Rural Tales, Ballads, and Songs by Robert Bloomfield (best beach reads of all time .txt) 📕

Cavalry,
Bestrode a Steed with trappings gay.

And thus from memory's treasur'd sweets,
And thus from Love's pure fount she drew
That peace, which busy care defeats,
And bids our pleasures bloom anew.

Six weeks of absence have I borne
Since HENRY took his fond farewell:
The charms of that delightful morn
My tongue could thus for ever tell.

He at my Window whistling loud,
Arous'd my lightsome heart to go:
Day, conqu'ring climb'd from cloud to cloud;
The fields all wore a purple glow.

We stroll'd the bordering flow'rs among:
One hand the Bridle held behind;
The other round my waist was flung:
Sure never Youth spoke half so kind!

The rising Lark I could but hear;
And jocund seem'd the song to be:
But sweeter sounded in my ear,
'Will _Dolly_ still be true to me!'

From the rude Dock my skirt had swept
A fringe of clinging burrs so green;
Like them our hearts still closer crept,
And hook'd a thousand holds unseen.

High o'er the road each branching bough
Its globes of silent dew had shed;
And on the pure-wash'd sand below
The dimpling drops around had spread.

The sweet-brier op'd its pink-ey'd rose,
And gave its fragrance to the gale;
Though modest flow'rs may sweets disclose;
More sweet was HENRY'S earnest tale.

He seem'd, methought, on that dear morn,
To pour out all his heart to me;
As if, the separation borne,
The coming hours would joyless be,

A bank rose high beside the way,
And full against the Morning Sun;
Of heay'nly blue there Violets gay
His hand invited one by.

The posy with a smile he gave;
I saw his meaning in his eyes:
The withered treasure still I have;
My bosom holds the fragrant prize.

With his last kiss he would have vow'd;
But blessings crouding forc'd their way:
Then mounted he his Courser proud;
His time elaps'd, he could not stay.

Then first I felt the parting pang;--
Sure the worst pang the Lover feels!
His Horse unruly from me sprang,
The pebbles flew beneath his heels;

Then down the road his vigour tried,
His rider gazing, gazing still;
_'My dearest, I'll be true_,' he cried:--
And, if he lives, I'm sure he will.

Then haste, ye hours, haste, Eve and Morn,
Yet strew your blessings round my home:
Ere Winter's blasts shall strip the thorn
My promis'd joy, my love, will come.



LINES OCCASIONED BY A VISIT TO WHITTLEBURY FOREST,

NORTHAMPTONSHIRE, IN AUGUST, 1800.

ADDRESSED TO MY CHILDREN.


Genius of the Forest Shades!
Lend thy pow'r, and lend thine ear!
A Stranger trod thy lonely glades,
Amidst thy dark and bounding Deer;
Inquiring Childhood claims the verse,
O let them not inquire in vain;
Be with me while I thus rehearse
The glories of thy Sylvan Reign.

Thy Dells by wint'ry currents worn,
Secluded haunts, how dear to me!
From all but Nature's converse borne,
No ear to hear, no eye to see.
Their honour'd leaves the green Oaks rear'd,
And crown'd the upland's graceful swell;
While answering through the vale was heard
Each distant Heifer's tinkling bell.

Hail, Greenwood shades, that stretching far,
Defy e'en Summer's noontide pow'r,
When August in his burning Car
Withholds the Cloud, withholds the Show'r.
The deep-ton'd Low from either Hill,
Down hazel aisles and arches green,
(The Herd's rude tracks from rill to rill)
Roar'd echoing through the solemn scene.

From my charm'd heart the numbers sprung,
Though Birds had ceas'd the choral lay:
I pour'd wild raptures from my tongue,
And gave delicious tears their way.
Then, darker shadows seeking still,
Where human foot had seldom stray'd,
I read aloud to every Hill
Sweet Emma's Love, 'the Nut-brown Maid.'

Shaking his matted mane on high
The gazing Colt would raise his head;
Or, tim'rous Doe would rushing fly,
And leave to me her grassy bed:
Where, as the azure sky appear'd
Through Bow'rs of every varying form,
Midst the deep gloom methought I heard
The daring progress of the storm.

How would each sweeping pond'rous bough
Resist, when straight the Whirlwind cleaves,
Dashing in strength'ning eddies through
A roaring wilderness of leaves!
How would the prone descending show'r
From the green Canopy rebound!
How would the lowland torrents pour!
How deep the pealing thunder sound!

But Peace was there: no lightnings blaz'd:--
No clouds obscur'd the face of Heav'n:
Down each green op'ning while I gaz'd,
My thoughts to home, and you, were giv'n.
O tender minds! in life's gay morn
Some clouds must dim your coming day;
Yet, bootless pride and falsehood scorn,
And peace like this shall cheer your way.

Now, at the dark Wood's stately side,
Well pleas'd I met the Sun again;
Here fleeting Fancy travell'd wide!
My seat was destin'd to the Main:
For, many an Oak lay stretch'd at length,
Whose trunks (with bark no longer sheath'd)
Had reach'd their full meridian strength
Before your Father's Father breath'd!

Perhaps they'll many a conflict brave,
And many a dreadful storm defy;
Then groaning o'er the adverse wave,
Bring home the flag of victory.
Go, then, proud Oaks; we meet no more!
Go, grace the scenes to me denied,
The white Cliffs round my native shore,
And the loud Ocean's swelling tide.

'Genius of the Forest Shades,'
Sweet, from the heights of thy domain,
When the grey ev'ning shadow fades,
To view the Country's golden grain!
To view the gleaming Village Spire
Midst distant groves unknown to me;
Groves, that grown bright in borrow'd fire,
Bow o'er the peopled Vales to thee!

Where was thy Elfin train that play
Round _Wake's_ huge Oak, their favourite tree;
May a poor son of Song thus say,
Why were they not reveal'd to me!
Yet, smiling Fairies left behind,
Affection brought you to nay view;
To love and tenderness resign'd,
I sat me down and thought of you.

When Morning still unclouded rose,
Refresh'd with sleep and joyous dreams,
Where fruitful fields with woodlands close,
I trac'd the births of various streams.
From beds of Clay, here creeping rills
Unseen to parent _Ouse_ would steal;
Or, gushing from the northward Hills,
'Would glitter through _Toves'_ winding dale.

But ah! ye cooling springs, farewell!
Herds, I no more your freedom share;
But long my grateful tongue shall tell
What brought your gazing stranger there.
'Genius of the Forest Shades,
'Lend thy power, and lend thine ear;'
Let dreams still lengthen thy long glades,
And bring thy peace and silence here.



SONG FOR A HIGHLAND DROVER RETURNING FROM ENGLAND.

Now fare-thee-well, England; no further I'll roam;
But follow my shadow that points the way home;
Your gay southern Shores shall not tempt me to stay;
For my Maggy's at Home, and my Children at play!
Tis this makes my Bonnet set light on my brow,
Gives my sinews their strength and my bosom its glow.

Farewell, Mountaineers! my companions, adieu;
Soon, many long miles when I'm severed from you,
I shall miss your white Horns on the brink of the Bourne,
And o'er the rough Heaths, where you'll never return:
But in brave English pastures you cannot complain,
While your Drover speeds back to his Maggy again.

O Tweed! gentle Tweed, as I pass your green vales,
More than life, more than Love, my tir'd Spirit inhales;
There Scotland, my darling, lies full in my view,
With her bare-footed Lasses and Mountains so blue:
To the Mountains away; my heart bounds like the Hind;
For home is so sweet, and my Maggy so kind.

As day after day I still follow my course,
And in fancy trace back every Stream to its source,
Hope cheers me up hills, where the road lies before
O'er hills just as high, and o'er tracks of wild Moor;
The keen polar Star nightly rising to view;
But Maggy's my Star, just as steady and true.

O Ghosts of my Fathers! O heroes, look down!
Fix my wandering thoughts on your deeds of renown,
For the glory of Scotland reigns warm in my breast,
And fortitude grows both from toil and from rest;
May your deeds and your worth be for ever in view,
And may Maggy bear sons not unworthy of you.

Love, why do you urge me, so weary and poor?
I cannot step faster, I cannot do more;
I've pass'd silver Tweed; e'en the Tay flows behind:
Yet fatigue I'll disdain;--my reward I shall find:
Thou, sweet smile of innocence, thou art my prize;
And the joy that will sparkle in Maggy's blue eyes.

She'll watch to the southward;--perhaps she will sigh,
That the way is so long, and the Mountains so high;
Perhaps some huge Rock in the dusk she may see,
And will say in her fondness, 'That surely is he!'
Good Wife, you're deceiv'd; I'm still far from my home;
Go, sleep, my dear Maggy,--to-morrow I'll come.

A WORD TO TWO YOUNG LADIES.

WHEN tender Rose-trees first receive
On half-expanded Leaves, the Shower;
Hope's gayest pictures we believe,
And anxious watch each coining flower.

Then, if beneath the genial Sun
That spreads abroad the full-blown May,
Two infant Stems the rest out-run,
Their buds the first to meet the day,

With joy their op'ning tints we view,
While morning's precious moments fly:
My pretty Maids, 'tis thus with _you_;
The fond admiring gazer, _I_.

Preserve, sweet Buds, where'er you be;
The richest gem that decks a Wife;
The charm of _female modesty:_
And let sweet Music give it life.

Still may the favouring Muse be found:
Still circumspect the paths ye tread:
Plant moral truths in Fancy's ground;
And meet old Age without a dread.

Yet, ere that comes, while yet ye quaff
The cup of Health without a pain,
I'll shake my grey hairs when you laugh,
And, when you sing, be young again.


Both the young Ladies had addressed to me a few complimentary lines, (and I am sorry that those of the elder sister were never in my possession;) in return for which I sent the above. It was received on the day on which the younger completed her ninth year. Surely it cannot be ascribed to vanity, if, in gratitude to a most amiable family, I here preserve verbatim an effort of a child nine years old. I hare the more pleasure in doing it, because _I know_ them to be her own. R.B.

"Accept, dear Bard, the Muse's genuine thought,
And take not ill the tribute of my heart:--
For thee the laureat wreath of praise I'll bind,
None that have read thy commendable mind
Can let it pass unnotic'd--nor can I--
For by thy lays I know thy sympathy." F.P.



ON HEARING THE TRANSLATION OF PART OF THE FARMER'S BOY INTO LATIN

_By the Rev. Mr. C--;_

Hey, Giles! in what new garb art dresst?
For Lads like you methinks a bold one;
I'm glad to see thee so caresst;
But, hark ye!--don't despise your old one.
Thou'rt not the first by many, a Boy
Who've found abroad good friends to own 'em;
Then, in such Coats have shown their joy,
E'en their _own Fathers_ have not known 'em.



NANCY

A Song.

You ask me, dear Nancy, what makes me presume
That you cherish a secret affection for me?
When we see the Flow'rs bud, don't we look for the Bloom?
Then, sweetest, attend, while I answer to thee.

When we Young Men with pastimes the Twilight beguile,
I watch your plump cheek till it dimples with joy:
And observe, that whatever occasions the smile,
You give me a glance; but