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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

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“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 up the reaper or the ploughman, it is with loftier thoughts and feelings than those which led the gentle,

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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

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 I 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 Suminer 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 kitc floor! the careful dame

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