That, like creating Nature, lie conceal'd

From mortal eye, yet with their lavish stores

Refresh the globe, and all its joyous tribes!

2. Robert Bloomfield. “The Farmer’s Boy” (1800)

[“Autumn”: an extract]

Fair promis'd sunbeams of terrestrial bliss,

Health's gallant hopes,… and are ye sunk to this?

For in life's road though thorns abundant grow,

There still are joys poor Poll can never know;

Joys which the gay companions of her prime

Sip, as they drift along the stream of time;

At eve to hear beside their tranquil home

The lifted latch, that speaks the lover come:

That love matur'd, next playful on the knee

To press the velvet lip of infancy;

To stay the tottering step, the features trace;…

Inestimable sweets of social peace!

O THOU, who bidst the vernal juices rise!

Thou, on whose blasts autumnal foliage flies!

Let Peace ne'er leave me, nor my heart grow cold,

Whilst life and sanity are mine to hold.

Shorn of their flow'rs that shed th' untreasur'd seed,

The withering pasture, and the fading mead,

Less tempting grown, diminish more and more,

The dairy's pride; sweet Summer's flowing store.

New cares succeed, and gentle duties press,

Where the fire-side, a school of tenderness,

Revives the languid chirp, and warms the blood

Of cold-nipt weaklings of the latter brood,

That from the shell just bursting into day,

Through yard or pond pursue their vent'rous way.

Far weightier cares and wider scenes expand;

What devastation marks the new-sown land!

"From hungry woodland foes go, Giles, and guard

The rising wheat; ensure its great reward:

A future sustenance, a Summer's pride,

Demand thy vigilance: then be it try'd:

Exert thy voice, and wield thy shotless gun:

Go, tarry there from morn till setting sun."

Keen blows the blast, or ceaseless rain descends;

The half-stript hedge a sorry shelter lends.

O for a HOVEL, e'er so small or low,

Whose roof, repelling winds and early snow,

Might bring home's comforts fresh before his eyes!

No sooner thought, than see the structure rise,

In some sequester'd nook, embank'd around,

Sods for its walls, and straw in burdens bound:

[Illustration]

Dried fuel hoarded is his richest store,

And circling smoke obscures his little door;

Whence creeping forth, to duty's call he yields,

And strolls the Crusoe of the lonely fields.

On whitethorns tow'ring, and the leafless rose,

A frost-nipt feast in bright vermilion glows:

Where clust'ring sloes in glossy order rise,

He crops the loaded branch; a cumb'rous prize;

And o'er the flame the sputt'ring fruit he rests,

Placing green sods to seat his coming guests;

His guests by promise; playmates young and gay:…

BUT AH! fresh pastimes lure their steps away!

He sweeps his hearth, and homeward looks in vain,

Till feeling Disappointment's cruel pain,

His fairy revels are exchang'd for rage,

His banquet marr'd, grown dull his hermitage.

The field becomes his prison, till on high

Benighted birds to shades and coverts fly.

Midst air, health, daylight, can he prisoner be?

Date: 2015-12-18; view: 416