Bless'd him, and bade him prosper. With warm heart
He drew his purse-strings, and the utmost doit
Pour'd in the youngster's palm.

Away,' he cries, Go to the seat of learning, boy. Be good, Be wise, be frugal, for 'tis all I can.'

'I will,' said Toby, as he bang'd the door, And wink'd, and snapp'd his finger,

Sir, I will.'

Then to town

So joyful he to Alma Mater went
A sturdy fresh-man. See him just arriv'd,
Receiv'd, matriculated, and resolv'd
To drown his freshness in a pipe of port.
'Quick, Mr. Vintner, twenty dozen more;
Some claret too. Here's to our friends at home.
There let 'em doze. Be it our nobler aim
To live-where stands the bottle!'
Hies the gay spark for futile purposes,
And deeds my bashful muse disdains to name.
From town to college, till a fresh supply
Sends him again from college up to town.
The tedious interval the mace and cue,
The tennis-court and racket, the slow lounge
From street to street, the badger-hunt, the race,
The raffle, the excursion, and the dance,
Ices and soups, dice, and the bet at whist,
Serve well enough to fill.

So Toby fares, nor heeds,

Till terms are wasted, and the proud degree,

Soon purchas'd, comes his learned toils to crown.
He swears, and swears he knows not what, nor cares;
Becomes a perjur'd graduate, and thinks soon

To be a candidate for Orders. Ah!

Vain was the hope. Though many a wolf as fell
Deceive the shepherd and devour the flock,
Thou none shalt injure. On a luckless day,
Withdrawn to taste the pleasures of the town,
Heated with wine, a vehement dispute

With a detested rival shook the roof.

He penn'd a challenge, sent it, fought, and fell;
And, if there be for such delinquents room
In God's eternal mansions, went to heav'n.

ROBERT BLOOMFIELD was born in 1766, at Honington, near Bury St. Edmunds, where his father was a tailor, and his mother, who was left a widow during his infancy, laboured to support her family by keeping a village school. Having learned to read, he was placed with his uncle, a farmer. His employment as "a farmer's boy" was too laborious for his naturally delicate frame, and he went to live in London with his elder brother, a shoemaker. He learnt the trade, and continued during several years to work at it as a journeyman in the Metropolis. While residing with his brother in "a light garret fit for a mechanic to work in," he occasionally procured books, and among others the London Magazine, to "the Poet's Corner" of which he "always looked." "One day, having repeated a song which he composed to an old tune," he was persuaded to try whether the editor of a newspaper would print it the attempt succeeded, and Robert Bloomfield became a poet. In 1790, he married, but "like most poor men, he got a wife first, and had to get household stuff afterwards." He hired a room at 14, Bell-alley, Coleman-street, and laboured to mend shoes and compose the Farmer's Boy-" celebrating the little events of his boyhood;""nine-tenths of it," according to his own most interesting account, "were put together while he sat at work." His desire to see it published led to applications to booksellers, and consequent rebuffs:-by one he was told he was not to expect an opinion from a stranger-by another, that poetry was out of his line, and by another, that it would not do for publication. He was, however, ardent in his hope "to send his mother a PRINTED COPY:"-the patronage of Capel Lofft prepared it for the press, with notes, and some account of the author. The journeyman shoemaker-who had long lived "in sickness and trouble"-at once became an object of universal attraction. The sunshine of his life, however, lasted but a very little while; the curse of patronage was upon him; a few dinners at the tables of the great, and a few grudged guineas from their purses, led him to imagine that care and sorrow were to be thenceforward banished from the Poet's home. The wonder excited by a shoemaker writing verses soon subsided, and the name of Robert Bloomfield was added to the long list of unhappy men who have been lured to ruin by the Muse. The natural consequences followed;-poverty, despondency, disease and death. In 1823, he died; and there had been just grounds for apprehending that if his life had been prolonged the mind would have perished before the body.

Yet the character of Bloomfield is almost without spot or blemish. Celebrity did not make him arrogant, nor did want lead him into meanness. When reputation failed to procure him bread, he returned to his trade; and might have found the awl more profitable than the lyre, if his health, always precarious, had not sunk during the trial. His brother describes his person:-"He is of a slender make, of about five feet four inches high, very dark complexion." He finishes the picture by a powerful touch:-"I never knew his fellow for mildness of temper and goodness of disposition."-Those who read the poetry of Robert Bloomfield will be satisfied of the accuracy of the portrait.

"Uneducated poets" have been less rare since "the Farmer's Boy" was ushered into the world; some whose destiny was not more fortunate than that of Bloomfield, have possessed genius far higher than his; but he was by no means of a common order, and little deserved the neglect and indifference which followed his brief popularity. One of the keys to his success, perhaps, is the fact that he never attempted any thing to which his simple and natural mind was unequal. He wrote only of what he had seen or felt:--and as his opportunities were limited, so are his subjects. In the treatment of topics familiar to persons of his class-the humble labourers in our fields or alleys-he is, we think, even now unequalled. Peasants and mechanics have in our day written more vigorous and more correct verse;-the meadows of Northamptonshire, and the factories of Sheffield, have heard finer and bolder strains from those who live by toil among them;-one of the mightiest minds of the age produced his poems while working at the anvil, and still, apart from patronage, pursues his worldly calling. But the themes of his selection are not of a lowly character; or if he walks through green lanes and looks upon the reaper or the ploughman, it is with loftier thoughts and feelings than those which led the gentle Bloomfield to seek fame among the poets.

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

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

alike appears,

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

Hark! where the sweeping scythe now rips along : Each sturdy mower, emulous and strong, Whose writhing form meridian heat defies, Bends o'er his work, and every sinew tries; Prostrates the waving treasure at his feet, But spares the rising clover, short and sweet. Come, Health! come, Jollity! light footed, come; Here hold your revels, and make this your home: Each heart awaits and hails you as its own; Each moisten'd brow, that scorns to wear a frown Th' unpeopled dwelling mourns its tenants stray'd; E'en the domestic laughing dairy-maid 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 swarth, the quiv'ring load to rear, Or ply the busy rake, the land to clear. Summer's light garb itself now cumb'rous grown, Each his thin doublet in the shade throws down; Where oft the mastiff sculks with half-shut eye, And rouses at the stranger passing by; Whilst unrestrain'd 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.

Now, ere sweet Summer bids its long adieu,
And winds blow keen where late the blossom grew,
The bustling day and jovial night must come,
The long-accustomed feast of Harvest-home.
No blood-stain'd victory, in story bright,
Can give the philosophic mind delight;

No triumph please, while rage and death destroy;
Reflection sickens at the monstrous joy.
And where the joy, if rightly understood,
Like cheerful praise for universal good?
The soul nor check nor doubtful anguish knows,
But free and pure the grateful current flows.

Behold the sound oak table's massy frame
Bestride the kitchen floor! the careful dame
And gen'rous host invite their friends around,

For all that clear'd the crop, or till'd the ground,
Are guests by right of custom:-old and young;
And many a neighbouring yeoman join the throng,
With artizans that lent their dext'rous aid,
When o'er each field the flaming sunbeams play'd.

Yet Plenty reigns, and from her boundless hoard,
Though not one jelly trembles on the board,
Supplies the feast with all that sense can crave;
With all that made our great forefathers brave,
Ere the cloy'd palate countless flavours tried,
And cooks had Nature's judgment set aside.
With thanks to Heaven, and tales of rustic lore,
The mansion echoes when the banquet's o'er;
A wider circle spreads, and smiles abound,
As quick the frothing horn performs its round;
Care's mortal foe; that sprightly joys imparts
To cheer the frame and elevate their hearts.
Here, fresh and brown, the hazel's produce lies
In tempting heaps, and peals of laughter rise,
And crackling music, with the frequent song,
Unheeded bear the midnight hour along.

Here once a year Distinction low'rs its crest,
The master, servant, and the merry guest,
Are equal all; and round the happy ring
The reaper's eyes exulting glances fling,
And, warn'd with gratitude, he quits his place,
With sun-burnt hands and ale-enliven'd face,
Refills the jug his honour'd host to tend,
To serve at once the master and the friend;
Proud thus to meet his smiles, to share his tale,
His nuts, his conversation, and his ale.

Such were the days-of days long past I sing,
When pride gave place to mirth without a sting;
Ere tyrant customs strength sufficient bore
To violate the feelings of the poor;

To leave them distanc'd in the mad'ning race,
Where'er refinement shows its hated face:
Nor causeless hatred;-'tis the peasant's curse,
That hourly makes his wretched station worse;
Destroys life's intercourse; the social plan
That rank to rank cements, as man to man:
Wealth flows around him, Fashion lordly reigns,
Yet poverty is his, and mental pains.

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