Ex Libris C. K. OGDEN Enqravea ty ffJTall .^yiur^^y^ ..yaL^^TT/yn^/a^. MLI^ Bf, CMST-, LIBRARY, LOS AITGSLEf! yi:i!:!;iy;Tm^]ifm nTOiiin:n;iiir;CT^ THE FARMER'S BOY, AND GOOD TIDINGS. 11 OB K U'l" W \,OOy[V' [KT/D, London nti/u/ic/ /-v j5n/./»-/>.. CmUo,l- iJ^.T,;; J'attrnMter How THE POEMS OF ROBERT BLOOMFIELD, IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. I. THE FARMER'S BOY, AXD GOOD TIDINGS. LONDON: PRINTED rOR LONGMAN^ REES^ ORME, RROW N, AND green; BALDWIN, CRADOCK, ANi) JOY; HARVEY AND DARTON ; .1. BOOKER ; G. COWIE AND CO. ; AND HAMILTON AND ADAMS. 1827. M'Onwan and Si'tt. Great Windmill Strtet. PREFACE. Eight years have elapsed since the first publica- tion of ' The Farmer's Boy.' It now assumes, toge- ther with the later Poems, a new form ; and my friend Mr. LofFt, to whom I am so obviously and so materially indebted for success, with great libe- rality suggests, that a general publication of the works in connection seems to require something of a general Preface adapted to the occasion, and coming from myself. But as all that I have writ- ten will now be comprised in two volumes, some further remarks will be found in my second volume respecting the Tales and Ballads. What is here said relates to the Farmer's Boy alone. The plain, candid memoir, which has hitherto preceded the Poem, as given by my Brother to Mr. Loflft, has interested thousands in my favour, and spared me those painful feelings which must ^'OL- 1- t i . 'C'^ ■ i} c rx ii PREFACE. have arisen from a perpetual recurrence of the same questions in all companies, and from a per- plexing wish to comply with the natural curiosity of strangers. Wherever I have been introduced, almost without exception, my history has been previously known, even to the '* selling of my fid- dle," and I have immediately been permitted to take my seat, and to join the conversation, if I found any thing to say ; or to remain silent until I did. And this is no small privilege to a man swung at arm's length into publicity with all his mechanical habits and embarrassments about him. How far such habits are, or ought to be, overcome, is a question upon which I have not decided : but I have been sometimes hurt, or amused, at wit- nessing the evident disappointment of such persons as appeared to expect in the writer of Pastoral poetry, and literally a Cow-boy, the brilliancy and the vivacity of polished conversation ; to which I never had made thfe slightest pretences. The memoir above mentioned has not only re- lieved me personally in many cases, but it has been accompanied by remarks from Mr. Lofft as to tht PREFACE. iii promiscuous gifts which God has bestowed on hi* creatures, without regard to worldly rank, that I am confident will redound to the credit of the writer, and which came to the public with a thou- sand times more power and efffect than they could have done had I been capable of writing them myself. Much as 1 have been benefited by this biogra- phical memoir, and gratified as I have been to find my path cleared before me, it would be ungenerous to the purchasers who may obtain this new and cheaper edition, and who may have no previous knowledge of the Author's childhood, wholly to omit a narrative of facts which he himself declares to be of importance, and to carry with it an in- terest both connectedly and peculiarly its own. 1 will therefore give the substance of that narrative in my Brother's words, with occasional explana- tions ; and then resume my own tale. In Nov. 1798, G. B. writing to Mr. Loflft, says : ** As I spent near five years with the Author, from the time he was fourteen years and a half old till he was turned of twenty, the most intereat- iv PREFACE. ing time of life (I mean the time that instruction is acquired, if acquired at all), I think I am able to give a better account of him than any one can, or than he can of himself: for his modesty would not let him speak of his temper, disposition, or morals. '* Robert (born Dec. 3d, 1766,) was the younger child of George Bloomfield, a tailor, at Honing- ton*. His father died when he was an infant un- der a year old. His mother, Elizabeth, the daughter of Robert Manby, was born at Brandon, 1736. She was a schoolmistress, and instructed her own chil- dren with the others. He thus learned to read as soon as he learned to speak. " Though the mother was left a widow with six small children, yet with the help of friends she managed to give each of them a little schooling. ** Robert was accordingly sent to Mr. Rodwell, of Ixworth, to be improved in writing : but he did * This village is between Kiistoii and Troston, and about ciglit mile* N. E. of Bury. There art three other tons, George, Nothaniel mv) isaic, nnd two daughtert PREFACE. V nol go to that school more than two or three months, nor was ever sent to any other ; his mother again marrying when Robert was about seven years old. " By her second husband, John Glover, she had another family. " When Robert was not above eleven years old, the late Mr. W. Austin, of Sapiston*, took him. And though it is customary for farmers to pay such boys only \s. 6cl. per week, yet he generously took him into the house. This relieved bis mother of any other expense than only of finding him a few things to wear : and this was more than she well knew how to do. ** She wrote therefore to me and my brother Nat (then in London), to assist her ; mentioning that Robert was so small of his age that Mr. Austin said he was not likely to be able to get his living by hard labour." The following anecdote must stand in Mr. LofFt's words, as one of those tender fabrics which it would be very easy to spoil, and impossible to mend. • Tills little ^-illn^ a^jcine to Honin^ton. vi PREFACE. * Mr. G. Bloomfield on this informed his mother that, if she would let him take the boy with him, he would take him, and teach him to make shoes : and Nat promised to clothe him. The mother, upon this offer, took coach and came to London, to Mr. G. Bloomfield, with the boy : for she said, she never should have been happy if she had not put him herself into his hands.' " She charojed me," he adds, " as I valued a mother s blessing, to watch over Mm, to set good examples for him, and never to forget that he had lost his father." * I religiously confine myself to Mr. G. Bloomfield's own words ; and I think I should wrong all the parties concerned, if, in mentioning this pathetic and successful admonition, I were to use any other. ' Mr. G. Bloomfield then lived at Mr. Simm's, No. 7, Pitcher's-court, Bell-alley, Colenian-street. " It is customary," he continues, ** in such houses as are let to poor people in London, to have light garrets fit for mechanics to work in. In the garret, where we had two turn-up beds, and five of us workedj I received little Robert. PREFACE. vii ** As we were all single men, lodgers at a shilling per vreek each, our heds were coarse, and all things far from being clean and snug, like what Robert had left at Sapiston. Robert was our man, to fetch all things to hand. At noon he fetched our dinners from the cook's shop : and any one of our fellow workmen that wanted to have any thing fetched in, would send him, and assist in his work and teach him, for a recompense for his trouble. " Every day when the boy from the public-house came for the pewter pots, and to hear what porter was wanted, he always brought the yesterday's newspaper. The reading of the paper we had been used to take by turns ; but after Robert came, he mostly read for us, — because his time was of least value. ** He frequently met with words that he was un- acquainted with : of this he often complained. I one day happened at a book-stall to see a small dictionarj', which had been very ill used. I bought it for him for 4d. By the help of this he in a little time could read and comprehend the long and beautiful speeches of Burke, Fox, or North. viii IHEFACE. " One Sunday, after a whole day's stroll in the rountry, we by accident went into a dissenting fiieeting-honse in the Old Jewry, where a gentle- man was lecturing-. This man filled Robert with astonishment. The house was amazingly crowded with the most genteel people : and though we were forced to stand in the aisle, and were much pressed, yet Robert always quickened his steps to get into the town on a Sunday evening soon enough to attend this lecture. *' The preacher's name was Fawcet*. His lan- guage was just such as the Rambler is written in ; his action like a person acting a tragedy ; his dis- covu'se rational, and free from the cant of metho- dism. " Of him Robert learn'd to accent what he called hard words ; and otherwise improved himself; and gained the most enlarged notions of Providence. " He went sometimes to a debating society at Co:\chmakers'-hall, but not often ; and a few times to Covent-garden theatre. These are all the oppor- Aiitbor of B justly •«»tccm(il Poem on War. PREFACE. ix tunities he ever had to learn from public speakers. As to Books, he had to wade through two or three folios : an History of England, British Traveller, and a Geography. But he always read them as a task ; or to ohlige us who bought them. And as they came in sixpenny numbers weekly, he had about as many hours to read as other boys spend in play. ** I at that time read the London Magazine ; and in that work about two sheets were set apart for a Review — Robert seemed always eager to read this Review. Here he could see what the literary men were doing, and learn how to judge of the merits of the works that came out. And I ob- served that he always looked at the Poet's Corner. And one day he repeated a Song which he composed to an old tune. I was much surprised that he should make so smooth verses : so I persuaded him to try whether the editor of our paper would give them a place in Poet's Corner. He succeeded, and they were printed. And as I forget his other early pro- ductions, 1 shall copy this. PREFACE. A VILLAGE GIRL. HAIL, May', lovely May! how rerlenish'd my paiU ! The youDg Dawn o'erspreaJs th« broad east, Btrcak'd with ijoU My glad heart beats time to the laugh of the vales, And Colin's voice rings through the wood from the fold. The wood to the mountain siibmissively bends, WhoBe blue mistj- summit first glows with the sub ! See ! thenoe a gay train by the wild rill desceads To joio the mix'd sports : — Hark ! the tumult's begun. He cloudless, ye skies ! — And be Colin but there s Not dew-spangled beuJs on the wide level dale, Kor Morning's first smile can more lovely appear Than his looks, since my wislies I cannot couceal. Swift down the mad dance, while blest Health prompts to move. We'll court joys to coinr, and exchange vows of truth ; And haply, when Age cools the transports of Love, Deer}', like good folks, the vain follifs of youth. R. B.« " I remember," says G. Bloomfiekl, continuing his Narrative, *' a little piece which he called The Sailor's Return f: in which he tried to describe the feelings of an honest Tar, who, after a long- ab- sence, saw his dear native Village first rising into * ThiB J9 n correct copy since token by the Author from Say's Gaz«t. iscr, Ti'isy 24, 1780. The printer changed " count" to " court." + This, by a reference to the same papers, I find was entitled " Tlio !>t!dier's 'i<«tnri»." It hfls been print««l ia a former edition o{ tliid work. PREFACE. xi view. This too obtained a place in the Poet's Cor- ner. And as he was so young, it shows some genius in him, and some industry, to have acquired so much knowledge of the use of words in so little time. Indeed at this time myself and my fellow- workmen in the garret began to get instructions from him. " About this time there came a man to lodge at our lodgings that was troubled with fits. Robert was so much hurt to see this poor creature drawn into such frightful forms, and to hear his horrid screams, that I was forced to leave the lodging. We went to Blue-hart-court, Bell-alley. In our new garret we found a singular character, James Kay, a native of Dundee. He was a raiddle-aged man, of a good understanding, and yet a furious Calvinist. He had many books, — and some which he did not value ; such as The Seasons, Paradise Lost, and some Novels. These books he lent to Robert ; who spent all his leisure hours in reading The Seasons, which he was now capable of reading. I never heard him give so much praise to any book aa to that. si! PREFACE. ** I think it way in the year 1784 that the quc6- tion came to be decided between the journeymen shoemakers ; whether those who had learned with- out serving an apprenticeship could follow the trade ? ** The man by whom Robert and I were em- ployed, Mr. Charoberlayne, of Cheapside, took an active part against the lawful journeymen ; and even went so far as to pay off ever} man that worked for him that had joined their clubs. This so exasperated the men, that their acting com- mittee soon looked for unlawful men (as they called them) among Chamberlayne's workmen." A part of the Narrative here naturally turned upon the spiteful and contentious bickerings of men who were all angry together ; which contentions ultimately forced me from London. At this mo- ment I feel much obliged to them. They treated me with a visit to my friends, and a charming holi. day ; which George thus describes : " Robert, naturally fond of peace, and fearful for my personal safety, begged to be suffered to retire from the storm. 4\ PREFACE. xin ** He came home ; and Mr. Austin kindly bade him take his house for his home till he could return to me. And here, with his mind glowing with the fine descriptions of rural scenery which he found in Thomson's Seasons, he again retraced the very fields where first he began to think. Here, free from the smoke, the noise, the contention of the city, he imbibed that love of rural simplicity and rural innocence, which fitted him, in a great degree, to be the writer of such a thing as * The Farmer's Boy.' ** Here he lived two months : — at length, as the dispute in the trade still remained undecided, Mr.Dudbridge (our landlord) ofi'ered to take Robert apprentice, to secure him, at all events, from any consequences of the litigation." The indentures were avowedly for the above pur- pose only ; and, after detailing the transaction, George proceeds thus : ** When I left London he was turned of twenty ; and much of my happiness has since arisen from a constant correspondence which I have held with him. xiv PREFACE. " After I left him, he studied music, and was a good player on the violin*. " But as my brother Nat had married a Wool- wich woman^ it happened that Robert took a fancy to iMary-Anne Church, a young woman of that town, whose father is a boat-builder in the Govern- ment yard there. He married 12th Dec. 1790. ** Soon after he married, Robert told me, in a letter, that ' he had sold his fiddle and got a wife.' Like most poor men, he got a wife first, and had to get household stuff afterward. It took him some time to get out of ready-furnished lodgings. At length, by hard working, &c. he acquired a bed of his own, and hired the room up one pair of stairs at 14, Bell-alley, Coleman-street. The landlord kindly gave him leave to sit and work in the light garret, two pair of stairs higher. ** In this garret, amid six or seven other work- men, his active mind employed itself in composing * The Farmer's Boy.' * Tliii" ntntPinont \» ralhcr too "troncly wordrtl ; " « Rood player" lueaiu a gi«at deal, and prohftbly more than the writer meant to expre»9. 1 !ir rtaJiT may (jua'.ify it with v.b.M lie pUascs. PREFACE. XV ** In my correspondence I hare seen several poe- tical effusions of his ; all of ihem of a g^ood moral tendency ; but which he very likely would think do him little credit : on that account I have not preserved them. ** Robert is a lady's shoemaker, and works for Mr. Davies, Lombard-street. He is of a slender make ; of about five feet four inches high ; very dark complexion. His mother, who is a very reli- gious member of the church of England, took all the pains she could in his infancy to make him pious : and, as his reason expanded, his love of God and man increased with it. I never knew his fellow for mildness of temper and goodness of dis- position. And since I left him, universally is he praised by those who know him best, for the best of husbands, an indulgent father, and quiet neigh- bour. He is about thirty-two years old, and haa three children*." • Now five J Haunah, boru 2i Oct. 1791. Mary-Anne, C July, 1793. Charles, 15 Sept. 171)3. Charlotte, «0 April, 1801. Robert-Henr/ 03 Mar 1807. xvi PREFACE. The following conclusion of George's original Narrative I always thought peculiarly happy ; and well might Mr. Loft't join with him cordially in his prayer, *' that God, the Giver of thought, may, as mental light spreads, raise up many who will turn a listening ear, and will not despise " The short and simple anuals of the poor." Further information was given soon after by my Brother in the following Letter to Mr. Lofft, and in the anecdote which closes this part of the history . *' The late Mr. Austin's wife was a Manby (my mother's sister). And it may seem strange that, in ' The Farmer's Boy,' Giles no where calls him Uncle, but Master. — The treatment that my brother Robert experienced from Mr. Austin did not differ in any respect from the treatment that all the ser- vant boys experienced who lived with him. Mr. Austin was the father of fourteen children by my aunt (he never had any other wife) . He left a decent provision for the five children that survived him : so that it could not be expected he should have any thing to give to poor relations. And I don't sec a PREFACE. xvit possibility of making a difference between GiUs and the boys that were not related to Mr. Austin : for he treated all his servants exactly as he did h.is sons. They all worked hard ; all lived well. The Duke had not a better man tenant to him than the late Mr. Austin. I saw numbers of the husband- men in tears when he was buried. He was beloved by all who knew him. But I imagine that Robert thought that when he was speaking of Benevolence that was universal, he had no occasion to mention the accidental circumstance of his being related to the good man of whom he sung." ** I have him in my mind's eye a little boy ; not bigger than boys generally are at twelve years old. When I met him and his mother at the inn, he strutted before us, dressed just as he came from keeping sheep, hogs, &c. — his shoes filled full of stumps in the heels. He looking about him, slipped up— hio nails were unused to a flat paveuient. I remember viewing him as he scampered up : — how email he was. Little thought, that little, fatherless boy would be one day known and csteenjed by the xviii PREFACE. most learned, the most respected, the vrisest, and the best men of the kingdom." Amongst the anecdotes interspersed in the fore- going NaiTative, distinguished for ingenuousness and feeling, that which the reader has just seen, if worth correcting in a slight particular, may be done here ; and I would not do it but that I find the fact, trifling as it may appear to some, has been repeatedly noticed. George states that he received his brother in London, *' dressed just as he came from keeping sheep, hogs, &c." Now the strict truth of the case is this; that I came (on the 29th of June, 1781) in ray Sunday clothes, such as they were ; for I well remember the palpitation of my heart on receiving his proposals to come to town, and how incessantly I thought of the change I was going to experience : remember well selling my smock frock for a shil- ling, and slyly washing my best hat in the horse- pond, to give it a gloss fit to appear in the meridian of London. On entering Win techapel, riding back- wards on the coach, a long line of carriages in the PREFACE. xlx eeutre of the street attracted my particular notice ; and I anxiously looked for the principal object in that procession of which I conceived them to be a part: little dreaming that they all stood for hire! But these are surely trifling anecdotes ; and I will endeavour to record something more important. Taking it then for granted, that my historj', so far as it has been stated, is fully and suflBciently known, I mean to elucidate a fact or two to which an allusion has been made in the former Preface, so as to throw an additional light on subjects which I am persuaded will not be deemed uninteresting by the lovers of literature. It cannot be forgotten by any one who has thought of my history and success, that Mr. Lofft has said, when speaking of the MS. of this Poem, that " it had before been shown to some persons in London ; whose indiflFerence toward it may ])robably be ex- plained, when it is considered that it came to their hands under no circumstances of adventitious re- commendation. — With some a person must be rich, or titled, or fashionable as a literary name, or at least fashionable in some respect, good or bad, be- XX PREFACE. fore any thing which he can offer will be thought worthy of notice." Nothing surely can so effectually illustrate thir: fact as a plain account of my unsuccessful attempts in puhlicly stating which, on such an occasion as this, I see not the smallest impropriety ; as it may teach men in my own station of life not to despair, if Ihey feel themselves morally and intellectuallv worthy of notice ; and at the same time teach them not to rely on an untried and brittle support, by throwing away the honourable staff of mechanic independence. The following papers, which I now transcribe from originals, and copies in my possession, accompanied the MS. of * The Farmer's Boy' to my brother George, at St. Edmund's Bury, to whom they are addressed. I have endeavoured to arrange them so as to make the story as simple and as straight forward as posr sible. DEAU GEORGE, Inndon, Sunday, S^ft. 16, 179r, I GAVE you a hint long ago that I was making rhymes. I now send the Poem, as a present to ni> PREFACE. xxi Mother. It coming through your hands, you will be at liberty to detain it as long as you please ; and I have no doubt but some parts of it will please you. I would wish you to observe well the following re- marks, and I wish you to be candid if it should ever draw any remarks from you. When I began it, I thought to myself that I could complete it in a twelvemonth, allowing myself three months for each quarter ; but I soon found that I could not ; and indeed I made it longer than I at first intended*. Nine tenths of it were put toge- ther as I sat at work, where there are usually six of us. No one in the house has any knowledge of what I have employed my thoughts about when I did not talk. I chose to do it in rhime for this reason ; because 1 found always that when I put two or three lines together in blank verse, or something that sounded like it, it was ten to one if it stood right when it came to be written down. Winter and half of • The parts of the poem first composed, hefore any thought was enter* tained of going through with the Seasons, were the morning scene in Spring, beginning " This task had Gilet," and the description of tliB Inmhs at play. And if it be lawful for an author to tell his opinion, tho' hhve nerer lo»t an inch of ground in jny estimation from tbat day tc tluj. xxii PREFACE. Autumn were done lon^ before I could find leisure to write them. In the '* Harvest Home" you will find the essence of letters which you wrote formerly to London. ^Vhen I had nearly done it, it came strongly into my mind that very silly things are sometimes printed ; but by what means I knew not. To try to get at this knowledge, I resolved to make some efforts of that sort ; and what encouraged me to go through with it was, that, if I got laughed at, no one that I cared for could know it, unless 1 myself told them. I sometimes thought of venturing it into the house of some person above a bookseller ; but 1 never could find impudence enough to do it. So I carried it, accompanied with the following let- ter, to your magazine man. He kept it eight or ten days, and then sent a sober-looking, book faced man back with it, sending therewith the little note which follows the letter. (Copy) — No. 1. To Mr. **»**«*»*». A TOTAL stranger, very low, and very ob- sture, ventures to address you. In njy sedentary PREFACE. Kxil! enapioyment, as a journeyman shoemaker, I have amused and exercised my mind, I hope innocently : in putting the little events of my boyage into metre ; mtending it as a present to an aged Mother, now living on the spot ; to whom the Church, the Mad Girl, the Farm-house, and all the local circum- stances of the piece, are intimately known. Before I send it away, something persuades me that I might possibly find some person capable, and possessing condescension enough to satisfy me in a desire I feel of knowing whether the little piece, particularly the latter half, Autumn and Winter, contains any thing like poetical merit ; that is to say, to what excel- lence in others it makes the nearest approaches. I am fully sensible, from my situation in the world, from the nature of this application, and from the better employment of your time. Sir, that silent neglect is what I have most reason to look for. But in that case 1 am determined to rely on your justice so far as to let the copy be returned to me when I call for it, which 1 mean to do this day fortnight ; when, if I should find a word of opinion inserted in the blank leaves, my end would be xxiv PREFACE. answered, and it shall always be held in grateful remembrance by one who, with the strictest truth, and with all possible deference and respect, sub- scribes. Sir, Your very humble servant, Robert Bloomfield. No. 14, Great Bell-alley, Coleman-strcet. Reply— (No. 2.) ** The Farmer's Boy may afford pleasure to the person for whom it is intended ; but it cannot be expected that any stranger should give his opi- nion of such a literary performance to the Author." 1 next left it with Mr. ***»#, with the following letter. He sent it back in a few hours with an answer — (No. 4.) Copy— (No. 3.) To Mr. *»«*«***». SIR, June 21, 1794 If the Poem now left in your hamls, con- taining something less than fifteen hundred lines, should be fortunate enough to gain an hour of your leisure, you can then judge whether it is in itself worthy of publication j or, what is perhaps more to PREFACE. XXV the point, whether there is any probability of its repaying you, Sir, or myself, the expense of publi- cation. What that expense would be I know not ; therefore can form no judgment by myself without further information. All I can say is, that I could wish to see it printed, if it were possible to have it done. If I hear nothing on these heads, shall con- clude that the little piece is unworthy your notice, and shall take care that it be called for again. With great respect, &c. Robert Bloomfield. 14, Little Bell-alley, Colenian-strect. Reply— (No. 4.) *' Mr. *****'s compliments to Mr, Bloomfield, and is much obliged to him for the oflFer of his manuscript; but \s poetry is quite out of his line, he begs leave to decline it." " 22d June, 1798." I had now to find somebody who did print poetry. I accordingly left it with Mr. «*««**», and with it a copy of the letter I had written to Mr. *♦*«*» (No. 3.) He kept it so long that I bad to csjl x^vi PREFACE. several tiiv.es before I could get it. At lar.t I went when he was in the waj-. The shopman, knowing my errand, went into the coropting-housc, and pre- sently came out with my book in his hand, and asked me to step that way (to the back of the shop). I hesitated — but 1 had gone too far to retreat. I went and took it, and was told to go into the compting-house. WTien I went in, Mr. ******* spoke thus, as nearly as I can recollect : — " Your " poetry, Mr. Bloomfield, I am afraid, won't do for ** separate publication ; unless you can get some " person to revise it for you. As you wish to see it " printed, I think you had better take it to some " person who publishes a magazine. I think your " wisest way would be to take it to Mr. ****** j ** ?.nd I have no doubt but he will insert it for *' you," &c. 1 left him : and, as 1 should not like to buy my own rhimes, I did not take his advice. I could wish to say more on this subject, but the parcel is wait ing for my budget. Pray remember this :— doti't give the book to my Mother, nor to any one else, till you bear from me again. PREFACE. xxvu DEAR GEORGE, London, Not 7, 1798. I FINISHED my last rather abruptly for w^ant of time. — If I had given my little piece to Mr. «****«*, even supposing that he would have accepted it, it would then have taken perhaps six months at least, by monthly continuations, before It would all have been printed. My chief pride would have been to have sent my Mother a printed copy ; but, at the above rate, one copy only would have cost six shillings : I therefore send it as it is. I never wrote it out but once. 1 have no copy of it, except in my memory. Vou will find the copies of ray letters to the parties miserably blotted, tliey were written in haste : I meant to have transcribed them, but had not time. Having never been instructed in grammar, it may abound in faults of that kind which I am not aware of. The management of stops I don't pre- tend to. I desired you not to show it for this rea- son ; because I think it would look aukward to give it even to my Mother without some kind of intra- auctory letter. xxviii PREFACE. You will perceive that the information I princi- pally wanted to gain, I could not gain ; that is, how to go about printing such a thing, and what it would cost. But as I could not send my Mother Apritifed copy, I don't trouble myself much to know whether it was want of merit, or want of patronage, that made me fail. You say you find pleasure in reading it ; perhaps it arises principally from this : you know all the situations, circumstances, and persons introduced into it. I wish that pleasure may continue to you, and such of our friends as may happen to get hold of it.— All well. Your affectionate Brother, Robert Bloomfield. Such were the efforts which I found courage enough to make ; and here my efforts ended. Not so with my Brother. With the foregoing informa- tion in his hands, he asked me by letter whether I had any objection to his showing the Poem to his neighbour Mr. Lofft, whom I had never seen, nor of whose readiness to assist the poor or the ignorant PREFACE. xxiK had an equal knowledge with my Brother, who lived on the spot. I left it to him to do as he proposed, and not to miss so fair a chance of getting a sound critical opinion, and that accompanied with feeling and good manners. George inmiediately carried the Poem to Troston, with the following paper, which I now copy from his own hand-writing. " To Capel Lofft, Esq. " SIR, " Bar)', Nov. 1798. " Common fame speaks of the willingness that you show in giving your counsel and advice to the poor. This benevolent trait in your character has emboldened me to approach you, to petition you to give your opinion on the enclosed picje. I fancy I see beauties in it, and was thinking of ap- plying to one of our printers to know, if, from the locality of it, it would pay for printing (for 'tis a Suffolk piece) ; but it struck my mind forcibly, that I should stand a better chance of meeting with that ingenuousness I wish for, by begging the opi- nion of a man of genius and taste, than by applying to a tradesman. XXX PREFACE. " Since I have had the Poem in my hands I have never shown it to any one, nor spoke of it ; nor does any one here know of this application. *' If, Sir, you will deign to give your opinion, I will never mention your name, unless by your per- mission. This, I hope, will not be deemed an im- pertinent intrusion ; for 'tis the high rank you hold in the literary world prompted me to this, because on your judgment I can rely with satisfaction. " Let the result of this be what it may, your petitioner will ever revere your name. ** Your mest devoted servant, *' George Bloom iield. " P. S. The late Mr. Wm. Austin, of Sapiston, took the Author, when very young, and kept him, from motives of charity." The consequences which arose from this applica- tion are too well known to be repeated ; yet there were circumstances attending the progress of the Poem through the press which are not known, but might be made known with honour to all the parties concerned. PREFACE. xxxi The first letter I received from Mr. Lofft was to me a cordial not to be described. In others which immediately followed I found the ensuing remarks ** At the same time the example, as well as the Poem, may teach the rich, and the highly born or educated, not unnaturally to urge harsh and over- bearing lines of distinction ; but to be more atten- tive to the gifts bestowed by the common Father on mankind, than to an overweening conceit of their own privileges and advantages. ** Their privileges and advantages would amply gain in good will and security, what they might thus sacrifice from the cold and degrading claims of unfeeling ostentation." In another letter I read : — ** It is truly a rural Poem, more so than any with which I am acquainted in our language ; ex« cept Allan Ramsay's Gentle Shepherd, and Burns' Poems." The first extract the reader will percei>e to be of a nature highly grateful to the feelings of the mechanic who had been setting his mind to work :txxii PREFACE. as well as bis hands ; but with the second 1 felt otherwise ; and 1 remember the feeling with thf utmost precision. I had been charmed with Ram- sey, but knew nothing of Burns, except by trifling quotations and by name *. 1 believed that my gene- rous, and then only patron, had, in the warmth of his heart, overrated my performance ; and I was even then prepared for disappointment. The printing was now going on, and that I knew little of its progress (v/hich was the case) I have only to blame myself. I seldoni called to enquire after^ it. 1 knew it to be in good hands. Yet, during the fifteen months which elapsed before its publication, the latter part of which time was at- tended by very bad health, 1 felt much anxiety ; and, (having the Poem then perfect in my memory,) • It may possibly be «cc<'|)lablc to pome readorg to knoxv thai I IsaJ Iieni luarrif;! six years, when, (cfier wrntberiiif the storm of domesiic ei. kiie!i3 iltfscribi-il in the " Addresi to my Old Tabic," in Vol. I!.,) 1 begaa Com" |K>uiiig this Poem, which J find, by comparicg dates, h.ipptufd to beduriiii* the l.-\st illnesa of Kobtrt burns, and about three inunlhg before his death. |f it should be suspected thnt I mention this with .1 viiW of etrcngthenin;; nil apparent approxinialioii to so illustrious an cxaii)',Je of iutcllcrt und poetic excellence, the readi-r will do 8 great iujustije to me, and to th<> notions I entertain of hifl power*, »nd of his works. PRE FACE. xxxiri after a hard day's work, with my back to the fire, and in the stillness of the night, I have often re- peated aloud the whole, or grc:iter part of the Poem, until my wife was fast asleep, before I could find resolution to put out the candle. The reader who disdains such little anecdotes had better lay down the book ; for I shall proceed in my own way. At length, in March 1800, my brother Nathaniel (with whom I wish the world was better acquainted) called to say that he had seen, in a shop window, a book called The Farmer's Boy, with a motto. I told him I supposed it mvist be mine ; but I kne\T nothing of the motto : and I the more believed it to be mine, having just received through the hands of Mr. Lofft a request to wait on the Duke of Grafton, in Piccadilly. I had a very slight personal remembrance of the Duke from ray childhood; and I felt as most men would feel in my circum- stances on a similar occasion. I met with conde- scension in its noblest features, and even with con- gratulations ; and amongst the conversation was very naturally asked, *' How I liked the execution of the work ? Was it not beautifully printed ?" &a xy-xiv PREFACE. I replied, that I had not yet seen it. The Duke himself then hrought iVom the library one of the lari^e i)aper coiiies, and spread it on the table. Giles never was so hard put to it in his life to keep his face in order as at that moment. At that mo- inent the Preface was as netc to me as the Poem was to the world. I could not read it there ; but on uiy return home I saw the high praise which my Brother had given me, and which had been so advantageously laid before the public by Mr. Lofi't. I thanked them both for having spared me the task of telling my own story, thanked God for his providential interposition^ and felt my heart at ease. And here I trust I shall not be thought guilty of any impropriety in giving, from its immediate re- lation to the foregoing interview, an extract from a book of memorandums which I keep by me ; as but a short time after the above date I spent a de- lightful month at Wakefield Lodge, in Whittlebury Forest, Nordiamptonshiro ; upon which visit I find r*^oorded the following remark : PREFACE. XXXV " When I was at Wakefield Lodge I conceited that I saw the workmen and neighbours look ?^t me as at an idle fellow. I had nothing to do but to read, look at them, and their country and con- cerns. They did not seem to know bow to esti- mate me. I was not a constant c-otnpanion at the Duke's table*, nor was I much in his company; yet, seeing me noticed with attention by the family, that attention was caught, and dealt out to me at second-hand. I sometimes thought of the Spec- tator when at Sir Roger De Coveriy's, and of the silent gentlemcai whom nobody knew much about. Six months only before that time I was in sickness and trouble ; sometimes two, sometimes three days in a week racked with a head-ach that nearly drove me distracted. To lie down almost destitute of the necessaries of life, tortured with pain till I cried out, and that pain uugmcntcrl by the sight of a wife and three children whom 1 could not help, was certainly a hard trial for my philosophy. The * Tliis VFSi nijchciic; fjv it gH7e me tbf calm enioymtuti>r lil.«v in my o^a way. See " Lints written on a Visit ft Vr..itiUb!UV foteit a1r!re?«ed to my diildrtn." Vol. II Kxxvl PREFACE. Poem became public in two months after, and my first relief was from the hand of the right worthy owner of Wakefield Lodge. What a glorious thing is a present of to a man in distress! If hundreds should arise from my writings, I ques- tion if hundreds will produce the exquisite sweet- ness of that ." From the above date 1 found, however unfit to meet prosperity, and a total change of com- pany and connections, that such a change conld not be avoided. I became known to the literary, and esteemed by the good. Sir Charles Bunbury, and many worthy characters in Suffolk, gave me the welcome of a friend and a countr}'man. At Tros- ton, under the hospitable roof of Mr. LofFt, I was every way at home. My London and country well- wishers have increased, until to name them would wear the appearance of ostentation, which I much wish to avoid. And yet, while I boast in my pos- Bession the hand-writing of the late Mr. Fox, I hardly know whether I aiu justified in altogether rcfr.iininj. Let not then any of thera imagine that PREFACE. XXX vii i have failed to cherish a grateful regard for the zeal and endeavours of them all. I write with an overflowing heart : and could I feel othenvise than I do, should unquestionably be unworthy of their attention. Very trifling emendations t)ave taken place in this Stereotype Edition. One, however, may seem wor- thy of notice. In the description of the Mad Girl I had originally called her Poll : but on my visit to Suffolk, after an absence of twelve years (which jiave rise to the Lines that follow this Preface), I learned that her name W2£, Ann. I conversed with her, and found her greatly recovered, and sensible of her past calamity. Instead of giving this infor- mation in a note, I have, partly from choice, and partly from the nature of the printing, inserted yfn/3 for Poll in the text. I have the gratification to know that this Poem has given pleasure to thousands, and to make a contrary pretence would be something worse than affectation. Upon this conviction I rest my claua (with all due submission to the learned) of exhort- ing all persons of acknowledged taste and ability, d xxxviii PREFACE. when they receive a poor man's production, to read it with candour, and to judge of it with truth : so that, if it be found entitled to a share of public attention, the unlettered and the unfriended may not lose their chance of communicating instruction or entertainment to the world. ROBERT BLOOMFIELD. City HatA, Jaic, 1806. SUPPLEMENT. On revisiting the place of my Nativity , May 1800. Though Winter's frowns had dampt the beaming eye, Through twelve successive Summers heav'd the sigh, The unaccomplish'd wish was still the same ; Till May in new and sudden glories came ! My heart was rous'd ; and Fancy on the wing. Thus heard the language of enchanting Spring : — * Come to thy native groves and fruitful fields ! * Thou know'st the fragrance that the wild-flow'r * yields ; * Inhale the Breeze that bends the purple bud, * And plays along the Margin of the Wood. * I've cloth'd them all ; the very Woods where thou * In infancy learn' d'st praise from every bough. * Would'st thou behold again the vernal day ? * My reign is short ;— this instant come away : xl SUPPLEMENT. ' Ere Philomel shall silent meet the moru ; She hails the green, but not the rip'ning corn. * Come, ere the pastures lose their yellow flow'rs : * Come now ; with heart as jocund as the hours.' Who could resist the call ? — that Giles had done, Nor heard the birds, nor seen the rising sun ; Had not Benevolence, with cheering ray, And Greatness stoop'd, indulgent to display Praise which does surely not to Giles belong, But to the objects that inspir'd bis song. Immediate pleasure from those praises flow'd ; Remoter bliss within his bosom glow'd ! Now tasted all : — for I have heard and seen The long-remember'd voice, the church, the green ;— And oft by Friendship's gentle hand been led Where many a hospitable board was spread. These would I name — but each, and all can feel What the full heart would wilUngly reveal : Nor needs be told ; that at each season's birth. Still the enamell'd, or the scorching Earth Gave, as each morn or weary night would come, Ideal sweetness to my distant borne : SUPPLEMENT. xli Ideal now no more ; — for, to my view Spring's promise rose, how admirably tnie ■ The early chorus of the cheerful Grove Gave point to Gratitude, and fire to Love. O Memory ! shield me from the World's poor strife ; And give those scenes thine everlasting life! Robert Bloomfield. d3 x\V: SUPPLEMENT. 7Vie following Statement was inserted in the Monthly Mirror for January, 1802, by a Friend. It applies to the first edition only of the Poem ; as all subsequent emendatmis have been made hy the Author. STATEMENT OF VERBAL VARIATIONS Between ihcMS. Copy and Printed Poem of " The Farmer's Boy." As it is not improbable that some of those invi- dious spirits who reluctantly allow to any popular writer the credit of having produced his own work, may hereafter report, to the disadvantage of Mr. Bloomfield, that his learned friend and editor was materially concerned in composing ** The Farmer's Bov," I have taken the most effectual means in my power, to counteract the injurious tendency of such report, by collating the printed poem with the author's original manuscript*, which had passed through the bands of Mr. Capel Lolft ; and I trans- mit all the verbal variations which have been ob- • Now in the poswssion of Mr Hill. SUPPLEMENT. >^lij' served in the course of such collation, that they may be perpetuated on the pages of a miscellany which has been uniformly zealous in extending the well-earned rej)utation of our rural bard. I must also premise, what affects not the meiits of the composition in any degree, that Capital Letter? and Italic Characters were supplied by Mr. Lofft, as were various defects in orthography and punctua- tion, which arose from the Author's want of edu- cation, and of leisure fitly to supply that loss. SPRING. MS. Copy. Printed Poem. Page Line ,3 2 hover hovers and hovcr'st. 7 lowly tale humble lines. 4 14 those these. 7 65 Summons — plough., summon — ploughs, 66 blow blows. 8 93 traverse once once transverse. 08 pierce breaks. 9 116 a centinel such centinels. 11 135 Gave Whence. 144 bright white. 12 155 to clear lighting. 156 And give Giving. xliv SUPPLEMENT. MS. Copy. Printed Poem. I'pge Line 161 a the. 163 Giles he. 13 179 SvihorJination stage ^Subordinate they one by stage ^ by one. 14 189 and which. 15 217 New milk around .. Streams of new milk. 17 250 and or. SUMMER. 28 23 milder closing. 25 parches pierces. 29 34 Have Has, 44 evince its evinces. 35 143 loins form. 39 209 thy crest of the crest-wav'd. 220 brush them brushes. 40 244 And use Using. 45 318 the their. 48 374 other than now but. AUTUMN. 57 77 Giles — leisure his — ease to. 58 81 dust bones. 59 105 and the rose that | hence the tints that blow ^ glow. 106 with— glow an— know. SUPPLEMENT. xlv MS. Copy. Printed Poem, I*age Line 60 130 a her. Gl 147 With Her. 63 173 and next. 65 213 And place Placing. 71 325 bestrewing round .. are strewn around. 72 343 capon cockrtil. WINTER. 77 5 or burns with thirst . partaking first. 6 trust thirst. „„ ,^ , ^ . ^ 1 the Rtorm-rinch'd-^ 78 17 dependant — low •• , , ' > lows, 18 grow grows. 80 47 the world for rest. 83 103 ye you. 1 16 every all the. 85 152 But Their. 92 2o4 traverse passes. 9o 337 Fir&t at whose birth . At whose first birth. 97 352 Paternal Maternal. 99 390 Pierce the dark wood "j Wander the leaf- ajid brave the sul- f strewn wood, the try plain -^ frozen plain. 391 Let field and dimpled "| Let the first Cower, brook, and flower ?■ corn-waving field, a;id tree ^ plain, tree. xiv5 SUPPLEMENT. It will be seen, from this minute statement, that the Editor's emendations were very inconsiderable ; though most of them appear highly judicious, and many of them absolutely necessary, for the purpose of removing certain grammatical inaccuracies, which may be considered as mere freckles on the natural complexion of our Farmer's Boy. I have been indulgred with a similar opportunity of inspecting the MS. copy of those admirable ** Tales, Ballads, and Songs," recently published by the same interesting Poet ; but the Editor's hints for correction proved too few and too unim- portant to authorise any public specification of them. Yours, &c. T. PARK. TRB FARMER'S BOY. CONTENTS. SPRING. ARGUMENT. Inrccation, &c. Seed time. Harrowing. Morning walks Milking. The Dairy. Suflolk Cheese, Spring coming forth. Sheep fond of changing Lambs at i)lay. The DatcbcTt &c. SPRING. O COME, blest Spirit ! whatsoe'er thou art, Thou kindling warmth that hover'st round my heart. Sweet inmate, hail! thou source of sterling joy. That poverty itself cannot destroy. Be thou my Muse ; and faithful still to me. Retrace the paths of wild obscurity. No deeds of arms my humble lines rehearse ; No Alpine wonders thunder through my verse. SPRING. Invocation — Simple Character of Giles. . . . v. 9. The roaring cataract, the snow-topt hill, Inspiring awe, till breath itself stands still : Nature's sublinier scenes ne'er charm'd mine eyes, Nor Science led me through the boundless skies ; From meaner objects far my raptures flow : O point these raptures ! bid my bosom glow 1 And lead my soul to ecstasies of praise For all the blessings of my infant days ! Bear me through regions where gay Fancy dwell? ; But mould to Truth'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. SPRING. Euston in Suffolk, and its neighbourhood, the Scene v. 47. 'Twas thus with Giles : meek, fatherless, and poor Labour his portion, but he felt no more ; No stripes, no t}Tanny his steps pursu'd ; 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 chang'd the scene From heat to cold, tempestuous to serene. Though every change still varied his employ, Yet each new duty brought its share of joy. Where noble Grafton spreads his rich domains, Round Euston's water'd vale, and sloping plains. Where woods and groves in solemn grandeur rise. Where the kite brooding unmolested flies ; The woodcock and the painted pheasant race. And sculking Foxes, destin'd for the chace; There Giles, untaught and unrepining, stray'd Through every copse, and grove, and winding glade j n 3 SPRING. Benevolent Chtracter of Giles's Master— Spring begins....*. 46. There his first thoughts to Nature's charms inclin'd, That stamps devotion on th* inquiring mind. A little farm his generous Master till'd, Who with peculiar grace his station fill'd ; By deeds of hospitality endear'd, Serv'd from affection, for his worth rever'd ; A happy oiTspring blest his plenteous board. His fields v.ere fruitful, and his barns well stor'd. And fourscore ewes he fed, a sturdy team, And lowing kine that graz'd beside the stream : Unceasing industry he kept in view ; And never lack'd a job for Giles to do. Fled now the sullen murmurs of the North, The splendid raiment of the Spring peeps forth ; Her universal green, and the clear sky. Delight still more and more the gazing eye. Wide o'er the fields, in rising moisture strong, Shootr, up the simple flower, or creeps along SPRING. Ciles po£« out to plough. ...V. 63. The mcllow'd soil ; imbibing fairer hues, Or sweets from frequent showers and evening dews ; That summon from theirsheds the slumb'riiig plows, While health impregnates every breeze that blows. No wheels support the diving", pointed, share ; No groaning ox is doom'd to labour there ; No helpmates teach the docile steed his road ; (Alike unknown the ploughboy and the goad ;) But, unassisted through each toilsome day, With smiling brow the ploughman cleaves his way, Draws his fresh parallels, and, wid'ning still, Treads slow the heavy dale, or climbs the hill : Strong on the wing his busy followers play, Where writhing earth-worms meet tb* unwelcome dayi Till all is chang'd, and hill and level down Assume a livery of sober brown : Again disturb'd, when Giles with wearj'ing strides From ridge to ridge the ponderou"? harrow guides; SPRING. Harrowing — Giles, and his Horses rest.... v. 81. His heels deep sinking every step he goes, Till dirt adhesive loads his clouted shoes. Welcome green headland ! firm beneath his feet ; Welcome the friendly bank's refreshing seat ; There, warm with toil, his panting horses browse Their shelt'ring canopy of pendent boughs ; Till rest, delicious, chase each transient pain, And new-born vigour swell in every vein. Hour after hour, and day to day succeeds ; Till every clod and d^ep-drawn furrow spreads To crumbling mould ; a level surface clear. And strew'd with corn to crown the rising year ; And o'er the whole Giles once transverse again, In earth's moist bosom buries up the grain. The work is done ; no more to man is given ; The grateful Farmer trusts the rest to Heaven. Yet oft with anxious heart he looks around. And marks the first green blade that breaks the ground SPRUNG. 99. Ill fancy sees bia trembling oats uprun. His tufted barley yellow with the sun ; Sees clouds propitious shed their timely store, And all his hanest gather'd round his door. But still unsafe the big swoln grain below, A fav'rite morsel with the Rook and Crow ; From field to field the flock increasing goes ; To level crops most formidable foes : Their danger well the wai7 plunderers know, And place a Wiitch on some conspicuous bough ; Yet oft the sculking gunner by surprise Will scatter death amongst tbera as they rise. These, hung in triumph round the spacious field. At best will but a short-liv'd terror yield : Nor guards of property ; (not penal law. But harmless riflemen of rags and straw;) Familiariz'd to these, they boldly rove. Nor heed such sentinels that never move. 10 SPRING. Wood Scenery... .r. II7. Let then j'our birds lie prostrate on the earth. In dying posture, and with wings stretcht forth ; Shift them at eve or morn from place to place, And Death shall terrify the pilfering race ; In the mid air, while circling round and round. They call their lifeless comrades from the ground ; With quick'ning wing, and notes of loud alarm. Warn the whole flock to shun th' impending harm. This task had Giles, in fields remote from home : Oft has he wish'd the rosy morn to come : Yet never fam'd was he nor foremost found To break the seal of sleep ; his sleep was sound : But when at day-break summon'd from his bed. Light as the lark that carol'd o'er his head. — His sandy way, deep-worn by hasty showers, O'er-arch'd with oaks that form'd fantastic bow're. Waving aloft their tow'ring branches proud. In borrow'd tinges from the eastern cloud, SPRING. 11 Various Birds — Their song and appearance — Pheasant.. ..t. 133 Gave inspiration, pure as ever flow'd, And genuine transport in his bosom glow'd. His own shrill matin join'd the various notes Of Nature's music, from a thousand throats : The Blackbird strove with emulation sweet. And Echo answer'd from her close retreat ; The sporting White-throat on some twig's end borne, Pour'd hymns to freedom and the rising morn ; Stopt in her song perchance the starting Thrush Shook a white shower from the black- thorn bush. Where dew-drops thick as early blossoms hung, And trembled as the minstrel sweetly sung. Across his path, in either grove to hide. The timid Rabbit scouted by his side ; Or Pheasant boldly stalk'd along the road. Whose gold and purple tints alternate glow'd. But groves no farther fenc'd the devious way ; A wide-extended heath before bim lay. 12 SPRING. Bringing in of Cows to be milked.. ..v. 163. Where on the grass the stagnant shower had run. And shone a mirror to the rising sun. Thus douhly seen to light a distajit wood. To give new life to each expanding bud ; And chase away the dewy foot-marks found, Wliere prowling Reynard trod his nightly round ; To shun whose thefts 'twas 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 clatt'ring Dairy-Maid unmers'd in steam, Singing and scrubbing midst her milk and creaui. Bawls out, ' ' Go/etch the Cows ! ".... he hears no more ; ; For pigs, and ducks, and turkies, throng the door. And sitting hens, for constant war prepar'd ; A concert strang-e to that which late he heard. SPRING. 13 Order of the Cows returning. ... v. 1" 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 summon with an idle gaze ; For well they know the cow-yard yields no more Its tempting fragrance, nor its wintry store. Reluctance marks their steps, sedate and slow ; The right of conquest all the law they know : The strong press on, the weak by turns succeed. And one superior always takes the lead ; Is ever foremost, wheresoe'er they stray •. Allow'd precedence, undisputed sway : With jealous pride her station is raaintain'd. For many a broil that post of honour gain'd. At home, the yard affords a grateful scene ; For Spring makes e'en a miry cow-yard clean. Thence from its chalky bed behold convey'd The rich manure that drenching Winter made, C 14 SPRING. Milking.... V. 189. Which pil'd near home, grows green with many a weed, A promis'd nutriment for Autumn's seed. Forth comes the Maid, and like the morning smiles ; The Mistress too, and follow'd close by Giles. A friendly tripod forms their humble seat. With pails bright scour'd, and delicately sweet. Where shadowing elms obstruct the morning ray, Begins the work, begins the simple lay ; The full charg'd udder yields its willing streams. While Mary sings some lover's amorous dreams ; And crouching Giles beneath a neighbouring tree Tugs o'er his pail, and chants with equal glee ; Whose hat with tatter d brim, of nap so bare, From the cow's side purloins a coat of hair, A mottled ensign of his harmless trade, An unambitious, peaceable cockade As unambitious too that cheerful aid Tlie Mistress yields. beside her rosy Maid ; SPRING. ir, The Dairy v. 207 With joy she views her plenteous reeking store. And bears a brimmer to the dairy door ; - Her Cows dismiss'd, the luscious mead to roam. Till eve again recal them loaded home. And now the Dairy claims her choicest care, And half her household find employment there : Slow rolls the churn, its load of clogging cream At once foregoes its quality and name ; From knotty particles first floating wide Congealing butter's dash'd from side to side ; Streams of new milk through flowing coolers stray, And snow-white curd abounds, and wholesome whey. Due north th' unglazed windows, cold and clear. For warming sunbeams are unwelcome here. Brisk goes the work beneath each busy hand. And Giles must trudge, whoever gives command ; A Giheonite, that serves them all by turns : He drains the pump, from him the faggot burns ; 16 SPRING. Suffolk Cheese.... T. 225. From him the noisy Hogs demand their food ; While at his heels run many a chirping brood. Or down his path in expectation stand, With equal claims upon his strewing hand. Thus wastes the morn, till each with pleasure sees The bustle o'er, and press'd the new-made cheese. Unrivall'd stands thy country Cheese, O Giles! Whose very name alone engenders smiles ; Whose fame abroc.d by every tongue is spoke. The well-known butt of many a flinty joke. That pass like current coin the nation through ; And, ah! experience proves the satire true. Provision's grave, thou ever-craving mart. Dependant, huge Metropolis ! where Art Her poring thousands stows in breathless rooms, Midst pois'nous smokes and steams, and rattling looms ; Where Grandeur revels m unbounded stores ; Restraint, a slighted stranger at their doors ! SPRING. 17 Suffolk Cheese.... T. 243. l-faou, like a whirlpool, drain'st the countries round. Till Ix)ndon market, London price, resound Through every town, round every passing load, And dairy produce throngs the eastern road : Delicious veal, and butter, every hour. From Essex lowlands, and the banks of Stour ; And further far, where numerous herds repose. From Orwell's brink, from Waveny, or Ouse. Hence Suffolk dairy-wives run mad for cream. And leave their milk with nothing but its name ; Its name derision and reproach pursue, And strangers tell of" three times skimm'd sky-blue." To cheese converted, what can be its boast ? What, but the common virtues of a post ! If drought o'ertake it faster than the knife. Most fair it bids for stubborn length of hfe, And, like the oaken shelf whereon 'tis laid. Mocks the weak efforts of the bending blade ; c 3 ir, STRING. The procession of Spring.. ..». 261. Or in the liog-trougb rests in perfect spite, Too big to swallow, and too hard to bite. Inglorious victory! Ye Cheshire meads. Or Severn's flow'ry dales, where Plenty treads. Was your rich milk to suffer wrongs like these, Farewell your pride! farewell renowned cheese! The skimiiier dread, whose ravages alone Thus turn the mead's sweet nectar into stone. Neglected now the early clrti!:i/ lies ; Nor thou, pAa primrose f bloom'st the only prize: Advancing Spring profusely spreads abroad Flow'rs of all hues, with sweetest fragrance stor'd ; Where'er she treads, Love gladdens every plain. Delight on tiptoe bears her lucid train ; Sweet IJo]ie with conscious brow before I.er flies, Anticipatijjg wealth from Summer skies ; All Nature feels her renovating sw.-\y ; The sheep-ftd pasturr, and tije :i:cudc".v '^y, SPRING. 19 Sheep — Rang* of Pasture.. ..v. 279- And trees, and shrubs, no longer budding seen Display the new-grown branch of lighter green ; On airy downs the idling Shepherd lies, And sees to-morrow in the marbled skies. Here then, my soul, thy darling theme pursue. For every day was Giles a shepherd too. Small was his charge : no wilds had they to roam : But bright inclosures circling round their home. No yellow-blossom'd furze, nor stubborn thorn, The heath's rough produce, had their fleeces torn Vet ever roving, ever seeking thee. Enchanting spirit, dear Variety ! O happy tenants, prisoners of a day ! Releas'd to ease, to pleasure, and to play ; Indulg'd through every field by turns to range. And taste them all in one continual change. For though luxuriant their grassy food. Sheep long confin'd but loathe the prcrent gnod 20 SPRING. Pasture Scenery— Hedges in bloom — Lambs at play.... v. 207. Bleating around the homeward gate they meet. And starve, and pine, with plenty at their feet. Loos'd from the winding lane, a joyful throng, See, o'er yon pasture, how they pour along! Giles round their boundaries takes his usual stroll ; Sees every pass secur'd, and feaces whole ; , High fences, proud to charm the gazing eye, Where many a nestling first assays to fly ; Where blows the woodbine, faintly streak'd with red. And rests on every bough its tender head ; Round the young ash its twining branches meet, ■ Or crown the hawthorn with its odours sweet. Say, ye that know, ye who have felt and seen. Spring's morning smiles, and soul-enliv'ning green, Say, did you give the thrilling transport way? Did your eye brighten, when young Lambs at play Leap'd o'er your path with animated pride. Or gaz'd in merry clusters b}' your side i SPRING. 21 Lambn at play- Ye who can smile, to wisdom no disgrace, At the arch meaning of a Kitten's face : If spotless innocence, and infant mirth, Rxcites to praise, or gives reflection birth ; In shades like these pursue your fav'rite joy. Midst Nature's revels, sports that never cloy. A few begin a short but vigorous race. And Indolence abash'd soon flies the place; Thus challeng'd forth, see thither one by one. From every side assembling playmates run ; A thousand wily antit;s mark their stay, A starting crowd, impatient of delay. Like the fond dove from fearful prison freed, Each seems to say, *' Come, let us tr}' our speed Away they scour, impetuous, ardent, strong. The green turf trembling as they bound alon? ; ^down the slope, then up the Iiillock climb. Where every molehill is a bed of thyme; 22 SPRING. Contrast of their near approaching fate.... v. 333. There panting stop; yet scarcely can refrain; A bird, a leaf, will set them off again : Or, if a gale with strength unusual blow, Scattering the wild-briar roses into snow. Their little limbs increasing efforts try. Like the torn flower the fair assemblage fly. Ah, fallen rose! sad emblem of their doom ; Frail as thyself, they perish while they bloom ! Though unoffending Innocence may plead. Though frantic Ewes may mourn the savage deed. Their shepherd comes, a messenger of blood. And drives them bleating from their sports and food Care loads his brow, and pity wrings his heart. For lo, the murd'ring Butcher, with his cart. Demands the firstlings of his flock to die. And makes a sport of life and liberty ' His gay companions Giles beholds no more ; Closed are their eyes, their fleeces drench'd in gore j SPRING. 23 Conclusion of the first Book. ...v. 351. Nor can Compassion, with her softest notes. Withhold the knife that plunges thro' their throats. Down, indignation! hence, ideas foul! Away the shocking image from my soul ! Let kindlier vi&itants attend my way, Beneath approaching Summers fervid ray ; Nor thankless glooms obtrude, nor cares annoy. Whilst the sweet theme is nniversaljny. SUMMER. ARGUMENT. Turnip eowiag, Wlie'^t ripening. Sj>arrows. Insects. The alfy-lark. Reaping, Sic. Ilarvest-ficW, Dairj- maiil, &c. Labours of the bam. The gnnder. Night; a thiirAecv-atorui. Hiivo-jc-home- Reflections, 8cc. SUMMER. II. Provident turn of the Farmer's mind. The Farmer's life displays in every part A moral lesson to the sensual heart. Though in the lap of Plenty, thoughtful still, Flo looks beyond the present good or ill ; Nor estimates alone one blessing's worth. From changeful seasons, or capricious earth ; But views the future with the present hours. And looks for failures as he lool-^s for showers ; For casual as for certain want prepares. And round his yard the reeking haystack rears 28 SUMMER. Provident turn of tlie Farmer's mind.... v. \l. Or clover, blossom'd lovely to the sight, His team's rich store through many a wintry night. Wliat though abundance round his dwelling spreads. Though ever moist his self-improving meads Supply his dairy with a copious flood, And seem to promise unexhausted food ; That promise fails, when buried deep in snow, And vegetative juices cease to flow. For this, his plough turns up the destin'd lands. Whence stormy Winter draws its full demands ; For this, the seed minutely small, he sows. Whence, sound and sweet, tlie hardy turnip grows. But how unlike to April's closing days! High climbs the Sun, and darts his powerful rays ; Whitens the fresh-drawn mould, and pierces through The cumb'rous clods that tumble round the plough. O'er heaven's bright azure hence with joyful eye-. The Farmer sees dark clouds assembling ris€ i SUMMER. 90 Showers suftening the soil.-.'V. ZQ. ' Borne o'er his fields a heavy torrent falls. And strikes the earth in hasty driving squalls. ^' Eight welcome down, ye precious drops," he cries; But soon, too soon, the partial blessing flies. ** Boz/, bring the Jiarroivs, try how deep the rain " Has fore d its way." He comes, but comes in vain ; Dry dust beneath the bubbling surface lurks, And mocks his pains the more, the more he works j Still, midst huge clods, he plunges on forlorn, That laugh his harrovfs and the shower to scorn. E'en thus the living clod, the stubborn fool. Resists the stormy lectures of the school. Till tried with gentler means, the dunce to please. His head imbibes right reason by degrees ; As when from eve till morning's wakeful hour. Light, constant rain evinces secret pow'r. And ere the day resumes its wonted smiles, Presents a cheerful, easy task for Cilet. so SUMMER. Green Corn — Sparrows.. ..v. 47. Down with a touch the mellow'd soil is laid. And yon tall crop next claims his timely aid ; Thither well pleas'd he hies, assur'd to find Wild, trackless haunts, and objects to his mind. Shot up from broad rank blades that droop below. The nodding wheat-ear forms a graceful bow. With milky kernels starting full, weigh'd down. Ere yet the sun hath ting'd its head with brown ; There thousands in a flock, for ever gay, Loud chirping sparrows welcome on the day, And from the mazes of the leafy thorn Drop one by one upon the bending corn. Giles with a pole assails their close retreats. And round the grass grown dewy border beats. On either side completely overspread. Here branches bend, there corn o'ertops his head. Green covert, hail! for through the varying year No hours so sweet, no scene to him so dear. SUMMER. 31 Scenery — full of life, and inspiring contemplation.. ..t. 65. Here TV\sdoirC% placid eye delighted sees His frequent intervals of lonely ease. And with one ray his infant soul inspires. Just kindling there her never-dying fires. Whence solitude derives peculiar charms, And heaven-directed thought his bosom warms. Just where the parting bough's light shadows play. Scarce in the shade, nor in the scorching day, Stretch'd on the turf he lies, a peopled bed. Where swarming insects creep around his head. The small dust-colour'd beetle climbs with pain O'er the smooth plantain-leaf, a spacious plain Thence higher still, by countless steps convey'd He gains the summit of a shiv'ring blade. And flirts his filmy wings, and looks around^ Exulting in his distance from the ground. The tender speckk'd moth here dancing seen. The vaulting grasshopper of glossy green, 32 SUMMER. Tl;e Sky-lark. And all prolific Summer's sporting train, Their little lives by various pow'rs sustain. But what can unassisted vision do? What, but recoil where most it would pursue ; His patient gaze but finish with a sigh. When Music waking speaks the sky-lark nigh • Just starting from the corn, he cheerly sings. And trusts with conscious pride his downy wings ; Still louder breathes, and in the face of day Mounts up, and calls on Giles to mark his way. Close to his eyes his hat he instant bends. And forms a friendly telescope, that lends Just aid enough to dull the glaring light. And place the wand'ring bi-rd before his sight. That oft beneath a light cloud sweeps along, Lost for awhile, yet pours the varied song : The eye still follows, and the cloud moves by, Again he stretches up tlie clear blue sky ; SUMMER. ss Sleep and trarii|uillity of Giles — Com ripening. His form, his motion, undistinguish'd quite, Save when he wheels direct from shade to light : E'en then the songster a mere speck became, Gliding- like fancy's bubbles in a dream, The gazer sees ; but yielding to repose. Unwittingly his jaded eyelids close. I)elicious sleep '. From sleep who could forbear, With no more guilt than Giles, and no moi'e care .* Peace o'er his slumbers waves her guardian wing, Nor Conscience once disturbs him with a sting ; He wakes refre.sh'd from every trivial pain. And takes his pole, and brushes round again. Its dark-green hue, its sicklier tints all fail. And ripening Harvest rustles in the gale. A glorious sight, if glory dwells below. Where Heav'n's munificence makes all the show O'er every field and golden prospect found, Thatglads the Ploughman's Sunday morning's ro«nie»- api«>liitmcnt ; Kcfli^>^S»s»>>~»y»«^«J>^.A<'^>»»^sl Village Bell t. 6.3. Dive deep : and clinging, mixes with the mould A fatt'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 trims Her 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 atones With strong exertion, and with weary bones, And knows no leisure ; till the distant chime Of Sabbath bells he hears at «ermon 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 biinar the Pastor to the House of God ' 58 AUTUMN. Tbe Church; and Church-Yard— Village Conversation.... t. 81. Mean structure ; where no bones of heroes lie ! The rude inelegance of poverty Reigns here alone : else why that roof of straw .* Tliose 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 high The grey-capp'd Daws in saucy legions fly. Round these lone walls assembling neighbours meetj And tread departed friends beneath their feet j And new-briar'd graves, that prompt the secret sigh, Show 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; Wliile sturdy boys, in feats of strength to shine. With pride elate, their young associates brave To jump from hollow-aounding grave to grave; AUTUMN. 59 Village Girls — The poor distracted young Womau.. ..v. 99. Then close consulting, each his talent lends To plan fresh sports when tedious service ends. Hither at times, with cheerfulness of soul. Sweet village Maids from neighbouring hamlets strol!, That like the light-heel'd does o'er lawns that rovf, Look shyly curious ; rip'ning into love ; Tor love's their errand : hence the tints that glow On either cheek, a heighten'd lustre know ; When, conscious of their charms, e'en Age looks sly. And rapture beams from Youth's obserA'ant eye. The pride of such a party, Nature's pride, VV^as lovely Ann, who innocently try'd, With hat of airy shape and ribbons gay. Love to inspire, and stand in Hymen's way But, ere her twentieth Summer could exp^.nd, Or youth was render'd happy with her hand. Her mind's serenity, her peace was gone. Her eye grew languid^ and she wept alone 60 AUTUMN. The Subj«ct continufd. Yet causeless seem'd bcr 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 riU'd her hours ; Now blithe she sung, and gather'd useless flow'rs ; Now pluck'd a tender twig from ev'ry bough. To whip the hov'ring demons from hw* brow. Ill-fated Maid ! thy guiding spark is fled. And lasting wretchedness awaits thy bed — Thy bed of straw ! for mark, where even now O'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 secrecy she takes, liOw mutt'ring to the moon, that rising breaks Thro* night's dark gloom : — oh how much more forlorn Her night, that knows of no returning morn '— AUTUMN. 61 Continued.. ..r. 13b. 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 buw'd down, her faded cheek to hide ; — A piteous mourner by the pathway side. Some tufted molehill through the livelong day She calls her throne ; there weeps her life away : And oft the gaily-passmg stranger stays His well-tim'd step, and takes a silent gaze, VOL. r. G 62 AUTUMN. Continued.... V. 153. Till sympathetic drops unbidden start. And pangs quick springing muster round bis beart; And soft he treads with other gazers round. And fain would catch her sorrows' 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 proflFer'd parley shy. She bears th' unwelcome foot advancing nigh ; Nor quite unconscious of her wretched plight. Gives one sad look, and hurries out of sight.— Fair prorais'd sunbeams of terrestrial bliss. Health's gallant hopes, — and ai-e ye sunk to this ? For in life's road though thorns abundant grow. There still are joys poor Ann can never know ; Joys which the gay companions of her prime Sip, as they drift along the stream of time j AUTUMN. 63 Chickens housed. ...T. 171. At eve to hear beside their tranquil home The lifted latch, that speaks the lover come : ThMt love matur'd, next playful on the knee To press the velvet lip of infancy ; To stay the tottering step, the features trace ; — Inestimable sweets of social peace I 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 blood Of cold-nipt weaklings of the latter brood. 64 AUTUMN. Bird keeping— The Hut... .v. 189. 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 guard The 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-str'pt 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 sequestei-'d nook, embank'd around, Sods for its walls, and sti'aw in burdens l^und • AUTUMN The pleasures of the Hut....T. 207- Dried fuel hoarded is his richest store. And circling smoke obseures 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 glos^oy order rise, He crops the loaded branch ; a cumbrous prize ; And o'er the flame tlie sputt'ring fruit he rests, Placing green sods to seat his coming guests ; His guests by pre mise ; playmates young and gay :— But ah ! fresh pastimes lure their steps away ! He sweeps his hearth, and homeward looks in vain Till feeling Disappointment's cruel pain. His fairy revels are exchang'd for rage, His banquet marr'd, grown dull his hermitage. The field becomes his prison, till on high Benighted birds to shades and coverts fly. 66 AUTUMN. The Disappointment — Compared with greater.. ..v. 225. Midst air, health, cb.ylight, 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 ineftectual pity thine may be, No wealth, no pow'r, to S(?t the caj>tivc free ; Though onit/ to thy ravish'd sight is given The radiant 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 ronio and cheer thy gloomy cell With news of dearest friends ; how good, how wpH AUTUMN. 67 The cruelly of disappointing expectation.. ••t. 843. 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. [n 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, anu healthful to the blood : For bold exertion follows on the sound Of distant Sportsmen, and the chiding Hound ; First heard from kennel bursting, mad with joy. Where smiling Euston boasts her good Fitzrot, 6S AUTUMN. Euston-Hal I — Fox-hunti ng. Lord of pure alms, and gifts that wide extend ; The farmer's patron, and the poor man's friend : Whose Mansion glitters 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 chase reside, Ingulf'd in earth, in conscious safety warm. Till lo ! a plot portends their coming harm. In earliest hours of dark and hooded morn, Ere yet one rosy cloud bespeaks the dawn. Whilst far abroad the Fox pursues his prey. He's doora'd to risk the perils of the day. From his stronghold 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 glade lliat guides the eye beneath a changeful shade. AUTUMN. 69 The horn and cry of the Hounds — The Hunter. • ..v. 279. The loit'ring' sportsman feels th' instinctive flame, And checks his steed to noarkthe springing game. Midst intersecting cuts and winding ways The huntsman cheers his dogs, and anxious strays Where 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 rise Of 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 < he confines of the wood they pour. And jovnus villages partake the roar. AUTUMN. The Fox-hound t. 097 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 chase inspires : For who unmovinted 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 long-excelling fame Was 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 cioss. And tempt along the animated horse ; AUTUMN. 71 Not the worst subject of Poetry. 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 below To climb the woodland hill's exulting brow. Piide 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 my humble verse shall feel. Where not one lying line to riches bows. Or poison'd sentiments from rancour flows ; Nor flowers are strewn around Ambition's car : An honest Dog's a nobler theme by far. Each sport&man heard the tidings with a sigh. When Death's cold touch dad stopthis tuneful cryj 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 yow Joe .'** 72 AUTUMN. Midnight— Domestic Fowl — Short«n'U hours. In safety hous'djihrouglioutNiGHT's/cn^-^/i'nmjg^ reign, 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 scream Of Geese impatient for the playful stream ; And all the feather'd tribe imprison'd raise Their 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 soon The shades of twilight follow hazy noon, Short'ning the busy day ! — day that slides by Amidst th' unfmish'd toils of Husbandry ; Toils still each morn rcsum'd with double care. To meet the icy terrors of the year j AUTUMN. ^3 Closing Reflt To meet the threats of Boreas uiidisinay'd, And ff^mter's gathering frowns and hoary head. Then welcome, cold; welcome, ye snowy nights ! 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 the changing year Assur'd, — though horrors round his cottage reign,— That Spring will come, hnd Nature smile again. WINTER. ARGUMENT. Tfinlernesi lo Catlle. Frozen Turnips. Tlie Cov.-)ar(!. Ni(;bi. The Farm-house. Fire-side. Farmer's Advice aiirt Inslrm;- tion. Nightly Cnr.s of tile Stable. Oi.l.I.in. The Post-horse Sheep-vtcaliiig Dors. VValkg occaoibnert thereby. '1 he (Jhost. Lauih Timn. R»it!irr.ing J^iriug. roncliiRii'ii. WINTER. IV. Tcndemess to Cattle. With kindred pleasures mov'd, and cares oppvest, Sharing alike our weariness and rest ; Who lives the daily partner of our hours. Through every change of heat, and frost, and shov/'i s ; Partakes our cheerful meals, partaking first In mutual labour and fatigue and thirst ; The kindly intercourse will ever prove A bond of amity and social love. WINTER. BencvoleBce springing from mutual sufferings and pleasure.... t. 9. To more than man this generous warmth extends, And oft the team and shivVing herd befriends ; Tender solicitude the bosom fills. And Pity executes what Reason wills : Youth learns compassion's tale from ev'ry 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 resound With fair abundance thund'ring to the ground. For though on hoary twigs no buds peep out, And e'en the hardy brambles cease to sprout, Beneath dread Winter's level sheets of snow The sweet nutritious Turnip deigns to grow. Till now imperious want and wide-spread dearth 3id Labour claim her treasures from the earth. WINTER. Ice broken and Snow cleared for the Cattle. ... v. 9'? On Giles, and such as Giles, the labour falls, To 6trew 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 found A rolling mass of ice upon the ground. No tender ewe can break her nightly fast. Nor heifer strong begin the cold repast. Till Giles with pondVous 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. In beaded rows if drops now deck tl«; spray. While the sun grants a momentary ray. Let but a cloud's broad shadow intervene. And stilTen'd into gems the drops are seen ; 80 WINTER Nijht...y. 4i. And down the furrow'd oak's broad southern side Streams 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 Labourer home. From him, with bed and nightly food supplied, Throughout the yard, hous'd round on ev'ry side. Deep-plunging Cows their rustling feast enjoy, And snatch sweet mouthfuls from the passing Boy Who moves unseen beneath his trailing load, nils the tall racks, and leaves a scatter'd road , Where oft the swine from ambush warm and dry Bolt out, and scamper headlong to their sty, When Giles with well-known voice, already there. Deigns them a portion of his evening care. //im, though the cold may pierce, and storms molest, Succeeding hours shall cheer with warmth and rest; WINTER. 81 Cbriitmas Fire.... v. 6?. 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 wide extend the blaze, That quivering strong through eveiy opening flies, Wliilst smoky 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 his wide Fabric unimpair'd sustain The orchard's store, and cheese, and golden grain ; Bade, from its central base, capacious laid. The well-wrought chimney rear its lofty head ; Where since hatli many a savoury ham been stor'd. And tempests how I'd, and Christmas gambols roar'd. Flat on the hearth the glowing embers lie. And flames reflected dance in every eye : m WINTER. Convcwation of the Master with the Farmer's Boy.* ..v. 81. There the long billet, fore'd at last to bend. While gushing sap froths cat at either end, Throws round its welcome heat : — the ploughman smiles, And oft the joke runs hard on sheepish Giles, Who sits joint tenant of the corner-stool. The converse sharing, though in duty's school ; For now attentively 'tis his to hear Interrogations from the Master's chair. * Left ye your bleating charge, when day-light fled, * Near where the hay-stack lifts its snowy head ? * Whose fence of bushy furze, so close and warm, * May stop the shinting bullets of the storm. * For, hark ! it blows ; a dark and dismal night . * Heaven guide the trav'ller's fearful steps aright ! * Now from the woods, mistrustful and sharp-ey'd, * The Fox in silent darkness seems to glide, * Stealing around us, list'ning as he goes, * If chance the Cock or stamm'ring Capon crows. WINTER. bS Motive* to reconcile the Farmer's Boy to his Situation.. ..t. 99. * 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 th' 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 though 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 from Norway's icy shore. * The Sea-boy there, less fortunate than thou, * Feelfi all thy pains in all the gusts that blow; 84 WINTER. Contrast with the Sea-Hoy — Effect of kind Admonition!; ••■.v. 1 17. * His freezing hands now dreneh'd, now dry, by turns ; * Now lost, now seen, the distant light that burns, * On some tall clitf 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 wat'ry way; * And whilst in peaceful dreams secure wc lie, ' The ruthless whirlwinds rage along the sky, * Round his head whistling; — and shalt 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 keep These first ideas of the restless deep ; And, as the opening miml a circuit tries. Present felicities in value rise. Increasing pleasures every hour they find, The warmth more precious, and the shelter l^ind j WINTER. fi6 Sleep — renevteJ labour — Ploughman's care of his Horses.. ..▼. 133. 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 gleam SliGOts from his lantern, as he yawning gues To add fresh comforts to their night's repose ; Diffusing fragrance as their food he moves. And 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 debarr'd. Their each day's labour brings its sure reward I 86 WINTER. The Farmer's ami Post-hovse contrasted. Yet when from plouj^h or lumb'ring cart set free, They taste awhile the sweets of liberty : E'en sober Dobbin lifts his clumsy heel And kicks, disdainful of the dirty wheel ; But soon, his frolic ended, yields again To trudge the road, and wear the clinking chain. Short-sighted Dobbin ! — thou canst only see The trivial hardships that eticompass thee : T[\y chains were freedom, and thy toils repose : Could the poor post-horse tell thee all his woes ; Show thee his bleeding shoulders, and unfold The dreadful anguish he endures for gold : Hir'd at each call of business, lust, or rage. That prompts the trav'Uer on from stage to stage. Still on his strength depends their boasted speed ; For them his limbs grow weak, his bare ribs bleed; Ajid though he groaning quickens at command. Their extra shilling in the rider's hand WINTER. 87 The Sufferings of the Post-horse coDtinue