The Farmer\'s Boy
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Thus much I know:... that the Author, with a spirit amiable at all times,
and which would have been rever'd by Antiquity, seems far less interested
concerning any Fame or Advantage he may derive from it to himself, than in
the pleasure of giving a printed Copy of it, as a tribute of duty and
affection, to his MOTHER; in whose pleasure, if it succeeds, his filial
heart places the gratification of which it is most desirous. It is much to
be a POET, such as he will be found:... it is more to be such a MAN.
CAPEL LOFFT.
TROSTON, n. BURY, SUFFOLK.
12 Dec. 1799.
ELIZABETH MANBY, the Mother of the Author of this POEM, was sister to
the wife of Mr. WILLIAM AUSTIN. I had written to Mr. GEORGE BLOOMFIELD to
request the name, before Marriage, of his Mother. This gain'd me an
Answer, which I have great pleasure in adding.
"The late Mr. AUSTIN'S wife was a Manby (my Mother's sister). And it may
seem strange that, in the FARMER'S BOY, _Giles_ no where calls him
_Uncle_, but _Master_.... The treatment that my Brother _Robert_
experienced from Mr. _Austin_ did not differ in any respect from the
treatment that all the Servant Boys experienc'd who lived with him. Mr.
_Austin_ was Father of fourteen Children by my Aunt (he never had any
other wife). He left a decent provision for the five Children that
surviv'd him: so that it could not be expected he should have any thing to
give to poor Relations. And I don't see a possibility of making a
difference between GILES and the Boys that were not related to
Mr._Austin_: for he treated all his Servants exactly as he did his Sons.
They all work'd hard; all liv'd well. The DUKE had not a better Man Tenant
to him than the late Mr. _Austin_. I saw numbers of the Husbandmen in
tears when he was buried. He was beloved by all who knew him. But I
imagine _Robert_ thought that when he was speaking of Benevolence that was
universal, he had no occasion to mention the accidental circumstance of
his being related to the Good Man of whom he sung."
SUPPLEMENT
I have mention'd in the Preface "THE SAILOR'S RETURN", from an intimation
by Mr. G. BLOOMFIELD. From the Author himself, Mr. ROBERT BLOOMFIELD, I am
oblig'd with what part he can recollect of this SONG, which I was desirous
to recover. It was written shortly after the PEACE with AMERICA and
FRANCE. Probably some time in the _Spring_ of 1784. The Author thinks the
Title of it was "THE SOLDIER'S RETURN," and that it was occasion'd by the
arrival of some Regiments of British Soldiers from remote parts of the
Globe.
He says, "I have endeavour'd to bring it back to my mind: but can only
remember the following; which is not the beginning nor the finish."
Round LYBIA'S south point, where from toils so late freed,
Sweet Hope cheer'd my soul as we clear'd the rough sea;
I strove midst the Tars to improve the ship's speed;
Nor thought I of aught but ANNA and THEE.
Here comes the dear Girl! comes with kind arms extended
To welcome me!... limbs numb'd with age fain would move.
My cheek feels the offspring of rapture warm blended,
With answering drops:... this the meed of chaste Love!
Rouse the Fire--
* * * * *
I think every Reader will be of opinion that it is indeed desirable the
whole Song, of which this is a Fragment, should be recover'd. It will
probably be found (according to the recollection of the Author) either in
the _General Advertiser, Gazetteer_, or _Courant_. From these specimens,
and some I have since had the pleasure to see in MS. Mr. BLOOMFIELD
appears fully to possess the simple, yet elegant, pathetic, and animated
flow of Composition, the sweetness of Diction, Thought, and Numbers, which
the SONG or BALLAD in their best character require.
I now quote a little Fragment in _blank verse_ from the same Letter: with
a slight correction in a place or two where the distribution or mechanism
of the lines was not exact.
SUBJECT. _An Harvest Scene: describing Gleaners return'd from the Field_.
--Welcome the Cot's
Warm walls!... thrice welcome Rest, by toil endear'd;
Each hard bed softening, healing every care.
Sleep on, ye gentle souls ...
Unapprehensive of the midnight thief!
Or if bereft of all with pain acquir'd,
Your fall, with theirs compar'd who sink from affluence,
With hands unus'd to toil, and minds unus'd
To bend, how little felt! how soon repair'd!
The ear of the Author seems as sweetly attun'd to verse without as with
Rhime: though his less practice has given him proportionally less
exactness.
It reminds one of the simple, tender, and flowing melody of the blank
verse of ROWE: or of some of the affecting passages in the _Paradise
Regain'd_ of MILTON.
Sweetness, pastoral Content, the innocent and benevolent heart "_with a
little pleas'd,_" breathe indeed through the Poems, and in the manners and
conversation, of the Author of THE FARMER'S BOY.
When the _Spirit_ of CHRISTIANITY declares "_blessed are the meek,_" every
heart which considers what meekness is, feels the truth of that
blessedness. It may smooth the way, and prevent impediments, which a
different temper raises to temporal felicity: it certainly assures that
Heaven which is _within_: and is a pledge and anticipation of the Heaven
hereafter.
It is pleasing to think on a remark of Mr. GEO. BLOOMFIELD concerning his
Brother when he first went to LONDON. "I have him in my mind's eye a
little Boy; not bigger than Boys generally are at twelve years old. When I
met him and his Mother at the Inn, [Footnote: In Bishopsgate-street.] he
strutted before us, dress'd just as he came from keeping Sheep, Hogs,
&c.... his shoes fill'd full of stumps in the heels. He looking about him,
slip'd up ... his nails were unus'd to a flat pavement. I remember viewing
him as he scamper'd up ... how small he was. Little thought, that little
fatherless Boy would be one day known and esteem'd by the most learned,
the most respected, the wisest and the best men of the Kingdom."
The brotherly overflowing of the heart in this passage I felt when I read
the Letter (dated 27 _March_ last), and cannot deny to others the pleasure
of feeling it.
And those who have shewn themselves the FRIENDS of the FARMER'S BOY must
excuse me if I mention some of them whose liberal and zealous attention
had excited those feelings in the heart of his Brother, and have fill'd
his with sentiments of thankfulness. The Duke of GRAFTON has every way
shewn himself attentive to the Genius, the Worth, of Mr. BLOOMFIELD. He
has essentially added to his comforts. His R. H. the Duke of YORK, by
Capt. BUNBURY, has made a liberal present, as an acknowledgment of the
pleasure receiv'd from the perusal of his excellent Poem. This attention
of his R. H. liberal and amiable in itself, has been the cause of like
liberality in others. It suggested to Dr. DRAKE, and other Gentlemen at
HADLEIGH, the idea of a local subscription of a Guinea each in that Town
and Neighbourhood. This has been carried into effect by himself and eleven
other Friends, who may be said in this instance to sustain, in a manner,
the honorable function of a kind of LITERARY JURY. The Names who have
given this testimony of their high esteem to the character of Mr.
BLOOMFIELD, and of the pleasure they have received from the perusal of his
Poem, are:
THOMAS SHERLOCKE GOOCH, Esq.
Major POCKLINGTON,
Dr. GIBBONS, M.D.
The Rev. J. PLAMPIN,
The Rev. T. KNOTTESFORD,
The Rev. R. PRITCHETT,
ABRAHAM REEVE, Esq.
GEO. ARCHER, Esq.
J. MILLS, Esq.
Mrs. TRAIL,
Mrs. LEAKE,
NATHAN DRAKE, M.D.
I have transcribed the names in the order in which they were transmitted
to me. With a large proportion of those who have thus stood forth the
Friends of Genius and Worth I have the pleasure of being acquainted. It
gives me much satisfaction to mention this notice: welcome to the Author
as a Gift; and far more so as a testimony of good opinion unexpectedly
offer'd. Several instances of similar attention to the disproportion
between the circumstances of the Author and the excellence of his poetical
Talents and moral Qualities have spontaneously manifested themselves from
different quarters. Those, as the separate act of individuals, I have not
particularized otherwise than by this general acknowledgment: though many
such have been mention'd to me by the Author. This, as a collective act, I
hope I may be allow'd the gratification of thus noticing.
Sir CHARLES BUNBURY has warmly expressed his approbation of the Poem; as
not only excellent for a Farmer's Boy, but such as would do honour to any
person, whatever his education: and he also has much contributed to make
it early and advantageously known. Mr. GREEN of IPSWICH has spoken of it
as a charming composition: reflecting, in a very natural and vivid manner,
the series of interesting images which touch'd the sensibility of a young,
an artless, but a most intelligent observer of Nature; plac'd in a
situation highly favourable to observation, though in fact not often
productive of it. That Originality in such a subject is invaluable: and
that this Poem appears to him (I know few men so qualified to judge on
such a point) throughout original. And literary characters who have earnt
to themselves much of true Praise by their own Productions, Mr. DYER and
Dr. DRAKE of HADLEIGH, have given full and appropriate encomium to the
excellence both in Plan and Execution, of this admirable RURAL PORM. My
Friend Mr. BLACK of _Woodbridge_, has notic'd it in a very pleasing and
characteristic Letter address'd to me in verse. I believe I shall not be
just to the FARMER's BOY if I omit to notice that the Taste and Genius of
Mrs. OPIE, born to do honour to every department of the Fine Arts, have
given her an high sentiment of its merits. And a LADY at BURY, whom I wish
I were permitted to name, has most truly characteriz'd it by remarking,
that "the descriptions of Country scenes, occupations, customs, and
manners, are as natural as possible: and that the justness, virtue, and
tenderness of the sentiments are to be equally admired." Were I to name
all the Friends and Admirers of the POEM and of the simple and amiable
manners and character of the AUTHOR, I should name, I believe, nearly
every person in this Island whom I respect, esteem, and admire.
It would be highly gratifying to me could I now transcribe those
testimonies to which I have generally referr'd:... but I abstain here
from this: and the rather, as I believe Mr. DYER will probably soon
express, in a Publication of his own, his sentiments on this Work; and as
Dr. DRAKE, I know, has been so struck with it as to intend to appropriate
to an investigation of its peculiar merit the concluding part of an
enlarg'd Edition of his LITERARY HOURS.[Footnote: This has been since
excellently perform'd by him. See the APPENDIX.]
The mention already made of the FARMER'S BOY in the NEW LONDON REVIEW and
in the MONTHLY MIRROR I have seen with pleasure. I rejoice in that Fame
which is just to living Merit, and waits not for the Tomb to present the
tardy and then unvalued Wreath: I rejoice in the sense express'd not only
of his Genius, but of his pure, benevolent, amiable Virtue, his
affectionate Veneration to the DEITY, and his good Will to all....
Obscurity and Adversity have not broken; Fame and Prosperity, I am
persuaded, will not corrupt him.
I cannot deny myself the satisfaction of mentioning that, after an absence
of twelve years, the Author of the Farmer's Boy has revisited his native
Plains. That he has seen his Mother in health and spirits: seen her with a
joy to both which even his own most expressive and pathetic language would
imperfectly describe.... Seen other near, affectionate, and belov'd
Relatives: review'd, with the feelings of a truly poetic and benevolent
Mind, the haunts of his youth; the Woods and Vales, the Cot, the Field and
the Tree, which even recollected after so many years and at a distance,
had awaken'd in such a manner the energies of his Heart and Intellect, and
had inspir'd strains which will never cease to be repeated with pleasure
and admiration. That he has been receiv'd at BURY with an emulous desire
of his society; and certainly with the greatest reason. I rejoice that I
at length have been made personally acquainted with him: that I have seen
him here, and at his Mother's, and at Bury: that I have discours'd with
him; that we have made our rural walks together: that I have heard him
read some of those Poems which are not yet printed; but which when they
shall be so, will support fully and extend the Fame he has acquir'd.
Though I have spent, occasionally, much of my life among persons worthy of
Admiration and of Esteem, I can recollect few days so interesting and so
valuable to me as these.
C.L.
TROSTON, 25 May, 1800.
What I have said in prose, p. ix of this Preface, is charmingly expressed
in the language of the Muses by Mr. COLLIER, in his Miscellaneous Poems
lately publish'd.
O where on earth can he a pleasure find
Whose heart th' extatic sweets of Love has known,
When in the jarring chaos of his mind
The gentle God no longer holds his throne!
ON REVISITING THE PLACE OF MY NATIVITY.
Though Winter's frowns had damp'd the beaming eye,
Through Twelve successive Summers heav'd the sigh,
The unaccomplish'd wish was still the same;
Till May in new and sudden glories came!
My heart was rous'd; and Fancy on the wing,
Thus heard the language of enchanting Spring:--
'Come to thy native groves and fruitful fields!
Thou know'st the fragrance that the wild-flow'r yields;
Inhale the Breeze that bends the purple bud,
And plays along the margin of the Wood.
I've cloth'd them all; the very Woods where thou
In infancy learn'd'st praise from every bough.
Would'st thou behold again the vernal day?
My reign is short;--this instant come away:
Ere Philomel shall silent meet the morn;
She hails the green, but not the rip'ning corn.
Come, ere the pastures lose their yellow flow'rs:
Come now; with heart as jocund as the hours.'
Who could resist the call?--that, Giles had done,
Nor heard the Birds, nor seen the rising Sun;
Had not Benevolence, with cheering ray,
And Greatness stoop'd, indulgent to display
Praise which does surely not to Giles belong,
But to the objects that inspir'd his song.
Immediate pleasure from those praises flow'd:
Remoter bliss within his bosom glow'd!
Now tasted all:--for I have heard and seen
The long-remember'd voice, the church, the green;--
And oft by Friendship's gentle hand been led
Where many an hospitable board was spread.
These would I name,... but each, and all can feel
What the full heart would willingly reveal:
Nor needs be told; that at each season's birth,
Still the enamell'd, or the scorching Earth
Gave, as each morn or weary night would come,
Ideal sweetness to my distant home:--
Ideal now no more;--for, to my view
Spring's promise rose, how admirably true!!
The early chorus of the cheerful Grove,
Gave point to Gratitude; and fire to Love.
O Memory! shield me from the World's poor strife;
And give those scenes thine everlasting life!
ROB. BLOOMFIELD.
LONDON, MAY 30, 1800.
SPRING.
ARGUMENT.
_Invocation, &c. Seed time. Harrowing. Morning walks. Milking. The Dairy.
Suffolk Cheese. Spring coming forth. Sheep fond of changing. Lambs at
play. The Butcher, &c._
[Illustration]
SPRING
I.
O come, blest Spirit! whatsoe'er thou art,
Thou rushing warmth that hover'st round my heart,
Sweet inmate, hail! thou source of sterling joy,
That poverty itself cannot destroy,
Be thou my Muse; and faithful still to me,
Retrace the paths of wild obscurity.
No deeds of arms my humble lines rehearse,
No _Alpine_ wonders thunder through my verse,
The roaring cataract, the snow-topt hill,
Inspiring awe, till breath itself stands still:
Nature's sublimer scenes ne'er charm'd mine eyes,
Nor Science led me through the boundless skies;
From meaner objects far my raptures flow:
O point these raptures! bid my bosom glow!
And lead my soul to ecstasies of praise
For all the blessings of my infant days!
Bear me through regions where gay Fancy dwells;
But mould to Truth's fair form what Memory tells.
Live, trifling incidents, and grace my song,
That to the humblest menial belong:
To him whose drudgery unheeded goes,
His joys unreckon'd as his cares or woes;
Though joys and cares in every path are sown,
And youthful minds have feelings of their own,
Quick springing sorrows, transient as the dew,
Delights from trifles, trifles ever, new.
'Twas thus with GILES: meek, fatherless, and poor:
Labour his portion, but he felt no more;
No stripes, no tyranny his steps pursu'd;
His life was constant, cheerful, servitude:
Strange to the world, he wore a bashful look,
The fields his study, Nature was his book;
And, as revolving SEASONS chang'd the scene
From heat to cold, tempestuous to serene,
Though every change still varied his employ,
Yet each new duty brought its share of joy.
Where noble GRAFTON spreads his rich domains,
Round _Euston's_ water'd vale, and sloping plains,
Where woods and groves in solemn grandeur rise,
Where the kite brooding unmolested flies;
The woodcock and the painted pheasant race,
And sculking foxes, destin'd for the chace;
There Giles, untaught and unrepining, stray'd
Thro' every copse, and grove, and winding glade;
There his first thoughts to Nature's charms inclin'd,
That stamps devotion on th' inquiring mind.
A little farm his generous Master till'd,
Who with peculiar grace his station fill'd;
By deeds of hospitality endear'd,
Serv'd from affection, for his worth rever'd;
A happy offspring blest his plenteous board,
His fields were fruitful, and his harm well stor'd,
And fourscore ewes he fed, a sturdy team,
And lowing kine that grazed beside the stream:
Unceasing industry he kept in view;
And never lack'd a job for Giles to do.
FLED now the sullen murmurs of the North,
The splendid raiment of the SPRING peeps forth;
Her universal green, and the clear sky,
Delight still more and more the gazing eye.
Wide o'er the fields, in rising moisture strong,
Shoots up the simple flower, or creeps along
The mellow'd soil; imbibing fairer hues
Or sweets from frequent showers and evening dews;
That summon from its shed the slumb'ring ploughs,
While health impregnates every breeze that blows.
No wheels support the diving pointed share;
No groaning ox is doom'd to labour there;
No helpmates teach the docile steed his road;
(Alike unknown the plow-boy and the goad;)
But, unassisted through each toilsome day,
With smiling brow the plowman cleaves his way,
Draws his fresh parallels, and wid'ning still,
Treads slow the heavy dale, or climbs the hill:
Strong on the wing his busy followers play,
Where writhing earth-worms meet th' unwelcome day;
Till all is chang'd, and hill and level down
Assume a livery of sober brown:
Again disturb'd, when Giles with wearying strides
From ridge to ridge the ponderous harrow guides;
His heels deep sinking every step he goes,
Till dirt usurp the empire of his shoes.
Welcome green headland! firm beneath his feet;
Welcome the friendly bank's refreshing seat;
There, warm with toil, his panting horses browse
Their shelt'ring canopy of pendent boughs;
Till rest, delicious, chase each transient pain,
And new-born vigour swell in every vein.
Hour after hour, and day to day succeeds;
Till every clod and deep-drawn furrow spreads
To crumbling mould; a level surface clear,
And strew'd with corn to crown the rising year;
And o'er the whole Giles once transverse again,
In earth's moist bosom buries up the grain.
The work is done; no more to man is given;
The grateful farmer trusts the rest to Heaven.
Yet oft with anxious heart he looks around,
And marks the first green blade that breaks the ground;
[Illustration: a gate]
In fancy sees his trembling oats uprun,
His tufted barley yellow with the sun;
Sees clouds propitious shed their timely store,
And all his harvest gather'd round his door.
But still unsafe the big swoln grain below,
A fav'rite morsel with the Rook and Crow;
From field to field the flock increasing goes;
To level crops most formidable foes:
Their danger well the wary plunderers know,
And place a watch on some conspicuous bough;
Yet oft the sculking gunner by surprise
Will scatter death amongst them as they rise.
These, hung in triumph round the spacious field,
At best will but a short-lived terror yield:
Nor guards of property; (not penal law,
But harmless riflemen of rags and straw);
Familiariz'd to these, they boldly rove,
Nor heed such centinels that never move.
Let then your birds lie prostrate on the earth,
In dying posture, and with wings stretch'd forth;
Shift them at eve or morn from place to place,
And death shall terrify the pilfering race;
In the mid air, while circling round and round,
They call their lifeless comrades from the ground;
With quick'ning wing, and notes of loud alarm,
Warn the whole flock to shun the' impending harm.
This task had _Giles_, in fields remote from home:
Oft has he wish'd the rosy morn to come.
Yet never fam'd was he nor foremost found
To break the seal of sleep; his sleep was sound:
But when at day-break summon'd from his bed,
Light as the lark that carol'd o'er his head,
His sandy way deep-worn by hasty showers,
O'er-arch'd with oaks that form'd fantastic bow'rs,
Waving aloft their tow'ring branches proud,
In borrow'd tinges from the eastern cloud,
(Whence inspiration, pure as ever flow'd,
And genuine transport in his bosom glow'd)
His own shrill matin join'd the various notes
Of Nature's music, from a thousand throats:
The blackbird strove with emulation sweet,
And Echo answer'd from her close retreat;
The sporting white-throat on some twig's end borne,
Pour'd hymns to freedom and the rising morn;
Stopt in her song perchance the starting thrush
Shook a white shower from the black-thorn bush,
Where dew-drops thick as early blossoms hung,
And trembled as the minstrel sweetly sung.
Across his path, in either grove to hide,
The timid rabbit scouted by his side;
Or bold cock-pheasant stalk'd along the road,
Whose gold and purple tints alternate glow'd.
But groves no farther fenc'd the devious way;
A wide-extended heath before him lay,
Where on the grass the stagnant shower had run,
And shone a mirror to the rising sun,
(Thus doubly seen) lighting a distant wood,
Giving new life to each expanding bud;
Effacing quick the dewy foot-marks found,
Where prowling Reynard trod his nightly round;
To shun whose thefts 'twas Giles's evening care,
His feather'd victims to suspend in air,
High on the bough that nodded o'er his head,
And thus each morn to strew the field with dead.
His simple errand done, he homeward hies;
Another instantly its place supplies.
The clatt'ring dairy-maid immers'd in steam,
Singing and scrubbing midst her milk and cream,
Bawls out, "_Go fetch the cows_:..." he hears no more;
For pigs, and ducks, and turkies, throng the door,
And sitting hens, for constant war prepar'd;
A concert strange to that which late he heard.
Straight to the meadow then he whistling goes;
With well-known halloo calls his lazy cows:
Down the rich pasture heedlessly they graze,
Or hear the summon with an idle gaze;
For well they know the cow-yard yields no more
Its tempting fragrance, nor its wint'ry store.
Reluctance marks their steps, sedate and slow;
The right of conquest all the law they know:
Subordinate they one by one succeed;
And one among them always takes the lead,
Is ever foremost, wheresoe'er they stray;
Allow'd precedence, undisputed sway;
With jealous pride her station is maintain'd,
For many a broil that post of honour gain'd.
At home, the yard affords a grateful scene;
For Spring makes e'en a miry cow-yard clean.
Thence from its chalky bed behold convey'd
The rich manure that drenching winter made,
Which pil'd near home, grows green with many a weed,
A promis'd nutriment for Autumn's seed.
Forth comes the Maid, and like the morning smiles;
The Mistress too, and follow'd close by Giles.
A friendly tripod forms their humble seat,
With pails bright scour'd, and delicately sweet.
Where shadowing elms obstruct the morning ray,
Begins their work, begins the simple lay;
The full-charg'd udder yields its willing streams,
While _Mary_ sings some lover's amorous dreams;
And crouching Giles beneath a neighbouring tree
Tugs o'er his pail, and chants with equal glee;
Whose hat with tatter'd brim, of nap so bare,
From the cow's side purloins a coat of hair,
A mottled ensign of his harmless trade,
An unambitious, peaceable cockade.
As unambitious too that cheerful aid
The mistress yields beside her rosy maid;
[Illustration: maid with a cow]
With joy she views her plenteous reeking store,
And bears a brimmer to the dairy door;
Her cows dismiss'd, the luscious mead to roam,
Till ere again recall them loaded home.
And now the DAIRY claims her choicest care,
And half her household find employment there:
Slow rolls the churn, its load of clogging cream
At once foregoes its quality and name;
From knotty particles first floating wide
Congealing butter's dash'd from side to side;
Streams of new milk thro' flowing coolers stray,
And snow-white curd abounds, and wholesome whey.
Due north th' unglazed windows, cold and clear,
For warming sunbeams are unwelcome here.
Brisk goes the work beneath each busy hand,
And _Giles_ must trudge, whoever gives command;
A _Gibeonite_, that serves them all by turns:
He drains the pump, from him the faggot burns;
From him the noisy hogs demand their food;
While at his heels run many a chirping brood,
Or down his path in expectation stand,
With equal claims upon his strewing hand.
Thus wastes the morn, till each with pleasure sees
The bustle o'er, and press'd the new-made cheese.
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