'What is an orphan boy?' I cried, You'll know too soon, ill-fated child!' Song.* [From the same.] Go, youth beloved, in distant glades Yet, should the thought of my distress [On a Sprig of Heath.] [From Mrs Grant's Poems.] Flower of the waste! the heath-fowl shuns Thy tender buds supply her food; Flower of the desert though thou art! Their food and shelter seek from thee; Nor garden's artful varied pride, Flower of his heart! thy fragrance mild Of peace and freedom seem to breathe; To pluck thy blossoms in the wild, And deck his bonnet with the wreath, A writer in the Edinburgh Review styles this production of Mrs Opie's one of the finest songs in our language. Flower of his dear-loved native land! [The Highland Poor.] [From Mrs Grant's poem of The Highlander."] Where yonder ridgy mountains bound the scene, The narrow opening glens that intervene Still shelter, in some lowly nook obscure, One poorer than the rest-where all are poor; Some widowed matron, hopeless of relief, Who to her secret breast confines her grief; Dejected sighs the wintry night away, And lonely muses all the summer day: Her gallant sons, who, smit with honour's charms, Pursued the phantom Fame through war's alarms, Return no more; stretched on Hindostan's plain, Or sunk beneath the unfathomable main; In vain her eyes the watery waste explore For heroes-fated to return no more! Let others bless the morning's reddening beam, Foe to her peace-it breaks the illusive dream That, in their prime of manly bloom confest, Restored the long-lost warriors to her breast; And as they strove, with smiles of filial love, Their widowed parent's anguish to remove, Through her small casement broke the intrusive day, And chased the pleasing images away! No time can e'er her banished joys restore, For ah! a heart once broken heals no more. The dewy beams that gleam from pity's eye, The 'still small voice of sacred sympathy, In vain the mourner's sorrows would beguile, Or steal from weary wo one languid smile; Yet what they can they do-the scanty store, So often opened for the wandering poor, To her each cottager complacent deals, While the kind glance the melting heart reveals; And still, when evening streaks the west with gold, The milky tribute from the lowing fold With cheerful haste officious children bring, And every smiling flower that decks the spring: Ah! little know the fond attentive train, That spring and flowerets smile for her in vain: Yet hence they learn to reverence modest wo, And of their little all a part bestow. Let those to wealth and proud distinction born, With the cold glance of insolence and scorn Regard the suppliant wretch, and harshly grieve The bleeding heart their bounty would relieve: Far different these; while from a bounteous heart With the poor sufferer they divide a part; Humbly they own that all they have is given A boon precarious from indulgent Heaven: And the next blighted crop or frosty spring, Themselves to equal indigence may bring. [From Mrs Tighe's 'Psyche."] [The marriage of Cupid and Psyche in the Palace of Love. Psyche afterwards gazes on Love while asleep, and is banished from the Island of Pleasure.] She rose, and all enchanted gazed The high-ranged columns own no mortal hand, Gently ascending from a silvery flood, Above the palace rose the shaded hill, The lofty eminence was crowned with wood, And the rich lawns, adorned by nature's skill, The passing breezes with their odours fill; Here ever-blooming groves of orange glow, And here all flowers, which from their leaves distil Ambrosial dew, in sweet succession blow, And trees of matchless size a fragrant shade bestow. The sun looks glorious 'mid a sky serene, And bids bright lustre sparkle o'er the tide ; The clear blue ocean at a distance seen, Bounds the gay landscape on the western side, While closing round it with majestic pride, The lofty rocks mid citron groves arise; 'Sure some divinity must here reside,' As tranced in some bright vision, Psyche cries, And scarce believes the bliss, or trusts her charmed eyes. When lo! a voice divinely sweet she hears, From unseen lips proceeds the heavenly sound; 'Psyche approach, dismiss thy timid fears, At length his bride thy longing spouse has found, And bids for thee immortal joys abound; For thee the palace rose at his command, For thee his love a bridal banquet crowned; He bids attendant nymphs around thee stand, Prompt every wish to serve-a fond obedient band.' Increasing wonder filled her ravished soul, For now the pompous portals opened wide, There, pausing oft, with timid foot she stole Through halls high-domed, enriched with sculptured pride, While gay saloons appeared on either side, The amethyst was there of violet hue, Or the mild eyes where amorous glances play; And there the gem which bears his luckless name Whose death, by Phoebus mourned, insured him deathless fame. There the green emerald, there cornelians glow, Now through the hall melodious music stole, To taste celestial food, and pure ambrosial streams. Once more she hears the hymeneal strain ; Far other voices now attune the lay; The swelling sounds approach, awhile remain, And then retiring, faint dissolved away; The expiring lamps emit a feebler ray, And soon in fragrant death extinguished lie: Then virgin terrors Psyche's soul dismay, When through the obscuring gloom she nought can spy, But softly rustling sounds declare some being nigh. Oh, you for whom I write! whose hearts can melt At the soft thrilling voice whose power you prove, You know what charm, unutterably felt, Attends the unexpected voice of love: Above the lyre, the lute's soft notes above, With sweet enchantment to the soul it steals, And bears it to Elysium's happy grove; You best can tell the rapture Psyche feels, When Love's ambrosial lip the vows of Hymen seals. "Tis he, 'tis my deliverer! deep imprest Upon my heart those sounds I well recall,' The blushing maid exclaimed, and on his breast A tear of trembling ecstacy let fall. But, ere the breezes of the morning call Aurora from her purple, humid bed, Psyche in vain explores the vacant hall; Her tender lover from her arms is fled, While sleep his downy wings had o'er her eyelids spread. * Illumined bright now shines the splendid dome, Melodious accents her arrival hail: But not the torch's blaze can chase the gloom, And now with softest whispers of delight, He thinks that tenderness excites the tear, And half offended seeks in vain to cheer; Yet, while he speaks, her sorrows feel relief, Too soon more keen to sting from this suspension brief! Allowed to settle on celestial eyes, Soft sleep, exulting, now exerts his sway, From Psyche's anxious pillow gladly flies To veil those orbs, whose pure and lambent ray The powers of heaven submissively obey. Trembling and breathless then she softly rose, And seized the lamp, where it obscurely lay, With hand too rashly daring to disclose The sacred veil which hung mysterious o'er her woes. Twice, as with agitated step she went, The lamp expiring shone with doubtful gleam, As though it warned her from her rash intent: And twice she paused, and on its trembling beam Gazed with suspended breath, while voices seem With murmuring sound along the roof to sigh; As one just waking from a troublous dream, With palpitating heart and straining eye, Still fixed with fear remains, still thinks the danger nigh. Oh, daring Muse! wilt thou indeed essay To paint the wonders which that lamp could show! And canst thou hope in living words to say The dazzling glories of that heavenly view? Ah! well I ween, that if with pencil true That splendid vision could be well expressed, The fearful awe imprudent Psyche knew Would seize with rapture every wondering breast, When Love's all-potent charms divinely stood confessed. All imperceptible to human touch, His wings display celestial essence light; Or shades his darker brow, which grace majestic wears: Or o'er his guileless front the ringlets bright Wide darts its lucid beams, to gild the brow of night. Beside the couch were negligently thrown, Nor needs the god his dazzling arms to show His glorious birth; such beauty round him shone As sure could spring from Beauty's self alone; The bloom which glowed o'er all of soft desire Could well proclaim him Beauty's cherished son: And Beauty's self will oft those charms admire, And steal his witching smile, his glance's living fire. Speechless with awe, in transport strangely lost, Long Psyche stood with fixed adoring eye; Her limbs immovable, her senses tossed Between amazement, fear, and ecstacy, She hangs enamoured o'er the deity. Till from her trembling hand extinguished falls The fatal lamp-he starts-and suddenly Tremendous thunders echo through the halls, While ruin's hideous crash bursts o'er the affrighted walls. Dread horror seizes on her sinking heart, A mortal chillness shudders at her breast, Her soul shrinks fainting from death's icy dart, The groan scarce uttered dies but half expressed, And down she sinks in deadly swoon oppressed: But when at length, awaking from her trance, The terrors of her fate stand all confessed, In vain she casts around her timid glance; The rudely frowning scenes her former joys enhance. No traces of those joys, alas, remain! A desert solitude alone appears; No verdant shade relieves the sandy plain, The wide-spread waste no gentle fountain cheers; One barren face the dreary prospect wears; Nought through the vast horizon meets her eye To calm the dismal tumult of her fears; No trace of human habitation nigh; A sandy wild beneath, above a threatening sky. The Lily. [By Mrs Tighe.] How withered, perished seems the form The careless eye can find no grace, Shall kiss once more her fragrant breast. Yes, hide beneath the mouldering heap Oh! many a stormy night shall close As her soft tears the spot bedew. The sun, the shower indeed shall come; The promised verdant shoot appear, And nature bid her blossoms bloom. And thou, O virgin queen of spring! Shalt, from thy dark and lowly bed, Bursting thy green sheath's silken string, Unveil thy charms, and perfume shed; Unfold thy robes of purest white, Unsullied from their darksome grave, And thy soft petals' silvery light In the mild breeze unfettered wave. So Faith shall seek the lowly dust Where humble Sorrow loves to lie, And bid her thus her hopes intrust, And watch with patient, cheerful eye; And bear the long, cold wintry night, And bear her own degraded doom; And wait till Heaven's reviving light, Eternal spring! shall burst the gloom. ROBERT BLOOMFIELD. ROBERT BLOOMFIELD, author of The Farmer's Boy, and other poems illustrative of English rural life and customs, was born at Honington, near Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk, in the year 1766. His father, a tailor, died whilst the poet was a child, and he was placed under his uncle, a farmer. Here he remained only two years, being too weak and diminutive for field labour, and he was taken to London by an elder brother, and brought up to the trade of a shoemaker. His two years of country service, and occasional visits to his friends in Suffolk, were of inestimable importance to him as a poet, for they afforded materials for his 'Farmer's Boy,' and gave a freshness and reality to his descriptions. It was in the shoemaker's garret, however, that his poetry was chiefly composed; and the merit of introducing it to the world belongs to Mr Capel Lofft, a literary gentleman residing at Troston, near Bury, to whom the manuscript was shown, after being rejected by several London booksellers. Mr Lofft warmly befriended the poet, and had the satisfaction of seeing his prognostications of success fully verified. At this time Bloomfield was thirty-two years of age, was married, and had three children. The 'Farmer's Boy' immediately became popular; the Duke of Grafton patronised the poet, settling on him a Austin's Farm, the early residence of Bloomfield. day with the Muses. The last was published in the year of his death, and opens with a fine burst of poetical, though melancholy feeling O for the strength to paint my joy once more! That joy I feel when winter's reign is o'er; When the dark despot lifts his hoary brow, And seeks his polar realm's eternal snow: Though bleak November's fogs oppress my brain, Shake every nerve, and struggling fancy chain; Though time creeps o'er me with his palsied hand, And frost-like bids the stream of passion stand. The worldly circumstances of the author seem to have been such as to confirm the common idea as to the infelicity of poets. His situation in the Sealoffice was irksome and laborious, and he was forced to resign it from ill health. He engaged in the bookselling business, but was unsuccessful. In his latter years he resorted to making Eolian harps, which he sold among his friends. We have been informed by the poet's son (a modest and intelligent man, a printer), that Mr Rogers exerted himself to procure a pension for Bloomfield, and Mr Southey also took much interest in his welfare; but his last days were imbittered by ill health and poverty. So severe were the sufferings of Bloomfield from continual headache and nervous irritability, that fears were entertained for his reason, when, happily, death stepped in, and released him from the world's poor strife.' He died at Shefford, in Bedfordshire, on the 19th of August 1823. The first remarkable feature in the poetry of this humble bard is the easy smoothness and correctness of his versification. His ear was attuned to harmony, and his taste to the beauties of expression, before he had learned anything of criticism, or had enjoyed opportunities for study. This may be seen from the opening of his principal poem: O come, blest Spirit! whatsoe'er thou art, Be thou my Muse, and faithful still to me, No deeds of arms my humble lines rehearse; O point these raptures! bid my bosom glow, Bear me through regions where gay Fancy dwells; Live, trifling incidents, and grace my song, "Twas thus with Giles, meek, fatherless, and poor, It is interesting to contrast the cheerful tone of Bloomfield's descriptions of rural life in its hardest and least inviting forms, with those of Crabbe, also a native of Suffolk. Both are true, but coloured with the respective peculiarities, in their style of observation and feeling, of the two poets. Bloomfield describes the various occupations of a farm boy in seed-time, at harvest, tending cattle and sheep, and other occupations. In his tales, he embodies more moral feeling and painting, and his incidents are pleasing and well arranged. His want of vigour and passion, joined to the humility of his themes, is perhaps the cause of his being now little read; but he is one of the most characteristic and faithful of our national poets. [Turnip-Sowing-Wheat Ripening-Sparrows-Insects That promise fails when buried deep in snow, For this his plough turns up the destined lands, High climbs the sun and darts his powerful rays; ; Here branches bend, there corn o'erstoops his head. Close to his eyes his hat he instant bends, Its dark green hue, its sicklier tints all fail, Hark! where the sweeping scythe now rips along ; Each sturdy mower, emulous and strong, Whose writhing form meridian heat defies, Bends o'er his work, and every sinew tries; Prostrates the waving treasure at his feet, But spares the rising clover, short and sweet. Come Health! come Jollity! light-footed come; Here hold your revels, and make this your home. Each heart awaits and hails you as its own; Each moistened brow that scorns to wear a frown: The unpeopled dwelling mourns its tenants strayed: E'en the domestic laughing dairymaid Hies to the field the general toil to share. Meanwhile the farmer quits his elbow-chair, His cool brick floor, his.pitcher, and his ease, And braves the sultry beams, and gladly sees His gates thrown open, and his team abroad, The ready group attendant on his word To turn the swath, the quivering load to rear, Or ply the busy rake the land to clear. Summer's light garb itself now cumbrous grown, Each his thin doublet in the shade throws down: Where oft the mastiff skulks with half-shut eye, And rouses at the stranger passing by; While unrestrained the social converse flows, And every breast Love's powerful impulse knows, And rival wits with more than rustic grace Confess the presence of a pretty face. |