For how often in those days I
used to ride out to where the flock of one to two thousand
sheep were scattered on the plain, to sit on my pony and watch
the glad romps of the little lambs with keenest delight! I
cannot but think that Bloomfield's fidelity to nature in such
pictures as these does or should count for something in
considering his work. He concludes:-
Adown the slope, then up the hillock climb,
Where every mole-hill is a bed of thyme,
Then panting stop; yet scarcely can refrain;
A bird, a leaf, will set them off again;
Or if a gale with strength unusual blow,
Scattering the wild-briar roses into snow,
Their little limbs increasing efforts try,
Like a torn rose the fair assemblage fly.
This image of the wind-scattered petals of the wild rose reminds
him bitterly of the destined end of these joyous young lives--his
white-fleeced little fellow-mortals. He sees the murdering
butcher coming in his cart to demand the firstlings of the flock;
he cannot suppress a cry of grief and indignation--he can only
strive to shut out the shocking image from his soul!
"Summer" opens with some reflections on the farmer's life in a
prosy Crabbe-like manner; and here it may be noted that as a
rule Bloomfield no sooner attempts to rise to a general view
than he grows flat; and in like manner he usually fails when
he attempts wide prospects and large effects.
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