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Verses on the Death of Bloomfield, the Suffolk Poet

Published online by Cambridge University Press:  20 January 2022

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Summary

Thou shouldst not to the grave descend

Unmourn’d, unhonour’d, or unsung;—

Could harp of mine record thy end,

For thee that rude harp should be strung,—

And plaintive sounds as ever rung

Should all its simple notes employ,

Lamenting unto old, and young,

The Bard who sang THE FARMER's BOY.

Could Eastern Anglia boast a lyre

Like that which gave thee modest fame,

How justly might its every wire

Thy minstrel honours loud proclaim:

And many a stream of humble name,

And village-green, and common wild—

Should witness tears that knew not shame,

By Nature won for Nature's child.

The merry HORKEY's passing cup

Should pause—when that sad note was heard;

The Widow turn her hour-glass up,

With tenderest feelings newly stirr’d;

And many a pity-waken’d word,

And sighs that speak when language fails,

Should prove thy simple strains preferr’d

To prouder Poet's lofty tales.

Circling the old oak table round,

Whose moral worth thy measure owns,

Heroes and heroines yet are found

Like ABNER AND THE WIDOW JONES;—

There GILBERT MELDRUM's sterner tones

In Virtue's cause are bold and free;

And e’en the patient suff’rer's moans,

In pain, and sorrow— plead for thee.

Nor thus beneath the straw roof ‘d cot,

Alone— should thoughts of thee pervade

Hearts which confess thee unforgot,

On heathy hill, in grassy glade;

In many a spot by thee array’d

With hues of thought, with fancy's gleam,

Thy memory lives!—in EUSTON's shade,

By BARNHAM WATER's shadeless stream!

And long may guileless hearts preserve

The memory of thy song, and thee:—

While Nature's healthful feelings nerve

The arm of labour toiling free;

While Childhood's innocence and glee

With green Old Age enjoyment share;—

RICHARDS and KATES shall tell of thee,

WALTERS and JANES thy name declare.

On themes like these, if yet there breath’d

A Doric Lay so sweet as thine,

Might artless flowers of verse be wreath’d

Around thy modest name to twine:—

And though nor lute nor lyre be mine

To bid thy minstrel honours live,

The praise my numbers can assign,

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Publisher: Anthem Press
Print publication year: 2020

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