Robert Bloomfield Poems

My untried muse shall no high tone assume,
Nor strut in arms - farewell, my cap and plume!
Brief be my verse, a task within my power;
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I rise, dear Mary, from the soundest rest,
A wandering, way-worn, musing, singing guest.
I claim the privilege of hill and plain;
Mine are the woods, and all that they contain;
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Where's the Blind Child, so admirably fair,
With guileless dimples, and with flaxen hair
That waves in ev'ry breeze? he's often seen
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I had folded my flock, and my heart was o'erflowing,
I loiter'd beside the small lake on the heath;
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Poor Ellen married Andrew Hall,
Who dwells beside the moor,
Where yonder rose-tree shades the wall,
And woodbines grace the door.
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Hail, MAY! lovely MAY! how replenish'd my pails!
The young Dawn overspreads the East streak'd with gold!
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A Tale.

Near the high road upon a winding stream
An honest Miller rose to Wealth and Fame:
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WHEN tender Rose-trees first receive
On half-expanded Leaves, the Shower;
Hope's gayest pictures we believe,
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Thy favourite Bird is soaring still:
My Lucy, haste thee o'er the dale;
The Stream's let loose, and from the Mill
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An Old _French Mariner_ am I,
Whom Time hath render'd poor and gray;
Hear, conquering _Britons_, ere I die,
What anguish prompts me thus to say.
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