The poem, then, appears to fill a place in our poetic
literature, or to fill a gap; at all events from the point of
view of those who, born and living in distant parts of the
earth, still dream of the Old Home. This perhaps accounts for
the fact, which I heard at Honington, that most of the
pilgrims to Bloomfield's birthplace are Americans.
Bloomfield followed his great example in dividing his poem
into the four seasons, and he begins, Thomson-like, with an
invitation to the Muse:--
O come, blest spirit, whatsoe'er thou art,
Thou kindling warmth that hov'rest round my heart.
But happily he does not attempt to imitate the lofty diction
of the Seasons or Windsor Forest, the noble poem from which, I
imagine, Thomson derived his sonorous style. He had a humble
mind and knew his limitations, and though he adopted the
artificial form of verse which prevailed down to his time he
was still able to be simple and natural.
"Spring" does not contain much of the best of his work, but
the opening is graceful and is not without a touch of pathos
in his apologetic description of himself, as Giles, the
farmer's boy.
Nature's sublimer scenes ne'er charmed my eyes
Nor Science led me . . .
From meaner objects far my raptures flow . . .
Quick-springing sorrows, transient as the dew,
Delight from trifles, trifles ever new.
'Twas thus with Giles; meek, fatherless, and poor,
Labour his portion .
Pages:
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282