He said, and led her to the cottage door, Dispos'd the basket, comforted and kiss'd her. Then to the garden bow'r together both, Link'd arm in arm, proceeded. There they sat, And he his melancholy tale rehears'd, And she was all attention. He began, And told her of his youth and boyish days He train'd him, as he thought, to deeds of praise; 6 And why,' said he, should my fond father prate Of virtue and religion? They afford No joys, and would abridge the scanty few Of nature. Nature be my deity, Her let me worship, as herself enjoins, At the full board of plenty. Thoughtless boy! So to a libertine he grew, a wit, A man of honour; boastful empty names He call'd him home, with great applause dismiss'd Away,' he cries, Bless'd him, and bade him prosper. With warm heart Sir, I will.' So joyful he to Alma Mater went To live-where stands the bottle!' Then to town And deeds my bashful muse disdains to name. The tedious interval the mace and cue, The tennis-court and racket, the slow lounge * So Toby fares, nor heeds, Till terms are wasted, and the proud degree, Soon purchas'd, comes his learned toils to crown. To be a candidate for Orders. Ah! Vain was the hope. Though many a wolf as fell He penn'd a challenge, sent it, fought, and fell; HERE, 'midst the boldest triumphs of her worth, Nature herself invites the reapers forth; Dares the keen sickle from its twelvemonth's rest, When the first sheaf its plumy top uprears. "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, |