The Farmer's Boy: A Rural Poem Part 2

BLOOMFIELD, and of the pleasure they have received from the perusal of his Poem, are:

THOMAS SHERLOCKE GOOCH, Esq.

Major POCKLINGTON, Dr. GIBBONS, M.D.

The Rev. J. PLAMPIN, The Rev. T. KNOTTESFORD, The Rev. R. PRITCHETT, ABRAHAM REEVE, Esq.

GEO. ARCHER, Esq.

J. MILLS, Esq.

Mrs. TRAIL, Mrs. LEAKE, NATHAN DRAKE, M.D.

I have transcribed the names in the order in which they were transmitted to me. With a large proportion of those who have thus stood forth the Friends of Genius and Worth I have the pleasure of being acquainted. It gives me much satisfaction to mention this notice: welcome to the Author as a Gift; and far more so as a testimony of good opinion unexpectedly offer'd. Several instances of similar attention to the disproportion between the circ.u.mstances of the Author and the excellence of his poetical Talents and moral Qualities have spontaneously manifested themselves from different quarters. Those, as the separate act of individuals, I have not particularized otherwise than by this general acknowledgment: though many such have been mention'd to me by the Author. This, as a collective act, I hope I may be allow'd the gratification of thus noticing.

Sir CHARLES BUNBURY has warmly expressed his approbation of the Poem; as not only excellent for a Farmer's Boy, but such as would do honour to any person, whatever his education: and he also has much contributed to make it early and advantageously known. Mr. GREEN of IPSWICH has spoken of it as a charming composition: reflecting, in a very natural and vivid manner, the series of interesting images which touch'd the sensibility of a young, an artless, but a most intelligent observer of Nature; plac'd in a situation highly favourable to observation, though in fact not often productive of it. That Originality in such a subject is invaluable: and that this Poem appears to him (I know few men so qualified to judge on such a point) throughout original. And literary characters who have earnt to themselves much of true Praise by their own Productions, Mr. DYER and Dr. DRAKE of HADLEIGH, have given full and appropriate encomium to the excellence both in Plan and Execution, of this admirable RURAL PORM. My Friend Mr. BLACK of _Woodbridge_, has notic'd it in a very pleasing and characteristic Letter address'd to me in verse. I believe I shall not be just to the FARMER's BOY if I omit to notice that the Taste and Genius of Mrs. OPIE, born to do honour to every department of the Fine Arts, have given her an high sentiment of its merits. And a LADY at BURY, whom I wish I were permitted to name, has most truly characteriz'd it by remarking, that "the descriptions of Country scenes, occupations, customs, and manners, are as natural as possible: and that the justness, virtue, and tenderness of the sentiments are to be equally admired." Were I to name all the Friends and Admirers of the POEM and of the simple and amiable manners and character of the AUTHOR, I should name, I believe, nearly every person in this Island whom I respect, esteem, and admire.

It would be highly gratifying to me could I now transcribe those testimonies to which I have generally referr'd:... but I abstain here from this: and the rather, as I believe Mr. DYER will probably soon express, in a Publication of his own, his sentiments on this Work; and as Dr. DRAKE, I know, has been so struck with it as to intend to appropriate to an investigation of its peculiar merit the concluding part of an enlarg'd Edition of his LITERARY HOURS.[Footnote: This has been since excellently perform'd by him. See the APPENDIX.]

The mention already made of the FARMER'S BOY in the NEW LONDON REVIEW and in the MONTHLY MIRROR I have seen with pleasure. I rejoice in that Fame which is just to living Merit, and waits not for the Tomb to present the tardy and then unvalued Wreath: I rejoice in the sense express'd not only of his Genius, but of his pure, benevolent, amiable Virtue, his affectionate Veneration to the DEITY, and his good Will to all....

Obscurity and Adversity have not broken; Fame and Prosperity, I am persuaded, will not corrupt him.

I cannot deny myself the satisfaction of mentioning that, after an absence of twelve years, the Author of the Farmer's Boy has revisited his native Plains. That he has seen his Mother in health and spirits: seen her with a joy to both which even his own most expressive and pathetic language would imperfectly describe.... Seen other near, affectionate, and belov'd Relatives: review'd, with the feelings of a truly poetic and benevolent Mind, the haunts of his youth; the Woods and Vales, the Cot, the Field and the Tree, which even recollected after so many years and at a distance, had awaken'd in such a manner the energies of his Heart and Intellect, and had inspir'd strains which will never cease to be repeated with pleasure and admiration. That he has been receiv'd at BURY with an emulous desire of his society; and certainly with the greatest reason. I rejoice that I at length have been made personally acquainted with him: that I have seen him here, and at his Mother's, and at Bury: that I have discours'd with him; that we have made our rural walks together: that I have heard him read some of those Poems which are not yet printed; but which when they shall be so, will support fully and extend the Fame he has acquir'd.

Though I have spent, occasionally, much of my life among persons worthy of Admiration and of Esteem, I can recollect few days so interesting and so valuable to me as these.

C.L.

TROSTON, 25 May, 1800.

What I have said in prose, p. ix of this Preface, is charmingly expressed in the language of the Muses by Mr. COLLIER, in his Miscellaneous Poems lately publish'd.

O where on earth can he a pleasure find Whose heart th' extatic sweets of Love has known, When in the jarring chaos of his mind The gentle G.o.d no longer holds his throne!

ON REVISITING THE PLACE OF MY NATIVITY.

Though Winter's frowns had damp'd 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: Ere Philomel shall silent meet the morn; 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 his 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 an hospitable board was spread.

These would I name,... but each, and all can feel What the full heart would willingly 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 home:-- Ideal now no more;--for, to my view Spring's promise rose, how admirably true!!

The early chorus of the cheerful Grove, Gave point to Grat.i.tude; and fire to Love.

O Memory! shield me from the World's poor strife; And give those scenes thine everlasting life!

ROB. BLOOMFIELD.

LONDON, MAY 30, 1800.

SPRING.

ARGUMENT.

_Invocation, &c. Seed time. Harrowing. Morning walks. Milking. The Dairy.

Suffolk Cheese. Spring coming forth. Sheep fond of changing. Lambs at play. The Butcher, &c._

[Ill.u.s.tration]

SPRING

I.

O come, blest Spirit! whatsoe'er thou art, Thou rushing 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 rehea.r.s.e, No _Alpine_ wonders thunder through my verse, The roaring cataract, the snow-topt hill, Inspiring awe, till breath itself stands still: Nature's sublimer 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!

And lead my soul to ecstasies of praise For all the blessings of my infant days!

Bear me through regions where gay Fancy dwells; 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.

'Twas thus with GILES: meek, fatherless, and poor: Labour his portion, but he felt no more; No stripes, no tyranny 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 n.o.ble 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 woodc.o.c.k and the painted pheasant race, And sculking foxes, destin'd for the chace; There Giles, untaught and unrepining, stray'd Thro' every copse, and grove, and winding glade; 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 offspring blest his plenteous board, His fields were fruitful, and his harm well stor'd, And fourscore ewes he fed, a st.u.r.dy team, And lowing kine that grazed 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, Shoots up the simple flower, or creeps along The mellow'd soil; imbibing fairer hues Or sweets from frequent showers and evening dews; That summon from its shed the slumb'ring ploughs, 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 plow-boy and the goad;) But, una.s.sisted through each toilsome day, With smiling brow the plowman 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 th' unwelcome day; Till all is chang'd, and hill and level down a.s.sume a livery of sober brown: Again disturb'd, when Giles with wearying strides From ridge to ridge the ponderous harrow guides; His heels deep sinking every step he goes, Till dirt usurp the empire of his 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 deep-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;

[Ill.u.s.tration: a gate]

In fancy sees his trembling oats uprun, His tufted barley yellow with the sun; Sees clouds propitious shed their timely store, And all his harvest 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 wary plunderers know, And place a watch on some conspicuous bough; Yet oft the sculking gunner by surprise Will scatter death amongst them as they rise.

These, hung in triumph round the s.p.a.cious field, At best will but a short-lived 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 centinels that never move.

Let then your birds lie prostrate on the earth, In dying posture, and with wings stretch'd 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 the' 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'rs, Waving aloft their tow'ring branches proud, In borrow'd tinges from the eastern cloud, (Whence 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 bold c.o.c.k-pheasant stalk'd along the road, Whose gold and purple tints alternate glow'd.