And soon they saw the crowded strand Wear dimly from their view; And soon they saw the distant land, A line of hazy blue. The white-sail'd ship with favouring breeze, Sometimes with steady course she went, O'er wave and surge careering; Her anchor dropt at last. What martial honours Maurice won, With boldest band on bridge or moat, With champion on the plain, I' th' breach with clustering foes he fought, Choked up with grisly slain. Most valiant by the valiant styled, Their praise his deeds proclaim'd, But fate will quell the hero's strength, He lay the heaps of dead beneath, As sunk life's flickering flame, That o'er his senses came. And when again day's blessed light Did on his vision fall, There stood by his side,-a wondrous sight! The ancient seneschal. He strove, but could not utter word, A third time sank he, as if dead, "The prophet's zealous servant I; But honour Mary's Son. " And I have wedded an English dame, And none, who wears an English name, "For her dear sake I can endure As though thou wert my brother." "And thou hast wedded an English dame!" Sir Maurice said no more, For o'er his heart soft weakness came, He sigh'd and wept full sore. And many a dreary day and night With the Moslem chief stay'd he, As he paced the court below, Might haply reach him there; and oft And oft to Moorham's lord he gave What time from liegemen parted far, By stern and adverse fate of war And how his daughter did by stealth With secret store of gather'd wealth, To set her father free: And how into the foeman's hands And but a captive boy appear'd, Till grief her sex betray'd, How for her plighted hand sued he, With every Christian slave; (For many there, in bondage kept, A tale which made his bosom thrill, But harness rings, and the trumpet's bray And Christian powers, in grand array, Are near those Moslem walls. Sir Maurice heard; untoward fate! "Fight thou for faith by thee adored But never may this trusty sword With blood of thine be stain'd !”— L Sir Maurice took him by the hand, The battle join'd, with dauntless pride With many a brave man's blood. At length gave way the Moslem force; Maurice protected his lifeless corse, There's mourning in the Moslem halls, The lady left its 'leaguer'd walls, When months were past, the widow'd dame Look'd calm and cheerfully; Then Maurice to her presence came, And bent him on his knee. What words of penitence or suit He utter'd, pass we by; The lady wept, awhile was mute, "That thou didst doubt my maiden pride 'Tis from remembrance banish'd. "But thy fair fame, earn'd by thy sword, Still spotless shall it be: I was the bride of a Moslem lord, And will never be bride to thee." So firm, though gentle, was her look, A solemn, dear farewell he took, A brave and zealous knight. But that their lot was one of wo, She tends the helpless stranger's bed, She was the fairest of the fair, The gentlest of the kind; Search ye the wide world everywhere, Her like ye shall not find. She was the fairest, is the best, Too good for a monarch's bride'; I would not give her in her nun's coif dress'd For all her sex beside. ADDRESS TO A STEAM-VESSEL. And, on his bench apart, the fiddler playing, Which, coiling and uncoiling on the wind, Thou hold'st thy course in independent pride; rise To gaze upon the sight with wondering eyes. Thou hast to those "in populous city pent," Glimpses of wild and beauteous nature lent; A bright remembrance ne'er to be destroy'd, Which proves to them a treasure, long enjoy'd, And for this scope to beings erst confined, I fain would hail thee with a grateful mind. They who had naught of verdant freshness seen But suburb orchards choked with colworts green, Now, seated at their ease may glide along, Lochlomond's fair and fairy isles among; Where bushy promontories fondly peep At their own beauty in the nether deep, O'er drooping birch and berried row'n that lave Their vagrant branches in the glassy wave; They, who on higher objects scarce have counted Than church's spire with gilded vane surmounted, May view, within their near, distinctive ken, The rocky sunmits of the lofty Ben; Or see his purpled shoulders darkly lower Mingles his waters with the briny tide, Eyes which admired that work of sordid skill, As the proud swan on summer lake displays, They change, and veer, and turn like living things. In very truth, compared to these thou art GIFTED of Heaven! who hast, in days gone by, Th' impassion'd changes of thy beauteous face, The burst of stifled love, the wail of grief, Of soul-exciting sound the mightiest spell. But though time's lengthen'd shadows o'er thee glide, And pomp of regal state is cast aside, *The common or vulgar name of a water-bird frequent- While feverish fancy oft doth fondly trace ing that coast. Within her curtain'd couch thy wondrous face. Yea; and to many a wight, bereft and lone, Yet, ne'ertheless, in strong array, Freemen, children of the free, (Where, blest by many a heart, long mayst thou Proves under their firm tread and vigorous stroke, stand) Amongst the virtuous matrons of the land. A deck of royal oak. A VOLUNTEER SONG. YE, who Britain's soldiers be, And brace ye bravely up in warlike geer Blest in your hands be sword and spear! On whom some fond mate hath not smiled, Such men behold with steady pride And bravely act, mid the wild battle's roar, Let veterans boast, as well they may, Doth with the first sound of the hostile drum Come then, ye hosts that madly pour Come then, ye hosts that madly pour TO A CHILD. WHOSE imp art thou, with dimpled cheek, And arm and shoulders round and sleek, What boots it who, with sweet caresses, First call'd thee his, or squire or hind ?— Thy downcast glances, grave, but cunning, Thy shyness, swiftly from me running,- But far afield thou hast not flown, With mocks and threats half lisp'd, half spoken, I feel thee pulling at my gown, Of right goodwill thy simple token. And thou must laugh and wrestle too, Thy after kindness more engaging. The wilding rose, sweet as thyself, And new-cropt daisies are thy treasure: I'd gladly part with worldly pelf, To taste again thy youthful pleasure. But yet for all thy merry look, Thy frisks and wiles, the time is coming, When thou shalt sit in cheerless nook, The weary spell or horn-book thumbing. Well; let it be! through weal and wo, And thou a thing of hope and change. * It was then frequently said, that our seamen excelled our soldiers, ROBERT BLOOMFIELD. ROBERT BLOOMFIELD, the son of a tailor at Honington, in Suffolk, was born on the 3d of December, 1766. His mother, who was the village school-mistress, gave him the only education he ever received, and placed him first, with a farmer of Sapiston, as his assistant, and afterward with George, the brother of our poet, who was a shoemaker in London. His principal occupation was to wait upon the journeymen, in fetching their dinners, &c.; and, in his intervals of leisure, he read the newspaper, and, with the help of a dictionary, was soon able to comprehend and admire the speeches of Burke, Fox, and other statesmen of the day. His next step toward improvement was in his attendance at a dissenting meeting-house, where, he says, he soon learned to accent "hard words," besides which, he also visited a debating society, went sometimes to the theatre, and read the History of England, the British Traveller, and a book of geography. A perusal of some poetry in the London Magazine, led to his earliest attempts in verse, which he sent to a newspaper, under the title of the Milk-maid, or the First of May, and the Sailor's Return. Indeed, says his biographer, in the Annual Obituary, he had so generally and diligently improved himself, that, although only sixteen or seventeen years of age, his brother George and his fellow workmen began to be instructed by his conversation. In 1784, anxious to avoid a part in some disputes which had arisen between the journeymen and master shoemakers, by whom himself and his brother were employed, Robert returned to his relation at Sapiston, and, for two months, worked at farming. At the expiration of that time he was put apprentice to Mr. Dudbridge, a ladies' shoemaker, and soon became expert at his trade. In 1790, he married the daughter of a boat-builder, and after some years of conjugal poverty, hired a room up one pair of stairs, at No. 14 Bell Alley, Coleman Street. The master of the house, it is said, giving him leave to work in the light garret, two pair of stairs higher, he not only there carried on his occupation, but, in the midst of six or seven other workmen, actually completed his Farmer's Boy: the parts of Autumn and Winter having been composed in his head before a line of them was committed to paper. When the manuscript was fit for publication, he offered it, but in vain, to various booksellers, and to the editor of the Monthly Magazine, who, in his number for September, 1823, gives the following interesting account of the affair:-" He brought his poem to our office; and, though his unpolished appearance, his coarse handwriting, and wretched orthography, afforded no 51 prospect that his production could be printed, yet he found attention by his repeated calls, and by the humility of his expectations, which were limited to half-a-dozen copies of the magazine. At length, on his name being announced when a literary gentleman, particularly conversant in rural economy, happened to be present, the poem was finally reexamined, and its general aspect excited the risibility of that gentleman in so pointed a manner, that Bloomfield was called into the room, and exhorted not to waste his time, and neglect his employment, in making vain attempts, and particularly in treading on the ground which Thomson had sanctified. His earnestness and confidence, however, led the editor to advise him to consult his countryman, Mr. Capel Lofft, of Trooton, to whom he gave him a letter of introduction. On his departure, the gentleman present warmly complimented the editor on the sound advice which he had given the poor fellow ;' and it was mutually conceived that an industrious man was thereby likely to be saved from a ruinous infatuation." The poem at length reached the hands of Mr. Capel Lofft, who sent it, with the strongest recommendations, to Mr. Hill, the proprietor of the Monthly Mirror, who negotiated the sale of the poem with the publishers, Messrs. Vernor and Hood. These gentlemen acted with great liberality towards Bloomfield, by voluntarily giving him £200 in addition to the £50 originally stipulated for, and by securing to him a moiety of the copyright of his poem, which, on its appearance, was received with a burst of wonder and applause from all quarters. The most eminent critics and literati of the day were profuse in their praise of both the author and his poem; and the most polished circles of society were smitten with the charms of rural life, as depicted by the Farmer's Boy. He also received some substantial proofs of the estimation in which he was held, by presents from the Duke of York and other persons of distinction; and the Duke of Grafton, after having had him down to Whittlebury Forest, of which his grace was ranger, settled upon him a gratuity of a shilling a-day, and subsequently appointed him under-sealer in the Seal office. Subscriptions were also entered into for his benefit at various places; in addition to which, he derived considerable emolument from the sale of his work, of which, in a short space of time, near forty thousand copies were sold. His good fortune, which, he said, appeared to him as a dream, enabled him to remove to a comfortable and commodious habitation in the City Road, where, having given up his situation at the Seal office, in consequence of ill health, he worked at 2L2 401 |