
Be with me while I thus rehearse

The glories of thy silvan reign.

Thy dells by wintry currents worn,
Secluded haunts, how deaf to me!
From all but nature's converse born,
No ear to hear, no eye to see.
There honoured leaves the green oaks
reared,

And crowned the upland's graceful swell;

While answering through the vale was heard

Each distant heifer's tinkling bell.

Hail, greenwood shades, that, stretching far,

Defy e'en summer's noontide power, When August in his burning car Withholds the clouds, withholds the shower.

The deep-toned low from either hill,

Down hazel aisles and arches greenThe herd's rude tracks from rill to rillRoared echoing through the solemn

scene.

From my charmed heart the numbers sprung,

Though birds had ceased the choral lay, I poured wild raptures from my tongue, And gave delicious tears their way. Then, darker shadows seeking still, Where human foot had seldom strayed, I read aloud to every hill

Sweet Emma's love, 'the Nut-brown
Maid.'

Shaking his matted mane on high,
The grazing colt would raise his head,
Or timorous doe would rushing fly,
And leave to me her grassy bed;
Where, as the azure sky appeared
Through bowers of ever-varying form,
'Midst the deep gloom methought I heard
The daring progress of the storm.

How would each sweeping ponderous bough

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Description of a Blind Youth.

For from his cradle he had never seen
Soul-cheering sunbeams, or wild nature's green.
But all life's blessings centre not in sight;
For Providence, that dealt him one long night,
Had given, in pity, to the blooming boy
Feelings more exquisitely tuned to joy.
Fond to excess was he of all that grew,
The morning blossom sprinkled o'er with dew,
Across his path, as if in playful freak,
Would dash his brow and weep upon his cheek;
Each varying leaf that brushed where'er he came,
Pressed to his rosy lip he called by name;

He grasped the saplings, measured every bough,
Inhaled the fragrance that the spring's months throw
Profusely round, till his young heart confessed
That all was beanty, and himself was blessed.
Yet when he traced the wide extended plain,
Or clear brook side; he felt a transient pain;
The keen regret of goodness, void of pride,
To think he could not roam without a guide.

May-day with the Muses.

Banquet of an English Squire.

Then came the jovial day, no streaks of red
O'er the broad portal of the morn were spread, )
But one high-sailing mist of dazzling white,
A screen of gossamer, a magic light,

Doomed instantly, by simplest shepherd's ken,
To reign a while, and be exhaled at ten.
O'er leaves, o'er blossoms, by his power restored,
Forth came the conquering sun, and looked abroad:
Millions of dew-drops fell, yet millions hung,
Like words of transport trembling on the tongue,
Too strong for utterance. Thus the infant boy,
With rosebud cheeks, and features tuned to joy,
Weeps while he struggles with restraint or pain;
But change the scene, and make him laugh again,

His heart rekindles, and his cheek appears
A thousand times more lovely through his tears.
From the first glimpse of day, a busy scene
Was that high-swelling lawn, that destined green,
Which shadowless expanded far and wide,
The mansion's ornament, the hamlet's pride;
To cheer, to order, to direct, contrive,
Even old Sir Ambrose had been up at five;
There his whole household laboured in his view-
But light is labour where the task is new.
Some wheeled the turf to build a grassy throne
Round a huge thorn that spread his boughs alone,
Rough-ringed and bold, as master of the place;
Five generations of the Higham race

Had plucked his flowers, and still he held his sway,
Waved his white head, and felt the breath of May.
Some from the green-house ranged exotics round,
To bask in open day on English ground:
And 'midst them in a line of splendour drew
Long wreaths and garlands gathered in the dew.
Some spread the snowy canvas, propped on high,
O'er-sheltering tables with their whole supply;
Some swung the biting scythe with merry face,
And cropped the daisies for a dancing space;
Some rolled the mouldy barrel in his might,
From prison darkness into cheerful light,
And fenced him round with cans; and others bore

The creaking hamper with its costly store,

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Well corked, well flavoured, and well taxed, that came
From Lusitanian mountains dear to fame,

Whence Gama steered, and led the conquering way
To eastern triumphs and the realms of day.
A thousand minor tasks filled every hour,
Till the sun gained the zenith of his power,

When every path was thronged with old and young.
And many a skylark in his strength upsprung
To bid them welcome. Not a face was there
But, for May-day at least, had banished care;
No cringing looks, no pauper tales to tell,
No timid glance-they knew their host too well-
Freedom was there, and joy in every eye:
Such scenes were England's boast in days gone by.
Beneath the thorn was good Sir Ambrose found,
His guests an ample crescent formed around;
Nature's own carpet spread the space between,
Where blithe domestics plied in gold and green.
The venerable chaplain waved his wand,
And silence followed as he stretched his hand:
The deep carouse can never boast the bliss,
The animation of a scene like this.

At length the damasked cloths were whisked away
Like fluttering sails upon a summer's day;
The heyday of enjoyment found repose;

The worthy baronet majestic rose.

They viewed him, while his ale was filling round,

The monarch of his own paternal ground.

His cup was full, and where the blossoms bowed

Over his head, Sir Ambrose spoke aloud,

Nor stopped a dainty form or phrase to cull.

His heart elated, like his cup was full:

Full be your hopes, and rich the crops that fall! Health to my neighbours, happiness to all.'

Dull must that clown be, dull as winter's sleet,
Who would not instantly be on his feet:
An echoing health to mingling shouts give place,
'Sir Ambrose Higham and his noble race!

May-day with the Muses.

The Soldier's Home.

'The topic is trite, but in Mr. Bloomfield's hands it almost assumes a character of novelty. Burns's "Soldier's Return" is not, to our taste, one whit superior.'-PROFESSOR WILSON.

My untried Muse shall no high tone assume,
Nor strut in arms-farewell my cap and plume!
Brief be my verse, a task within my power;

I tell my feelings in one happy hour:

But what an hour was that! when from the main
I reached this lovely valley once again!
A glorious harvest filled my eager sight,
Half shocked, half waving in a flood of light;
On that poor cottage roof where I was born,
The sun looked down as in life's early morn.
I gazed around, but not a soul appeared;
I listened on the threshold, nothing heard;
I called my father thrice, but no one came;
It was not fear or grief that shook my frame,
But an o'erpowering sense of peace and home,
Of toils gone by, perhaps of joys to come.
The door invitingly stood open wide;
I shook my dust, and set my staff aside.

How sweet it was to breathe that cooler air,
And take possession of my father's chair!
Beneath my elbow, on the solid frame,
Appeared the rough initials of my name,
Cut forty years before! The same old clock
Struck the same bell, and gave my heart a shock
I never can forget. A short breeze sprung,
And while a sigh was trembling on my tongue,
Caught the old dangling almanacs behind,
And up they flew like banners in the wind;
Then gently, singly, down, down, down they went.
And told of twenty years that I had spent
Far from my native land. That instant came
A robin on the threshold; though so tame,

At first he looked distrustful, almost shy,

And cast on me his coal-black steadfast eye,
And seemed to say-past friendship to renew-

'Ah ha! old worn-out soldier, is it you?'

Through the room ranged the imprisoned humble bee,
And bombed, and bounced, and struggled to be free;

Dashing against the panes with sullen roar,

That threw their diamond sunlight on the floor;

That floor, clean sanded, where my fancy strayed,

O'er undulating waves the broom had made;

Reminding me of those of hideous forms

That met us as we passed the Cape of Storms,

Where high and loud they break, and peace comes never;)

They roll and foam, and roll and foam for ever.

But here was peace, that peace which home can yield; >

The grasshopper, the partridge in the field,

And ticking clock, were all at once become

The substitute for clarion, fife, and drum.,

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