Yet by th' unclouded sun are hourly bredThe bold assailants that surround thine head,Poor patientBall!and with insulting wingRoar in thine ears, and dart the piercing sting:In thy behalf the crest-wav'd boughs availMore than thy short-clipt remnant of a tail,A moving mockery, a useless name,A living proof of cruelty and shame.Shame to the man, whatever fame he bore,Who took from thee what man can ne'er restore,Thy weapon of defence, thy chiefest good,When swarming flies contending suck thy blood.Nor thine alone the suff'ring, thine the care,The fretfulEwebemoans an equal share;Tormented into sores, her head she hides,Or angry brushes from her new-shorn sides.Pen'd in the yard, e'en now at closing dayUnrulyCowswith mark'd impatience stay,And vainly striving to escape their foes,The pail kick down; a piteous current flows.
Is't not enough that plagues like these molest?Must still another foe annoy their rest?He comes, the pest and terror of the yard,His full-fledg'd progeny's imperious guard;The GANDER;… spiteful, insolent, and bold,At the colt's footlock takes his daring hold:There, serpent-like, escapes a dreadful blow;And straight attacks a poor defenceless cow:Each booby goose th' unworthy strife enjoys,And hails his prowess with redoubled noise.Then back he stalks, of self-importance full,Seizes the shaggy foretop of the bull,Till whirl'd aloft he falls; a timely check,Enough to dislocate his worthless neck:For lo! of old, he boasts an honour'd wound;Behold that broken wing that trails the ground!Thus fools and bravoes kindred pranks pursue;As savage quite, and oft as fatal too.Happy the man that foils an envious elf,Using the darts of spleen to serve himself.As when by turns the strollingSwineengageThe utmost efforts of the bully's rage,Whose nibbling warfare on the grunter's sideIs welcome pleasure to his oristly hide;Gently he stoops, or strecht at ease along,Enjoys the insults of the gabbling throng,That march exulting round his fallen head,As human victors trample on their dead.
Still TWILIGHT, welcome! Rest, how sweet art thou!Now eve o'erhangs the western cloud's thick brow:The far-stretch'd curtain of retiring light,With fiery treasures fraught; that on the sightFlash from its bulging sides, where darkness lours,In Fancy's eye, a chain of mould'ring tow'rs;Or craggy coasts just rising into view,Midst jav'lins dire, and darts of streaming blue.
Anon tir'd labourers bless their shelt'ring home,When MIDNIGHT, and the frightful TEMPEST come.The Farmer wakes, and sees with silent dreadThe angry shafts of Heaven gleam round his bed;The bursting cloud reiterated roars,Shakes his straw roof, and jars his bolted doors:The slow-wing'd storm along the troubled skiesSpreads its dark course; the wind begins to rise;And full-leaf'd elms, his dwelling's shade by day,With mimic thunder give its fury way:Sounds in his chimney top a doleful peal,Midst pouring rain, or gusts of rattling hail;With tenfold danger low the tempest bends,And quick and strong the sulph'urous flame descends:The fright'ned mastiff from his kennel flies,And cringes at the door with piteous cries….
Where now's the trifler? where the child of pride?These are the moments when the heart is try'd!Nor lives the man with conscience e'er so clear,But feels a solemn, reverential fear;Feels too a joy relieve his aching breast,When the spent storm hath howl'd itself to rest.Still, welcome beats the long continued show'r,And sleep protracted, comes with double pow'r;Calm dreams of bliss bring on the morning sun,For every barn is fill'd, and HARVESTdone!
Now, ere sweet SUMMER bids its long adieu,And winds blow keen where late the blossom grew,The bustling day and jovial night must come,The long accustom'd feast of HARVEST-HOME.No blood-stain'd victory, in story bright,Can give the philosophic mind delight;No triumph please while rage and death destroy:Reflection sickens at the monstrous joy.And where the joy, if rightly understood,Like cheerful praise for universal good?The soul nor check nor doubtful anguish knows,But free and pure the grateful current flows.
Behold the sound oak table's massy frameBestride the kitchen floor! the careful dameAnd gen'rous host invite their friends around,While all that clear'd the crop, or till'd the ground,Are guests by right of custom:… old and young;And many a neighbouring yeoman join the throng,With artizans that lent their dext'rous aid,When o'er each field the flaming sun-beams play'd,—
Yet Plenty reigns, and from her boundless hoard,Though not one jelly trembles on the board,Supplies the feast with all that sense can crave;With all that made our great forefathers brave,Ere the cloy'd palate countless flavours try'd,And cooks had Nature's judgment set aside.With thanks to Heaven, and tales of rustic lore,The mansion echoes when the banquet's o'er;A wider circle spreads, and smiles abound,As quick the frothing horn performs its round;Care's mortal foe; that sprightly joys impartsTo cheer the frame and elevate their hearts.Here, fresh and brown, the hazel's produce liesIn tempting heaps, and peals of laughter rise,And crackling Music, with the frequentSong,Unheeded bear the midnight hour along.
Here once a year Distinction low'rs its crest,The master, servant, and the merry guest,Are equal all; and round the happy ringThe reaper's eyes exulting glances fling,And, warm'd with gratitude, he quits his place,With sun-burnt hands and ale-enliven'd face,Refills the jug his honour'd host to tend,To serve at once the master and the friend;Proud thus to meet his smiles, to share his tale,His nuts, his conversation, and his ale.
Such were the days, … of days long past I sing,When Pride gave place to mirth without a sting;Ere tyrant customs strength sufficient boreTo violate the feelings of the poor;To leave them distanc'd in the mad'ning race,Where'er Refinement shews its hated face:Nor causeless hated;… 'tis the peasant's curse,That hourly makes his wretched station worse;Destroys life's intercourse; the social planThat rank to rank cements, as man to man:Wealth flows around him, fashion lordly reigns;Yet poverty is his, and mental pains.
Methinks I hear the mourner thus impartThe stifled murmurs of his wounded heart:'Whence comes this change, ungracious, irksome, cold?'Whence the new grandeur that mine eyes behold?'The wid'ning distance which I daily see,'Has Wealth done this?… then wealth's a foe to me;'Foe to our rights; that leaves a pow'rful few'The paths of emulation to pursue:…'For emulation stoops to us no more:'The hope of humble industry is o'er;'The blameless hope, the cheering sweet presage'Of future comforts for declining age.'Can my sons share from this paternal hand'The profits with the labours of the land?'No; tho' indulgent Heaven its blessing deigns,'Where's the small farm to suit my scanty means?'Content, the Poet sings, with us resides;'In lonely cots like mine the damsel hides;'And will he then in raptur'd visions tell'That sweet Content with Want can ever dwell?'A barley loaf, 'tis true, my table crowns,'That fast diminishing in lusty rounds,'Stops Nature's cravings; yet her sighs will flow'From knowing this,… that once it was not so.'Our annual feast, when Earth her plenty yields,'When crown'd with boughs the last load quits the fields,'The aspect still of ancient joy puts on;'The aspect only, with the substance gone:'The self-same Horn is still at our command,'But serves none now but the plebeian hand:'Forhome-brew'd Ale, neglected and debas'd,'Is quite discarded from the realms of taste.'Where unaffected Freedom charm'd the soul,'The separate table and the costly bowl,'Cool as the blast that checks the budding Spring,'A mockery of gladness round them fling.'For oft the Farmer, ere his heart approves,'Yields up the custom which he dearly loves:'Refinement forces on him like a tide;'Bold innovations down its current ride,'That bear no peace beneath their shewy dress,'Nor add one tittle to his happiness.'His guests selected; rank's punctilios known;'What trouble waits upon a casual frown!'Restraint's foul manacles his pleasures maim;'Selected guests selected phrases claim:'Nor reigns that joy when hand in hand they join'That good old Master felt in shaking mine.'HEAVEN bless his memory! bless his honour'd name!'(The poor will speak his lasting worthy fame:)'To souls fair-purpos'd strength and guidance give;'In pity to us still let goodness live:'Let labour have its due! my cot shall be'From chilling want and guilty murmurs free:'Let labour have its due;… then peace is mine,'And never, never shall my heart repine.'
Acorns. Hogs in the wood. Wheat-sowing. The Church. Village girls. The mad girl. The bird-boy's hut. Disappointments; reflections, &c. Euston-hall. Fox-hunting. Old Trouncer. Long nights. A welcome to Winter.
[Illustration]
Again, the year'sdecline, midst storms and floods,The thund'ring chase, the yellow fading woods,Invite my song; that fain would boldly tellOf upland coverts, and the echoing dell,By turns resounding loud, at eve and mornThe swineherd's halloo, or the huntsman's horn.
No more the fields with scatter'd grain supplyThe restless wand'ring tenants of the STY;From oak to oak they run with eager haste,And wrangling share the first delicious tasteOf fallen ACORNS; yet but thinly foundTill the strong gale have shook them to the ground.It comes; and roaring woods obedient wave:Their home well pleas'd the joint adventurers leave:The trudging sow leads forth her numerous young,Playful, and white, and clean, the briars among,Till briars and thorns increasing, fence them round,Where last year's mould'ring leaves bestrew the ground,And o'er their heads, loud lash'd by furious squalls,Bright from their cups the rattling treasure falls;Hot thirsty food; whence doubly sweet and coolThe welcome margin of some rush-grown pool,The wild duck's lonely haunt, whose jealous eyeGuards every point; who sits prepar'd to fly,On the calm bosom of her little lake,Too closely screen'd for ruffian winds to shake;And as the bold intruders press around,At once she starts, and rises with a bound:With bristles rais'd the sudden noise they hear,And ludicrously wild, and wing'd with fear,The herd decamp with more than swinish speed,And snorting dash thro' sedge, and rush, and reed:Through tangling thickets headlong on they go,Then stop, and listen for their fancied foe;The hindmost still the growing panic spreads,Repeated fright the first alarm succeeds,Till Folly's wages, wounds and thorns, they reap:Yet glorying in their fortunate escape,Their groundless terrors by degrees soon cease,And Night's dark reign restores their wonted peace.For now the gale subsides, and from each boughThe roosting pheasant's short but frequent crowInvites to rest; and huddling side by side,The herd in closest ambush seek to hide;Seek some warm slope with shagged moss o'erspread,Dry'd leaves their copious covering and their bed.In vain mayGiles, thro' gath'ring glooms that fall,And solemn silence, urge his piercing call:Whole days and nights they tarry midst their store,Nor quit the woods till oaks can yield no more.
Beyond bleakWinter'srage, beyond theSpringThat rolling Earth's unvarying course will bring,Who tills the ground looks on with mental eye,And sees nextSummer'ssheaves and cloudless sky;And even now, whilst Nature's beauty dies,Deposits SEED, and bids new harvests rise;Seed well prepar'd, and warm'd with glowing lime,'Gainst earth-bred grubs, and cold, and lapse of time:For searching frosts and various ills invade,Whilst wint'ry months depress the springing blade.The plough moves heavily, and strong the soil,And clogging harrows with augmented toilDive deep: and clinging mixes with the mouldA fat'ning treasure from the nightly fold,And all the cow-yard's highly valu'd store,That late bestrew'd the blacken'd surface o'er.No idling hours are here, when Fancy trimsHer dancing taper over outstretch'd limbs,And in her thousand thousand colours drest,Plays round the grassy couch of noontide rest:Here GILES for hours of indolence atonesWith strong exertion, and with weary bones,And knows no leisure; till the distant chimeOf Sabbath bells he hears at sermon time,That down the brook sound sweetly in the gale,Or strike the rising hill, or skim the dale.
Nor his alone the sweets of ease to taste:Kind rest extends to all;… save one poor beast,That true to time and pace, is doom'd to plod,To bring the Pastor to the HOUSE of GOD:Mean structure; where no bones of heroes lie!The rude inelegance of povertyReigns here alone: else why that roof of straw?Those narrow windows with the frequent flaw?O'er whose low cells the dock and mallow spread,And rampant nettles lift the spiry head,Whilst from the hollows of the tower on highThe grey-cap'd daws in saucy legions fly.
Round these lone walls assembling neighbours meet,And tread departed friends beneath their feet;And new-brier'd graves, that prompt the secret sigh,Shew each the spot where he himself must lie.Midst timely greetings village news goes round,Of crops late shorn, or crops that deck the ground;Experienc'd ploughmen in the circle join;While sturdy boys, in feats of strength to shine,With pride elate their young associates braveTo jump from hollow-sounding grave to grave;Then close consulting, each his talent lendsTo plan fresh sports when tedious service ends.Hither at times, with cheerfulness of soul,Sweetvillage Maidsfrom neighbouring hamlets stroll,That like the light-heel'd does o'er lawns that rove,Look shyly curious; rip'ning into love;For love's their errand: hence the tints that glowOn either cheek, an heighten'd lustre know:When, conscious of their charms, e'en Age looks sly,And rapture beams from Youth's observant eye.
THE PRIDE of such a party, Nature's pride,Was lovely POLL;[Footnote: MARY RAYNER, of Ixworth Thorp.] who innocentlytry'd,With hat of airy shape and ribbons gay,Love to inspire, and stand in Hymen's way:But, ere hertwentiethSummer could expand,Or youth was render'd happy with her hand,Her mind's serenity was lost and gone,Her eye grew languid, and she wept alone;Yet causeless seem'd her grief; for quick restrain'd,Mirth follow'd loud, or indignation reign'd:Whims wild and simple led her from her home,The heath, the common, or the fields to roam:Terror and joy alternate rul'd her hours;Now blithe she sung, and gather'd useless flow'rs;Now pluck'd a tender twig from every bough,To whip the hov'ring demons from her brow.Ill-fated Maid! thy guiding spark is fled,And lasting wretchedness awaits thy bed …Thy bed of straw! for mark, where even nowO'er their lost child afflicted parents bow;Their woe she knows not, but perversely coy,Inverted customs yield her sullen joy;Her midnight meals in secresy she takes,Low mutt'ring to the moon, that rising breaksThrough night's dark gloom:… oh how much more forlornHernight, that knows of no returning dawn!…
[Illustration:]
Slow from the threshold, once her infant seat,O'er the cold earth she crawls to her retreat;Quitting the cot's warm walls unhous'd to lie,Or share the swine's impure and narrow sty;The damp night air her shiv'ring limbs assails;In dreams she moans, and fancied wrongs bewails.When morning wakes, none earlier rous'd than she,When pendent drops fall glitt'ring from the tree;But nought her rayless melancholy cheers,Or sooths her breast, or stops her streaming tears.Her matted locks unornamented flow;Clasping her knees, and waving to and fro;…Her head bow'd down, her faded cheek to hide;…A piteous mourner by the pathway side.Some tufted molehill through the livelong dayShe calls her throne; there weeps her life away:And oft the gaily passing stranger staysHis well-tim'd step, and takes a silent gaze,Till sympathetic drops unbidden start,And pangs quick springing muster round his heart;And soft he treads with other gazers round,And fain would catch her sorrow's plaintive sound:One word alone is all that strikes the ear,One short, pathetic, simple word,… "Oh dear!"A thousand times repeated to the wind,That wafts the sigh, but leaves the pang behind!For ever of the proffer'd parley shy,She hears the' unwelcome foot advancing nigh;Nor quite unconscious of her wretched plight,Gives one sad look, and hurries out of sight….
Fair promis'd sunbeams of terrestrial bliss,Health's gallant hopes,… and are ye sunk to this?For in life's road though thorns abundant grow,There still are joys poor Poll can never know;Joys which the gay companions of her primeSip, as they drift along the stream of time;At eve to hear beside their tranquil homeThe lifted latch, that speaks the lover come:Thatlove matur'd, next playful on the kneeTo press the velvet lip of infancy;To stay the tottering step, the features trace;…Inestimable sweets of social peace!
O THOU, who bidst the vernal juices rise!Thou, on whose blasts autumnal foliage flies!Let Peace ne'er leave me, nor my heart grow cold,Whilst life and sanity are mine to hold.
Shorn of their flow'rs that shed th' untreasur'd seed,The withering pasture, and the fading mead,Less tempting grown, diminish more and more,The dairy's pride; sweet Summer's flowing store.New cares succeed, and gentle duties press,Where the fire-side, a school of tenderness,Revives the languid chirp, and warms the bloodOf cold-nipt weaklings of the latter brood,That from the shell just bursting into day,Through yard or pond pursue their vent'rous way.
Far weightier cares and wider scenes expand;What devastation marks the new-sown land!"From hungry woodland foes go,Giles, and guardThe rising wheat; ensure its great reward:A future sustenance, a Summer's pride,Demand thy vigilance: then be it try'd:Exert thy voice, and wield thy shotless gun:Go, tarry there from morn till setting sun."
Keen blows the blast, or ceaseless rain descends;The half-stript hedge a sorry shelter lends.O for a HOVEL, e'er so small or low,Whose roof, repelling winds and early snow,Might bring home's comforts fresh before his eyes!No sooner thought, than see the structure rise,In some sequester'd nook, embank'd around,Sods for its walls, and straw in burdens bound:
[Illustration]
Dried fuel hoarded is his richest store,And circling smoke obscures his little door;Whence creeping forth, to duty's call he yields,And strolls the Crusoe of the lonely fields.On whitethorns tow'ring, and the leafless rose,A frost-nipt feast in bright vermilion glows:Where clust'ring sloes in glossy order rise,He crops the loaded branch; a cumb'rous prize;And o'er the flame the sputt'ring fruit he rests,Placing green sods to seat his coming guests;His guests by promise; playmates young and gay:…BUT AH!fresh pastimeslure their steps away!He sweeps his hearth, and homeward looks in vain,Till feelingDisappointment'scruel pain,His fairy revels are exchang'd for rage,His banquet marr'd, grown dull his hermitage.The field becomes his prison, till on highBenighted birds to shades and coverts fly.Midst air, health, daylight, can he prisoner be?If fields are prisons, where is Liberty?Here still she dwells, and here her votaries stroll;But disappointed hope untunes the soul:Restraints unfelt whilst hours of rapture flow,When troubles press, to chains and barriers grow.Look then from trivial up to greater woes;From the poor bird-boy with his roasted sloes,To where the dungeon'd mourner heaves the sigh;Where not one cheering sun-beam meets his eye.Though ineffectual pity thine may be,No wealth, no pow'r, to set the captive free;Thoughonlyto thy ravish'dsightis givenThe golden path that HOWARD trod to heaven;Thy slights can make the wretched more forlorn,And deeper drive affliction's barbed thorn.Say not, "I'll come and cheer thy gloomy cellWith news of dearest friends; how good, how well:I'll be a joyful herald to thine heart:"Then fail, and play the worthless trifler's part,To sip flat pleasures from thy glass's brim,And waste the precious hour that's due to him.In mercy spare the base unmanly blow:Where can he turn, to whom complain of you?Back to past joys in vain his thoughts may stray;Trace and retrace the beaten worn-out way,The rankling injury will pierce his breast,And curses on thee break his midnight rest.
Bereft of song, and ever cheering green,The soft endearments of the Summer scene,New harmony pervades the solemn wood,Dear to the soul, and healthful to the blood:For bold exertion follows on the soundOf distant sportsmen, and the chiding hound;First heard from kennel bursting, mad with joy,Where smiling EUSTON boasts her good FITZROY,Lord of pure alms, and gifts that wide extend;The farmer's patron, and the poor man's friend:Whose mansion glitt'ring with the eastern ray,Whose elevated temple, points the way,O'er slopes and lawns, the park's extensive pride,To where the victims of the chace reside,Ingulf'd in earth, in conscious safety warm,Till lo! a plot portends their coming harm.
In earliest hours of dark unhooded morn,Ere yet one rosy cloud bespeaks the dawn,Whilst far abroad THE FOX pursues his prey,He's doom'd to risk the perils of the day,From his strong hold block'd out; perhaps to bleed,Or owe his life to fortune or to speed.For now the pack, impatient rushing on,Range through the darkest coverts one by one;Trace every spot; whilst down each noble gladeThat guides the eye beneath a changeful shade,The loit'ring sportsman feels th' instinctive flame,And checks his steed to mark the springing game.Midst intersecting cuts and winding waysThe huntsman cheers his dogs, and anxious straysWhere every narrow riding, even shorn,Gives back the echo of his mellow horn:Till fresh and lightsome, every power untried,The starting fugitive leaps by his side,His lifted finger to his ear he plies,And the view halloo bids a chorus riseOf dogs quick-mouth'd, and shouts that mingle loud,As bursting thunder rolls from cloud to cloud.With ears erect, and chest of vigorous mould,O'er ditch, o'er fence, unconquerably bold,The shining courser lengthens every bound,And his strong foot-locks suck the moisten'd ground,As from the confines of the wood they pour,And joyous villages partake the roar.O'er heath far stretch'd, or down, or valley low.The stiff-limb'd peasant, glorying in the show,Pursues in vain; where youth itself soon tires,Spite of the transports that the chace inspires;For who unmounted long can charm the eye,Or hear the music of the leading cry?
Poor faithful TROUNCER! thou canst lead no more;All thy fatigues and all thy triumphs o'er!Triumphs of worth, whose honorary fameWas still to follow true the hunted game;Beneath enormous oaks, Britannia's boast,In thick impenetrable coverts lost,When the warm pack in fault'ring silence stood,Thine was the note that rous'd the list'ning wood,Rekindling every joy with tenfold force,Through all the mazes of the tainted course.Still foremost thou the dashing stream to cross,And tempt along the animated horse;Foremost o'er fen or level mead to pass,And sweep the show'ring dew-drops from the grass;Then bright emerging from the mist belowTo climb the woodland hill's exulting brow.
Pride of thy race! with worth far less than thine,Full many human leaders daily shine!Less faith, less constancy, less gen'rous zeal!…Then no disgrace mine humble verse shall feel;Where not one lying line to riches bows,Or poison'd sentiment from rancour flows;Nor flowers are strewn around Ambition's car:…An honest dog's a nobler theme by far.Each sportsman heard the tidings with a sigh,When Death's cold touch had stopt his tuneful cry;And though high deeds, and fair exalted praise,In memory liv'd, and flow'd in rustic lays,Short was the strain of monumental woe:"Foxes, rejoice! here buried lies your foe.[A]"[Footnote A: Inscribed on a stone in Euston Park wall.]
In safety hous'd, throughout NIGHT'Slength'ningreign,The Cock sends forth a loud and piercing strain;More frequent, as the glooms of midnight flee,And hours roll round, that brought him liberty,When Summer's early dawn, mild, clear, and bright,Chas'd quick away the transitory night:…Hours now in darkness veil'd; yet loud the screamOf Geese impatient for the playful stream;And all the feather'd tribe imprison'd raiseTheir morning notes of inharmonious praise;And many a clamorous Hen and cockrel gay,When daylight slowly through the fog breaks way,Fly wantonly abroad: but ah, how soonThe shades of twilight follow hazy noon,Short'ning the busy day!… day that slides byAmidst th' unfinish'd toils of HUSBANDRY;Toils still each morn resum'd with double care,To meet the icy terrors of the year;To meet the threats ofBoreasundismay'd,AndWinter'sgathering frowns and hoary head.
THEN welcome, COLD; welcome, yesnowynights!Heaven midst your rage shall mingle pure delights,And confidence of hope the soul sustain,While devastation sweeps along the plain:Nor shall the child of poverty despair,But bless THE POWER that rules thechanging year;Assur'd,… tho' horrors round his cottage reign,…ThatSpringwill come, and Nature smile again.
Tenderness to cattle. Frozen turnips. The cow-yard. Night. The farm-house. Fire-side. Farmer's advice and instruction. Nightly cares of the stable. Dobbin. The post-horse. Sheep-stealing dogs. Walks occasioned thereby. The ghost. Lamb time. Returning Spring. Conclusion.
[Illustration]
With kindred pleasures mov'd, and cares opprest,Sharing alike our weariness and rest;Who lives the daily partner of our hours,Thro' every change of heat, and frost, and show'rs;Partakes our cheerful meals, partaking firstIn mutual labour and in mutual thirst;The kindly intercourse will ever proveA bond of amity and social love.To more than man this generous warmth extends,And oft the team and shiv'ring herd befriends;Tender solicitude the bosom fills,And Pity executes what Reason wills:Youth learns compassion's tale from every tongue,And flies to aid the helpless and the young;
When now, unsparing as the scourge of war,Blasts follow blasts, and groves dismantled roar,Around their home the storm-pinch'd CATTLE lows,No nourishment in frozen pastures grows;Yet frozen pastures every morn resoundWith fair abundance thund'ring to the ground.For though on hoary twigs no buds peep out,And e'en the hardy bramble cease to sprout,Beneath dread WINTER'S level sheets of snowThe sweet nutritiousTurnipdeigns to grow.Till now imperious want and wide-spread dearthBid Labour claim her treasures from the earth.On GILES, and such as Giles, the labour falls,To strew the frequent load where hunger calls.On driving gales sharp hail indignant flies,And sleet, more irksome still, assails his eyes;Snow clogs his feet; or if no snow is seen,The field with all its juicy store to screen,Deep goes the frost, till every root is foundA rolling mass of ice upon the ground.No tender ewe can break her nightly fast,Nor heifer strong begin the cold repast,TillGileswith pond'rous beetle foremost go,And scatt'ring splinters fly at every blow;When pressing round him, eager for the prize,From their mixt breath warm exhalations rise.
If now in beaded rows drops deck the spray,WhilePhoebusgrants a momentary ray,Let but a cloud's broad shadow intervene,And stiffen'd into gems the drops are seen;And down the furrow'd oak's broad southern sideStreams of dissolving rime no longer glide.
THOUGH NIGHT approaching bids for rest prepare,Still the flail echoes through the frosty air,Nor stops till deepest shades of darkness come,Sending at length the weary laborer home.From him, with bed and nightly food supplied,Throughout the yard, hous'd round on every side,Deep-plunging Cows their rustling feast enjoy,And snatch sweet mouthfuls from the passing boy,Who moves unseen beneath his trailing load,Fills the tall racks, and leaves a scatter'd road;Where oft the swine from ambush warm and dryBolt out, and scamper headlong to their sty,WhenGileswith well-known voice, already there,Deigns them a portion of his evening care.
Him, though the cold may pierce, and storms molest, Succeeding hours shall cheer with warmth and rest:
[Illustration]
Gladness to spread, and raise the grateful smile,He hurls the faggot bursting from the pile,And many a log and rifted trunk conveys,To heap the fire, and to extend the blazeThat quiv'ring strong through every opening flies,Whilst smoaky columns unobstructed rise.For the rude architect, unknown to fame,(Nor symmetry nor elegance his aim)Who spread his floors of solid oak on high,On beams rough-hewn, from age to age that lie,Bade hiswide Fabricunimpair'd sustainPomona'sstore, and cheese, and golden grain;Bade from its central base, capacious laid,The well-wrought chimney rear its lofty head;Where since hath many a savoury ham been stor'd,And tempests howl'd, and Christmas gambols roar'd.
FLAT on thehearththe glowing embers lie,And flames reflected dance in every eye:There the long billet, forc'd at last to bend,While frothing sap gushes at either end,Throws round its welcome heat:… the ploughman smiles,And oft the joke runs hard on sheepishGiles,Who sits joint tenant of the corner-stool,The converse sharing, though in duty's school;For now attentively 'tis his to hearInterrogations from the Master's chair.
'LEFT ye your bleating charge, when daylight fled,'Near where the hay-stack lifts its snowy head?'Whose fence of bushy furze, so close and warm,'May stop the slanting bullets of the storm.'For, hark! it blows; a dark and dismal night:'Heaven guide the traveller's fearful steps aright!'Now from the woods, mistrustful and sharp-ey'd,'TheFoxin silent darkness seems to glide,'Stealing around us, list'ning as he goes,'If chance the Cock or stamm'ring cockerel crows,'Or Goose, or nodding Duck, should darkling cry,'As if appriz'd of lurking danger nigh:'Destruction waits them,Giles, if e'er you fail'To bolt their doors against the driving gale.'Strew'd you (still mindful of the unshelter'd head)'Burdens of straw, the cattle's welcome bed?'Thine heart should feel, what thou may'st hourly see,'That duty's basis is humanity.'Of pain's unsavoury cup tho' thou may'st taste,'(The wrath of Winter from the bleak north-east,)'Thine utmost suff'rings in the coldest day'A period terminates, and joys repay.'Perhaps e'en now, while here those joys we boast,'Full many a bark rides down the neighb'ring coast,'Where the high northern waves tremendous roar,'Drove down by blasts fromNorway'sicy shore.'TheSea-boythere, less fortunate than thou,'Feels all thy pains in all the gusts that blow;'His freezing hands now drench'd, now dry, by turns;'Now lost, now seen, the distant light that burns,'On some tall cliff uprais'd, a flaming guide,'That throws its friendly radiance o'er the tide.'His labours cease not with declining day,'But toils and perils mark his watry way;'And whilst in peaceful dreams securewelie,'The ruthless whirlwinds rage along the sky,'Round his head whistling;… and shall thou repine,'While this protecting roof still shelters thine?'
Mild, as the vernal show'r, his words prevail,And aid the moral precept of his tale:His wond'ring hearers learn, and ever keepThese first ideas of the restless deep;And, as the opening mind a circuit tries,Present felicities in value rise.Increasing pleasures every hour they find,The warmth more precious, and the shelter kind;Warmth that long reigning bids the eyelids close,As through the blood its balmy influence goes,When the cheer'd heart forgets fatigues and cares,And drowsiness alone dominion bears.
Sweet then the ploughman's slumbers, hale and young,When the last topic dies upon his tongue;Sweet then the bliss his transient dreams inspire,Till chilblains wake him, or the snapping fire:
He starts, and ever thoughtful of his team,Along the glitt'ring snow a feeble gleamShoots from his lantern, as he yawning goesTo add fresh comforts to their night's repose;Diffusing fragrance as their food he movesAnd pats the jolly sides of those he loves.Thus full replenish'd, perfect ease possest,From night till morn alternate food and rest,No rightful cheer withheld, no sleep debar'd,Their each day's labour brings its sure reward.Yet when from plough or lumb'ring cart set free,They taste awhile the sweets of liberty:E'en soberDobbinlifts his clumsy heelsAnd kicks, disdainful of the dirty wheels;But soon, his frolic ended, yields againTo trudge the road, and wear the clinking chain.
Short-sighted DOBBIN!… thou canst only seeThe trivial hardships thatencompassthee:Thy chains were freedom, and thy toils repose,Could the poorpost-horsetell thee all his woes;Shew thee his bleeding shoulders, and unfoldThe dreadful anguish he endures for gold:Hir'd at each call of business, lust, or rage,That prompt the trav'eller on from stage to stage.Still onhisstrength depends their boasted speed;For them his limbs grow weak, his bare ribs bleed;And though he groaning quickens at command,Their extra shilling in the rider's handBecomes his bitter scourge:… 'tishemust feelThe double efforts of the lash and steel;Till when, up hill, the destin'd inn he gains,And trembling under complicated pains,Prone from his nostrils, darting on the ground,His breath emitted floats in clouds around:Drops chase each other down his chest and sides,And spatter'd mud his native colour hides:Thro' his swoln veins the boiling torrent flows,And every nerve a separate torture knows.His harness loos'd, he welcomes eager-eyedThe pail's full draught that quivers by his side;And joys to see the well-known stable door,As the starv'd mariner the friendly shore.
Ah, well for him if here his suff'rings ceas'd,And ample hours of rest his pains appeas'd!But rous'd again, and sternly bade to rise,And shake refreshing slumber from his eyes,Ere his exhausted spirits can return,Or through his frame reviving ardour burn,Come forth he must, tho' limping, maim'd, and sore;He hears the whip; the chaise is at the door:…The collar tightens, and again he feelsHis half-heal'd wounds inflam'd; again the wheelsWith tiresome sameness in his ears resound,O'er blinding dust, or miles of flinty ground.Thus nightly robb'd, and injur'd day by day,His piece-meal murd'rers wear his life away.
What say'st thou,Dobbin?what though hounds awaitWith open jaws the moment of thy fate,No better fate attendshispublic race;His life is misery, and his end disgrace.Then freely bear thy burden to the mill;Obey but one short law,… thy driver's will.Affection, to thy memory ever true,Shall boast of mighty loads thatDobbindrew;And back to childhood shall the mind with prideRecount thy gentleness in many a rideTo pond, or field, or village fair, when thouHeld'st high thy braided mane and comely brow;And oft the Tale shall rise to homely fameUpon thy gen'rous spirit and thy name.
Though faithful to a proverb, we regardThe midnight chieftain of the farmer's yard,Beneath whose guardianship all hearts rejoice,Woke by the echo of his hollow voice;Yet as the Hound may fault'ring quit the pack,Snuff the foul scent, and hasten yelping back;And e'en the docile Pointer know disgrace,Thwarting the gen'ral instinct of his race;E'en so the MASTIFF, or the meaner Cur,At times will from the path of duty err,(A pattern of fidelity by day;By night amurderer, lurking for his prey);And round the pastures or the fold will creep,And, coward-like, attack the peacefulsheep:Alone the wanton mischief he pursues,Alone in reeking blood his jaws imbrues;Chasing amain his fright'ned victims round,Till death in wild confusion strews the ground;Then wearied out, to kennel sneaks away,And licks his guilty paws till break of day.
The deed discover'd, and the news once spread,Vengeance hangs o'er the unknown culprit's head:And carefulShepherdsextra hours bestowIn patientwatchingsfor the common foe;A foe most dreaded now, when rest and peaceShould wait the season of the flock's increase.
In part these nightly terrors to dispel,GILES, ere he sleeps, his little Flock must tell.From the fire-side with many a shrug he hies,Glad if the full-orb'd Moon salute his eyes,And through the unbroken stillness of the nightShed on his path her beams of cheering light.With saunt'ring step he climbs the distant stile,Whilst all around him wears a placid smile;There views the white-rob'd clouds in clusters driv'n,And all the glorious pageantry of heav'n.Low, on the utmost bound'ry of the sight,The rising vapours catch the silver light;Thence Fancy measures, as they parting fly,Which first will throw its shadow on the eye,Passing the source of light; and thence away,Succeeded quick by brighter still than they.For yet above these wafted clouds are seen(In a remoter sky, still more serene,)Others, detach'd in ranges through the air,Spotless as snow, and countless as they're fair;Scatter'd immensely wide from east to west,The beauteous 'semblance of aFlockat rest.These, to the raptur'd mind, aloud proclaimTheir MIGHTY SHEPHERD'S everlasting Name.
Whilst thus the loit'rer's utmost stretch of soulClimbs the still clouds, or passes those that roll,And loos'dImaginationsoaring goesHigh o'er his home, and all his little woes,TIME glides away; neglected Duty calls:At once from plains of light to earth he falls,And down a narrow lane, well known by day,With all his speed pursues his sounding way,In thought still half absorb'd, and chill'd with cold;When, lo! an object frightful to behold;A grisly SPECTRE, cloth'd in silver-gray,Around whose feet the waving shadows play,Stands in his path!… He stops, and not a breathHeaves from his heart, that sinks almost to death.Loud the owl halloos o'er his head unseen;All else is silent, dismally serene:Some prompt ejaculation, whisper'd low,Yet bears him up against the threat'ning foe;And thus poor Giles, though half inclin'd to fly,Mutters his doubts, and strains his stedfast eye.''Tis not my crimes thou com'st here to reprove;'No murders stain my soul, no perjur'd love:'If thou'rt indeed what here thou seem'st to be,'Thy dreadful mission cannot reach to me.'By parents taught still to mistrust mine eyes,'Still to approach each object of surprise'Lest Fancy's formful visions should deceive'In moon-light paths, or glooms of falling eve,'This then's the moment when my heart should try'To scan thy motionless deformity;'But oh, the fearful task! yet well I know'An aged ash, with many a spreading bough,'(Beneath whose leaves I've found a Summer's bow'r,'Beneath whose trunk I've weather'd many a show'r,)'Stands singly down this solitary way,'But far beyond where now my footsteps stay.'Tis true, thus far I've come with heedless haste;'No reck'ning kept, no passing objects trac'd:…'And can I then have reach'd that very tree?'Or is its reverend form assum'd by thee?'The happy thought alleviates his pain:He creeps another step; then stops again;Till slowly, as his noiseless feet draw near,Its perfect lineaments at once appear;Its crown of shiv'ring ivy whispering peace,And its white bark that fronts the moon's pale face.Now, whilst his blood mounts upward, now he knowsThe solid gain that from conviction flows;And strengthen'd Confidence shall hence fulfill(With conscious Innocence more valued still)The dreariest task that winter nights can bring,By church-yard dark, or grove, or fairy ring;Still buoying up the timid mind of youth,Till loit'ring Reason hoists the scale of Truth.With these blest guardiansGileshis course pursues,Till numbering his heavy-sided ewes,Surrounding stillness tranquilize his breast,And shape the dreams that wait his hours of rest.
As when retreating tempests we behold,Whose skirts at length the azure sky unfold,And full of murmurings and mingled wrath,Slowly unshroud the smiling face of earth,Bringing the bosom joy: so WINTER flies!…And see the Source of Life and Light uprise!A height'ning arch o'er southern hills he bends;Warm on the cheek the slanting beam descends,And gives the reeking mead a brighter hue,And draws the modestprimrosebud to view.Yet frosts succeed, and winds impetuous rush,And hail-storms rattle thro' the budding bush;And night-fall'n LAMBS require the shepherd's care,And teeming EWES, that still their burdens bear;Beneath whose sides tomorrow's dawn may seeThe milk-white strangers bow the trembling knee;At whose first birth the pow'rful instinct's seenThat fills with champions the daisied green:For ewes that stood aloof with fearful eye,With stamping foot now men and dogs defy,And obstinately faithful to their young,Guard their first steps to join the bleating throng.
But casualties and death from damps and coldWill still attend the well-conducted fold:Her tender offspring dead, the dam aloudCalls, and runs wild amidst the unconscious crowd:And orphan'd sucklings raise the piteous cry;No wool to warm them, no defenders nigh.And must her streaming milk then flow in vain?Must unregarded innocence complain?No;… ere this strong solicitude subside,Maternal fondness may be fresh apply'd,And the adopted stripling still may findA parent most assiduously kind.For this he's doom'd awhile disguis'd to range,(For fraud or force must work the wish'd-for change;)For this his predecessor's skin he wears,Till cheated into tenderness and cares,The unsuspecting dam, contented grown,Cherish and guard the fondling as her own.
Thus all by turns to fair perfection rise;Thus twins are parted to increase their size:Thus instinct yields as interest points the way,Till the bright flock, augmenting every day,On sunny hills and vales of springing flow'rsWith ceaseless clamour greet the vernal hours.
The humblerShepherdhere with joy beholdsThe approv'd economy of crowded folds,And, in his small contracted round of cares,Adjusts the practice of each hint he hears:For Boys with emulation learn to glow,And boast their pastures, and their healthful showOf well-grown Lambs, the glory of the Spring;And field to field in competition bring.
E'en GILES, for all his cares and watchings past,And all his contests with the wintry blast,Claims a full share of that sweet praise bestow'dBy gazing neighbours, when along the road,Or village green, his curly-coated throngSuspends the chorus of the spinner's song;When Admiration's unaffected graceLisps from the tongue, and beams in every face:Delightful moments!… Sunshine, Health, and Joy,Play round, and cheer the elevated Boy!'AnotherSPRING!' his heart exulting cries;'AnotherYEAR! with promis'd blessings rise!…'ETERNAL POWER! from whom those blessings flow,'Teach me still more to wonder, more to know:'Seed-timeandHarvestlet me see again;'Wander theleaf-strewnwood,frozenplain:'Let the first Flower, corn-waving Field, Plain, Tree,'Here round my home, still lift my soul to THEE;'And let me ever, midst thy bounties, raise'An humble note of thankfulness and praise!'—
A fav'rite morsel with the Rook, &c.P. 9, l. 104.
In these verses, which have much of picturesque, there is a severe charge againstRooks and Crows, as very formidable depredators; and their destruction, as such, seems to be recommended. Such was the prevalent opinion some years back. It is less general now: and I am sure the humanity of the Author, and his benevolence to Animals in general, will dispose him to rejoice in whatever plea can be offered in stay of execution of this sentence. And yet more so, if it shall appear that ROOKS, at least, deserve not only mercy, butprotectionandencouragementfrom the Farmer.
I shall quote a passage from BEWICK'S interesting HISTORY of BIRDS: the narrative part of which is often as full of information as the embellishments cut in wood are beautiful…. It is this.
Speaking of Birds of the PIE-KIND in general, he says "Birds of this kind [Footnote: P. 63] are found in every part of the known world, from Greenland to the Cape of Good Hope. In many respects they may be said to be of singular benefit to mankind: principally by destroying great quantities of noxious insects, worms, and reptiles. ROOKS, in particular, are fond of the erucae of thehedge-chaffer, or chesnutbrown beetle: for which they search with indefatigable pains. These insects," he adds in a note, "appear in hot weather in formidable numbers: disrobing the fields and trees of their verdure, blossoms, and fruit; spreading desolation and destruction wherever they go…. They appeared in great numbers in IRELAND during a hot summer, and committed great ravages. In the year 1747 whole meadows and corn-fields were destroyed by them in SUFFOLK. The decrease of Rookeries in that County was thought to be the occasion of it. The many Rookeries with us is in some measure the reason why we have so few of these destructive animals."[Footnote: Wallis's History of Northumberland.]
"Rooks," he subjoins, "are often accus'd of feeding on the corn just after it has been sown, and various contrivances have been made both to kill and frighten them away; but, in our estimation, the advantages deriv'd from the destruction which they make among grubs, earth-worms, and noxious insects of various kinds, will greatly overpay the injury done to the future harvest by the small quantity of corn they may destroy in searching after their favourite food." [Footnote: Mr. Bewick does not seem to have been quite aware that much of this mischief, as I have been informed by a sensible neighboring Farmer and Tenant, is done in the grub-state of the chaffer by biting through therootsof grass, &c. A latent, and imperceptibly, but rapidly spreading mischief, against which therooksand birds of similar instinct are, in a manner, the sole protection. C. L.]
"In general they are sagacious, active, and faithful to each other. They live in pairs; and their mutual attachment is constant. They are a clamorous race: mostly build in trees, and form a kind of society in which there appears something like a regular government. A Centinel watches for the general safety, and gives notice on the appearance of danger."
Under the Title, "ROOKS," (p. 71) Mr. BEWICK repeats his observations on the useful property of this Bird.
I confess myself solicitous for their safety and kind treatment. We have two which were lam'd by being blown down in a storm (a calamity which destroys great numbers almost every spring). One of them is perfectly domesticated. The other is yet more remarkable; since although enjoying his natural liberty completely, he recognizes, even in his flights at a distance from the house, his adoptive home, his human friends, and early protectors.
The ROOK is certainly a very beautiful and very sensible Bird; very confiding, and very much attach'd. It will give me a pleasure, in which I doubt not that the Author of this delightful Poem will partake, if any thing here said shall avail them with the Farmer; and especially with the SUFFOLK FARMER.
Destroys life's intercourse; the social plan.P. 46, l. 341.
"Allowing for the imperfect state of sublunary happiness, which is comparative at best, there are not, perhaps, many nations existing whose situation is so desirable; where the means of subsistence are so easy, and the wants of the people so few. The evident distinction of ranks, which subsists atOtaheite, does not so materially affect the felicity of the nation as we might have supposed. The simplicity of their whole life contributes to soften the appearance of distinctions, and to reduce them to a level. Where the climate and the custom of the country do not absolutely require a perfec: garment; where it is easy at every step to gather as many plants as form not only a decent, but likewise a customary covering; and where all the necessaries of life are within the reach of every individual, at the expence of a trifling labour; ambition and envy must in a great measure be unknown. It is true, the highest classes of people possess some dainty articles, such as pork, fish, fowl, and cloth, almost exclusively; but the desire of indulging the appetite in a few trifling luxuries can at most render individuals, and not whole nations, unhappy. Absolute want occasions the miseries of the lower class in some civiliz'd states, and is the result of the unbounded voluptuousness of their superiors. AtOtaheitethere is not, in general, that disparity between the highest and the meanest man, that subsists in England between a reputable tradesman and a labourer. The affection of the Otaheitans for their chiefs, which they never fail'd to express upon all occasions, gave us great reason to suppose that they consider themselves as one family, and respect their eldest borm in the persons of their chiefs. The lowest man in the nation speaks as freely with his king as with his equal, and has the pleasure of seeing him as often as he likes. The king, at times, amuses himself with the occupations of his subjects; and not yet deprav'd by false notions of empty state, he often paddles his own canoe, without considering such an employment derogatory to his dignity. How long such an happy equality may last is uncertain: and how much the introduction of foreign luxuries may hasten its dissolution cannot be too frequently repeated to Europeans. If the knowledge of a few individuals can only be acquired at such a price as the happiness of nations, it were better for the discoverers and the discovered that theSouth Seahad still remain'd unknown toEuropeand its restless inhabitants."
REFLECTIONS ON OTAHEITE: Cook's second Voyage.
When the FIRST EDITION of this POEM appear'd in March last, I intimated a design of accompanying it with some CEITICAL REMARKS. With that design various Engagements have since greatly interfer'd. From one of the most laborious and constant of those, that of the office of a Justice of the Peace for the County of Suffolk, I am now discharg'd. Why those who are in power have done this, they have not explain'd: and it being an office from which any one who holds it is removable atpleasure, they are not call'd to explain. Had it been for Crime or Misconduct as a Magistrate, of course Trial and Conviction should have preceded my Removal. As it is, I feel, as I have publicly declar'd, no shame in the removal. I have held an office honorable because extensively useful; because unprofitable and burthensome to the individual; because independently and conscientiously exercis'd, with a devotion, such as it requir'd, of my time, my thoughts, and my best faculties, daily to its discharge. My Collegues,—and they are and have been, during a course of seventeen years, those of them who now act, and those who are dead or absent, men with whom to have acted was indeed satisfactory and pleasant,—my late Collegues part with me, and I with them, regrettingly. Our reciprocal Esteem is not lessen'd by this abruption of our official intercourse. And as every man who feels what Society is, ought to determine to be serviceable to the Public, my removal from this office neither weakens the determination, nor probably will be found to have impair'd the means of effecting it. I am therefore well content;—as I ought to be. I sought not the office. I have never sought any. It solicited my acceptance; unask'd and unexpected. I owe my appointment to the Duke of GRAFTON, very soon after I came to reside in this County. He was thenLord Lieutenant. I have not yielded that appointment to disgust; though there were those who were not sparing in their endeavours to disgust me with it: I have not relinquished it to suit my convenience; though in times like these an office of no little expence, and which shut me out from sources of professional emolument, was to me certainly not convenient: I have not consulted my ease or health by a voluntary retirement. I am remov'd, I am superseded, I am struck out from an office of incredible and hourly increasing anxiety. Circumstances like this are not new. They have repeatedly taken place in relation to very high offices; and the Public remembers men to whom they have happen'd whose internal dignity and worth is above any official dignity. Had I felt that Imeritedto be remov'd, I should not have thought myself a fit Editor of the FARMER'S BOY; a Poem which breathes every where modest independence, benevolence, innocence, and virtue. As it is, I think myself no way less fit than ever for any laudable and becoming employ. And I have accordingly announc'd my intention of resuming my profession as a BARRISTER. In the mean time, the leisure which has thus been thrown to me may properly and usefully be devoted to the Remarks which I had before meditated; and for which I had in some measure pledg'd myself to the PUBLIC.
The FIRST of these will naturally be that which relates to themannerand circumstances of the Composition. There is such proof in it of Genius disregarding difficulty, and of powers of retention and arrangement, that it will be believ'd I could not overpass it: and that it would have been stated at the first if it had been then in my power to state it.
I now lay it before the Public in the words of Mr. SWAN: who in a Letter address'd to me inThe Ladies Museumof this Month, after congratulating me on my "successful efforts," (and with such a Production to propose to public Attention how could they be unsuccessful?) "in rescuing from oblivion a Poem, which for the harmony of its numbers, the beauty of its imagery, originality of thought, elegance and chasteness of diction, (every circumstance consider'd,) stands unrivall'd in the Annals of English Literature, and will descend to Posterity with increasing celebrity," states themotiveon which he writes: (a motive well meriting a Letter and a public statement:) "to throw light upon the manner of the composition of the Farmer's Boy; which appears to him (and most justly) no inconsiderable addition to the well-earn'd laurels of the Author."
For the pleasure of the view which it includes of the character and manners of Mr. BLOOMFIELD, I shall, with the Author of this interesting Letter, go beyond the mere fact; and give his narration of the cause and manner of theDiscovery, as well at the Discovery itself.
Mr. SWAN thus expresses himself:
"From the pleasure I receiv'd in reading the FARMER'S BOY, and from some strange coincidences in the early part of Mr. Bloomfield's life with my own, I was naturally enough anxious to become acquainted with the Author. For this purpose I obtain'd his address, and found him … the modest, the unambitious person you describe; wondering at the praise and admiration with which his Poem has been receiv'd; whose utmost ambition was to have presented a fair copy to his aged Mother, as a pledge of filial affection, and a picture of his juvenile avocations. So unexpected was the fame of his production, that the whole of his good fortune appears to him as a dream."—'I had no more idea,' says he, 'to be sent for by the Duke of Grafton, and be so kindly and generously treated, than of the hour I shall die.'
"I gave him," Mr. SWAN continues, "my card of address, an invitation to my house, and a sincere profession of friendship; if, among his numerous admirers, and noble and royal patrons, the latter was worthy of acceptance."
"Last Sunday afternoon [Footnote: The Letter is dated 12 July, 1800.] I was highly pleas'd with his company, and gratified and entertain'd with his conversation.—Sir, he is all … nay, more than you have describ'd."
"Among other subjects of conversation respecting theFarmer's Boy, I wish'd to be inform'd of his manner of composition. I enquir'd, as he compos'd it in a garret, amid the bustle and noise of six or seven fellow workmen, whether he us'd a slate; or wrote it on paper with a pencil, or pen and ink. But what was my surprize when told that he had us'd neither.—My business, during the greatest part of my life having led me into the line of litterary pursuits, and made me acquainted with litterary men, I am, consequently, pretty well inform'd of the methods us'd by authors for the retention of their productions. We are told, if my recollection is just, that Milton took his Daughters as his amanuenses; that Savage, when his poverty precluded him the conveniency of pen, ink, and paper, us'd to study in the streets, and go into shops to record the productions of his fertile genius; that Pope, when on visits at Lord Bolingbroke's, us'd to ring up the servants at any hour in the night for pen and ink, to write any thought that struck his lively and wakeful imagination; that Dr. Blacklock, though blind, had the happy faculty of writing down, in a very legible hand, the chaste and elegant productions of his Muse."
"With these and many other methods of composition we are acquainted; but that of a great part ofthe Farmer's Boystands, in my opinion, first on the List of Litterary [Footnote: I have ventur'd to restore litterary to that mode of spelling, with the doublet, which the Analogy of our language seems to require. L.] Phaenomena.—Sir, Mr. Bloomfield, either from the contracted state of his pecuniary resources to purchase Paper, or from other reasons, compos'd the latter part of hisAutumnand the whole of hisWinterin his head, without committing one line to paper.—This cannot fail to surprize the Litterary World: who are well acquainted with the treacherousness of memory, and how soon the most happy ideas, for want of sufficient quickness in noting down, are lost in the rapidity of thought."
"But this is not all.—He went still a step farther.—He not only compos'd and committed that part of the work to his retentive memory, but he corrected it all in his head. And, as he said, when it was thus prepar'd,…I had nothing to do but to write it down."
"By this new and wonderful mode of composition he studied and completed his Farmer's Boy in a garret; among six or seven workmen, without their ever suspecting any thing of the matter."
"Sir, this to me was both new and wonderful: and induc'd me rather to communicate the information to you through the medium of the Press than by writing; that it may meet the eye of many, who will be equally struck and pleas'd with the novelty of the idea as myself."
I have on this part of the subject, only, after quoting thus much at present from the Letter of Mr. SWAN, to add, that I entirely agree with him, I believe, as to the force, clearness, and comprehensiveness of intellect manifested by this experiment, and its success.
I now pass to part of what has been fully and excellently said by Dr.DRAKE of HADLEIGH, while investigating the merits of this astonishingRural Poem.
In a Letter from HADLEIGH [Footnote: 9 March, 1800.] Dr. DRAKE had given me this distinct and vivid representation of his general idea of the Poem.
"I have read THE FARMER'S BOY with a mixture of astonishment and delight. There is a pathetic simplicity in his sentiments and descriptions that does honour to his head and heart."
"His copies from Nature are truly original and faithful, and are touched with the hand of a Master…. His versification occasionally displays an energy and harmony which might decorate even the pages of a DARWIN."
"The general characteristics of his Style, however, are sweetness andease. In short, I have no hesitation in declaring, that I think it, as aRural and descriptive Poem, superior to any production since the days ofTHOMSON."
"It wants no reference to its Author's uneducated poverty to render its excellence the more striking; they are such as would confer durable Fame on the first and most polish'd Poet in the Kingdom."
I shall now take the liberty of extracting part of the CRITIQUE which Dr. DRAKE, agreeably to his intimation to me, has made of the FARMER'S BOY in his LITTERARY HOURS.[Footnote: Vol. II, Ess. xxxix, p. 444.]
"From the pleasing duty of describing such a 'character' (meaning the personal character of Mr. BLOOMFIELD) let us now turn our attention to the species of composition of which his Poem is so perfect a specimen. It has been observ'd in my sixteenth number that PASTORAL POETRY in this country, with very few exceptions, has exhibited a tame and servile adherence to classical imagery and costume; at the same time totally overlooking that profusion of picturesque beauty, and that originality of manner and peculiarity of employment, which our climate and our rustics every where present."
"A few Authors were mention'd in that Essay as having judiciously deviated from the customary plan: to these may now be added the name ofBoomfield; theFarmers Boy, though not assuming the form of an Eclogue, being peculiarly and exclusively, throughout, apastoral Composition; not like the Poem ofThomson, taking a wide excursion through all the phenomena of theSeasons, but nearly limited to the ruraloccupationand business of the fields, the dairy, and the farm yard."
"As with these employments, however, the vicissitudes of the Year are immediately and necessarily connected, Mr. Bloomfield has, with propriety, divided his Poem intoFourBooks, affixing to those Books the Titles of the Seasons."
"Such indeed are the merits of this Work, that in truepastoralimagery and simplicity I do not think any production can be put in competition with it since the days of Theocritus." [Footnote: I have heard that the opinion of no less a Judge than Dr. WATSON, Bishop of LLANDAFF, is by no means short of the encomium implied in this comparison, high and ample as it is. L.]
"To that charming simplicity which particularizes the Grecian, are added the individuality, [Footnote: Much of these qualities indeed is certainly inTheocritusalso. L.] fidelity, and boldness of description, which render Thomson so interesting to the lovers of Nature."
"GESNER possesses the most engaging sentiment, and the most refin'd simplicity of manners; but he wants that rustic wildness and naïveté in delineation characteristic of the Sicilian, and of the composition before us."
"WARNER and DRAYTON have much to recommend them: but they are very unequal; and are devoid of thesweet and pensive moralitywhich pervade almost every page ofthe Farmers Boy; nor can they establish any pretensions to that fecundity in painting the oeconomy of rural life, which this Poem, drawn from actual experience, so richly displays."
"It is astonishing indeed what various and striking circumstances, peculiar to the occupation of theBritish Farmer, and which are adapted to all the purposes of thepastoralMuse, had escaped our Poets, previous to the publication of Mr.Bloomfield'sWork."
"Those who are partial to theCountry;—and where is the man of Genius who feels not a delight approaching to ecstasy from the contemplation of its scenery, and the happiness which its cultivation diffuses?—those who have paid attention to the process of husbandry, and who view its occurrences with interest; who are at the same time alive to all the minutiae of the animal and vegetable creation; who mark
'How Nature paints for colours, how the BeeSits on the bloom, extracting liquid sweet,'
will derive from the study of this Poem a gratification the most permanent and pure."
Though I have thus largely extracted I cannot omit transferring hither theANALYSIS of the Poem, as given by Dr. Drake.
"ThefirstBook, intitledSpring, opens with an appropriate invocation. A transition is then made to the artless character ofGiles, theFarmer's Boy; after which the scene nearEustonin Suffolk is describ'd, and an amiable portrait of Mr.Austin, immediately follows.
"Seed-time, harrowing, the devastation of the rooks,[Footnote: I will not say much: but I was glad to see since the second Edition of this Poem the cause of the Rooks had again been advocated, in theNewcastle Chronicle. L.] wood-scenery, the melody of birds, cows milking, and the operations of the dairy, occupy the chief part of this Season: which is clos'd by a beautiful Personification of the Spring and her attendants, and an admirable delineation of the sportive pleasures of the young Lambs."
"ThesecondBook, orSummer, commences with a characteristic sketch of the prudent yet benevolent Farmer. The genial influence of the rain is then welcom'd; to which succeeds a most delicious picture of a green and woody covert with all its insect tribe. The ascension of the sky-lark, the peaceful repose ofGiles, a view of the ripening harvest, with some moral reflections on Nature and her great Creator, are introduc'd: follow'd by animated descriptions of reaping, gleaning, the honest exultation of the Farmer, the beauty of the Country Girl, and the wholesome refreshment of the field. Animals teazed by insects, the cruelty of docking horses, the insolence of the gander, the apathy of the swine, are drawn in a striking manner: and the Book concludes with masterly pictures of a twilight repose, a midnight storm of thunder and lightning, and views of the ancient and present mode of celebrating Harvest-home."
"ThethirdBook,Autumn, is introduc'd with a delineation of forest scenery, and pigs fattening on fallen acorns. Sketches of wild ducks and their haunts, of hogs settling to repose in a wood, and of wheat sowing, succeed. The sound of village bells suggests a most pleasing digression: of which the church and its pastor, the rustic amusements of a Sunday, the Village Maids, and a most pathetic description of a distracted Female, are the prominent features. Returning to rural business,Gilesis drawn guarding the rising wheat from birds:—his little hut, with his preparation for the reception of his playmates, their treachery and his disappointment, are conceiv'd and colour'd in an exquisite style. Fox-hunting, the Fox-hound's epitaph, the long autumnal evenings, a description of domestic fowl, and a welcome to the snowy nights of Winter, form the concluding topics of this Season."
"ThefourthBook, under the appellation ofWinter, is usher'd in by some humane injunctions for the treatment of storm-pinch'd cattle. The frozen turnips are broken for them: and the cowyard at night is describ'd. The conviviality of a Christmas evening, and the conversation round the fire, with the admonitions from the Master's chair, are depicted in a manner truly pleasing. TheSea Boyand theFarmers Boyare contrasted with much effect: and the ploughman feeding his horses at night, with the comparison between the cart-horse and post-horse, have great merit. The mastiff turn'd sheep-biter is next delineated; succeeded by a description of a moon-light night, and the appearance of a spectre."
"The counting of the Sheep in the fold, and the adopted Lambs, are beautiful paintings: and with the Triumph of GILES on the conclusion of the Year, and his Address to the DEITY, the Book and Poem close."
"Such are the Materials of which THE FARMER'S BOY is constructed. Several of the topics, it will be perceiv'd, are new to Poetry; and of those which are in theirtitlefamiliar to the readers of our descriptive Bards, it will be found that the imagery and adjunctive circumstances are original, and the effort of a mind practis'd in the rare art of selecting and combining the most striking and picturesque features of an object."