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And soon they saw the crowded strand

Wear dimly from their view;

And soon they saw the distant land,

A line of hazy blue.

The white-sail'd ship with favouring breeze,
In all her gallant pride,
Moved like the mistress of the seas,
That rippled far and wide.

Sometimes with steady course she went,

O'er wave and surge careering;
Sometimes with sidelong mast she bent,
Her wings the sea-foam sheering.
Sometimes, with poles and rigging bare,
She scudded before the blast;
But safely by the Syrian shore,

Her anchor dropt at last.

What martial honours Maurice won,
Join'd with the brave and great,
From the fierce, faithless Saracen,
I may not here relate.

With boldest band on bridge or moat,

With champion on the plain,

I' th' breach with clustering foes he fought, Choked up with grisly slain.

Most valiant by the valiant styled,

Their praise his deeds proclaim'd,
And oft his liegemen proudly smiled
To hear their leader named.

But fate will quell the hero's strength,
And dim the loftiest brow;
And this, our noble chief, at length
Was in the dust laid low.

He lay the heaps of dead beneath,

As sunk life's flickering flame,
And thought it was the trace of death,

That o'er his senses came.

And when again day's blessed light

Did on his vision fall,

There stood by his side,-a wondrous sight!

The ancient seneschal.

He strove, but could not utter word,
His misty senses fled;
Again he woke, and Moorham's lord
Was bending o'er his bed.

A third time sank he, as if dead,
And then, his eyelids raising,
He saw a chief with turban'd head,
Intently on him gazing.

"The prophet's zealous servant I;
His battles I've fought and won;
Christians I scorn, their creeds deny,

But honour Mary's Son.

" And I have wedded an English dame,
And set her parent free;

And none, who wears an English name,
Shall e'er be thrall'd by me.

"For her dear sake I can endure
All wrong, all hatred smother;
Whate'er I feel, thou art secure,

As though thou wert my brother."

"And thou hast wedded an English dame!" Sir Maurice said no more,

For o'er his heart soft weakness came,

He sigh'd and wept full sore.

And many a dreary day and night

With the Moslem chief stay'd he,
But ne'er could catch, to bless his sight,
One glimpse of the fair lady.
Oft gazed he on her lattice high

As he paced the court below,
And turn'd his listening ear to try
If word or accent low

Might haply reach him there; and oft
Traversed the garden green,
Wotting her footsteps small and soft
Might on the turf be seen.

And oft to Moorham's lord he gave
His listening ear, who told,
How he became a wretched slave
Within that Syrian hold;

What time from liegemen parted far,
Upon the battle field,

By stern and adverse fate of war
He was obliged to yield:

And how his daughter did by stealth
So boldly cross the sea

With secret store of gather'd wealth,

To set her father free:

And how into the foeman's hands
She and her people fell;
And how (herself in captive bands)
She sought him in his cell;

And but a captive boy appear'd,

Till grief her sex betray'd,
And the fierce Saracen, so fear'd!
Spoke gently to the maid:

How for her plighted hand sued he,
And solemn promise gave,
Her noble father should be free

With every Christian slave;

(For many there, in bondage kept,
Felt the stern rule of vice ;)
How, long she ponder'd, sorely wept,
Then paid the fearful price.-

A tale which made his bosom thrill,
His faded eyes to weep;
He, waking, thought upon it still,
And saw it in his sleep.

But harness rings, and the trumpet's bray
Again to battle calls;

And Christian powers, in grand array,

Are near those Moslem walls.

Sir Maurice heard; untoward fate!
Sad to be thought upon :
But the castle's lord unlock'd its gate,
And bade his guest be gone.

"Fight thou for faith by thee adored
By thee so well maintain'd!

But never may this trusty sword

With blood of thine be stain'd !”—

L

Sir Maurice took him by the hand,
"God bless thee, too,"-he cried;
Then to the nearest Christian band
With mingled feelings hied.

The battle join'd, with dauntless pride
'Gainst foemen, foemen stood;
And soon the fatal field was dyed

With many a brave man's blood.

At length gave way the Moslem force;
Their valiant chief was slain;

Maurice protected his lifeless corse,
And bore it from the plain.

There's mourning in the Moslem halls,
A dull and dismal sound:

The lady left its 'leaguer'd walls,
And safe protection found.

When months were past, the widow'd dame Look'd calm and cheerfully;

Then Maurice to her presence came,

And bent him on his knee.

What words of penitence or suit

He utter'd, pass we by;

The lady wept, awhile was mute,
Then gave this firm reply:

"That thou didst doubt my maiden pride
(A thought that rose and vanish'd
So fleetingly) I will not chide;

'Tis from remembrance banish'd.

"But thy fair fame, earn'd by thy sword, Still spotless shall it be:

I was the bride of a Moslem lord,

And will never be bride to thee."

So firm, though gentle, was her look,
Hope i' the instant fled:

A solemn, dear farewell he took,
And from her presence sped.
And she a plighted nun became,
God serving day and night;
And he of blest Jerusalem

A brave and zealous knight.

But that their lot was one of wo,
Wot ye, because of this
Their seperate single state? if so,
In sooth ye judge amiss.

She tends the helpless stranger's bed,
For alms her wealth is stored;
On her meek worth God's grace is shed,
Man's grateful blessings pour'd.
He still in warlike mail doth stalk,
In arms his prowess prove;
And oft of siege or battle talk,
And sometimes of his love.

She was the fairest of the fair,

The gentlest of the kind;

Search ye the wide world everywhere,

Her like ye shall not find.

She was the fairest, is the best,

Too good for a monarch's bride';

I would not give her in her nun's coif dress'd For all her sex beside.

ADDRESS TO A STEAM-VESSEL.
FREIGHTED with passengers of every sort,
A motley throng, thou leavest the busy port.
Thy long and ample deck, where scatter'd lie
Baskets, and cloaks, and shawls of scarlet dye;
Where dogs and children through the crowd are
straying,

And, on his bench apart, the fiddler playing,
While matron dames to tressell'd seats repair,-
Seems, on the gleamy waves a floating fair.
Its dark form on the sky's pale azure cast,
Towers from this clustering group thy pillar'd mast.
The dense smoke issuing from its narrow vent
Is to the air in curly volumes sent,

Which, coiling and uncoiling on the wind,
Trails like a writhing serpent far behind.
Beneath, as each merged wheel its motion plies,
On either side the white-churn'd waters rise,
And, newly parted from the noisy fray,
Track with light ridgy foam thy recent way,
Then far diverged, in many a welted line
Of lustre, on the distant surface shine.

Thou hold'st thy course in independent pride;
No leave ask'st thou of either wind or tide.
To whate'er point the breeze, inconstant, veer,
Still doth thy careless helmsman onward steer;
As if the stroke of some magician's wand
Had lent thee power the ocean to command.
What is this power which thus within thee lurks,
And, all unseen, like a mask'd giant works?
E'en that which gentle dames, at morning's tea,
From silver urn ascending, daily see
With tressy wreathings playing in the air,
Like the loosed ringlets of a lady's hair;
Or rising from th' enamell'd cup beneath,
With the soft fragrance of an infant's breath:
That which within the peasant's humble cot
Comes from th' uncover'd mouth of savoury pot,
As his kind mate prepares his noonday fare,
Which cur, and cat, and rosy urchins share:
That which, all silver'd with the moon's pale beam,
Precedes the mighty Geyser's upcast stream,
What time, with bellowing din exploded forth,
It decks the midnight of the frozen north,
Whilst travellers from their skin-spread couches

rise

To gaze upon the sight with wondering eyes.

Thou hast to those "in populous city pent," Glimpses of wild and beauteous nature lent; A bright remembrance ne'er to be destroy'd, Which proves to them a treasure, long enjoy'd, And for this scope to beings erst confined, I fain would hail thee with a grateful mind. They who had naught of verdant freshness seen But suburb orchards choked with colworts green, Now, seated at their ease may glide along, Lochlomond's fair and fairy isles among; Where bushy promontories fondly peep At their own beauty in the nether deep, O'er drooping birch and berried row'n that lave Their vagrant branches in the glassy wave; They, who on higher objects scarce have counted Than church's spire with gilded vane surmounted, May view, within their near, distinctive ken, The rocky sunmits of the lofty Ben;

Or see his purpled shoulders darkly lower
Through the din drapery of a summer shower.
Where, spread in broad and fair expanse, the
Clyde

Mingles his waters with the briny tide,
Along the lesser Cumra's rocky shore,
With moss and crusted lichens flecker'd o'er,
E'en he, who hath but warr'd with thieving cat,
Or from his cupboard chased a hungry rat,
The city cobbler,-scares the wild seamew
In its mid-flight with loud and shrill halloo;
Or valiantly with fearful threatening shakes
His lank and greasy head at Kittywakes,*
The eyes that hath no fairer outline seen
Than chimney'd walls with slated roofs between,
Which hard and harshly edge the smoky sky,
May Aron's softly-vision'd peaks descry,
Cooping with graceful state her steepy sides,
O'er which the cloud's broad shadow swiftly glides,
And interlacing slopes that gently merge
Into the pearly mist of ocean's verge.

Eyes which admired that work of sordid skill,
The storied structure of a cotton mill,
May, wondering, now behold the unnumber'd host
Of marshall'd pillars on fair Ireland's coast,
Phalanx on phalanx ranged with sidelong bend,
Or broken ranks that to the main descend,
Like Pharaoh's army, on the Red Sea shore,
Which deep and deeper went to rise no more.
Yet ne'ertheless, whate'er we owe to thee,
Rover at will on river, lake, and sea,
As profit's bait or pleasure's lure engage,
Thou offspring of that philosophic sage,
Watt, who in heraldry of science ranks,
With those to whom men owe high meed of thanks,
And shall not be forgotten, e'en when fame
Graves on her annals Davy's splendid name!-
Dearer to fancy, to the eye more fair,
Are the light skiffs, that to the breezy air
Unfurl their swelling sails of snowy hue
Upon the moving lap of ocean blue:

As the proud swan on summer lake displays,
With plumage brightening in the morning rays,
Her fair pavilion of erected wings,-

They change, and veer, and turn like living things.
So fairly rigg'd, with shrouding, sails and mast,
To brave with manly skill the winter blast
Of every clime,-in vessels rigg'd like these
Did great Columbus cross the western seas,
And to the stinted thoughts of man reveal'd
What yet the course of ages had conceal'd.
In such as these, on high adventure bent
Round the vast world Magellan's comrades went.
To such as these are hardy seamen found
As with the ties of kindred feeling bound,
Boasting, as cans of cheering grog they sip,
The varied fortunes of "our gallant ship."
The offspring these of bold sagacious man
Ere yet the reign of letter'd lore began.

In very truth, compared to these thou art
A daily labourer, a mechanic swart,
In working weeds array'd of homely gray,
Opposed to gentle nymph or lady gay,

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GIFTED of Heaven! who hast, in days gone by,
Moved every heart, delighted every eye,
While age and youth, of high and low degree,
In sympathy were join'd, beholding thee,
As in the drama's ever changing scene
Thou heldst thy splendid state, our tragic queen!
No barriers there thy fair domain confined,
Thy sovereign sway was o'er the human mind;
And, in the triumph of that witching hour,
Thy lofty bearing well became thy power.

Th' impassion'd changes of thy beauteous face,
Thy stately form and high imperial grace;
Thine arms impetuous tost, thy robe's wide flow,
And the dark tempest gather'd on thy brow,
What time thy flashing eye and lip of scorn
Down to the dust thy mimic foes have borne ;
Remorseful musings, sunk to deep dejection,
The fix'd and yearning looks of strong affection;
The action'd turmoil of a bosom rending,
When pity, love, and honour are contending;-
Who have beheld all this, right well I ween!
A lovely, grand, and wondrous sight have seen.
Thy varied accents, rapid, fitful, slow,
Loud rage, and fear's snatch'd whisper, quick and
low,

The burst of stifled love, the wail of grief,
And tones of high command, full, solemn, brief;
The change of voice and emphasis that threw
Light on obscurity, and brought to view
Distinctions nice, when grave or comic mood,
Or mingled humours, terse and new, elude
Common perception, as earth's smallest things
To size and form the vesting hoarfrost brings,
Which seem'd as if some secret voice, to clear
The ravell'd meaning, whisper'd in thine ear,
And thou had'st even with him communion kept,
Who hath so long in Stratford's chancel slept,
Whose lines, where Nature's brightest traces shine,
Alone were worthy deem'd of powers like thine;
They, who have heard all this, have proved full
well

Of soul-exciting sound the mightiest spell.

But though time's lengthen'd shadows o'er thee

glide,

And pomp of regal state is cast aside,
Think not the glory of thy course is spent ;
There's moonlight radiance to thy evening lent,
Which from the mental world can never fade,
Till all who've seen thee in the grave are laid.
Thy graceful form still moves in nightly dreams,
And what thou wert to the wrapt sleeper seems:

*The common or vulgar name of a water-bird frequent- While feverish fancy oft doth fondly trace ing that coast.

Within her curtain'd couch thy wondrous face.

Yea; and to many a wight, bereft and lone,
In musing hours, though all to thee unknown,
Soothing his earthly course of good and ill,
With all thy potent charm thou actest still.
And now in crowded room or rich saloon,
Thy stately presence recognised, how soon
The glance of many an eye is on thee cast,
In grateful memory of pleasures past!
Pleased to behold thee with becoming grace
Take, as befits thee well, an honour'd place

Yet, ne'ertheless, in strong array,
Prepare ye for a well-fought day.
Let banners wave, and trumpets sound,
And closing cohorts darken round,
And the fierce onset raise its mingled roar,
New sound on England's shore !

Freemen, children of the free,
Are brave alike on land or sea;
And every rood of British ground,
On which a hostile glave is found,

(Where, blest by many a heart, long mayst thou Proves under their firm tread and vigorous stroke,

stand)

Amongst the virtuous matrons of the land.

A deck of royal oak.

A VOLUNTEER SONG.

YE, who Britain's soldiers be,
Freemen, children of the free,
Who freely come at danger's call
From shop and palace, cot and hall,

And brace ye bravely up in warlike geer
For all that ye hold dear!

Blest in your hands be sword and spear!
There is no banded Briton here

On whom some fond mate hath not smiled,
Or hung in love some lisping child;
Or aged parent, grasping his last stay
With locks of honour'd gray.

Such men behold with steady pride
The threaten'd tempest gathering wide,
And list, with onward forms inclined,
To sound of foemen on the wind,

And bravely act, mid the wild battle's roar,
In scenes untried before.

Let veterans boast, as well they may,
Nerves steel'd in many a bloody day;
The generous heart, who takes his stand
Upon his free and native land,

Doth with the first sound of the hostile drum
A fearless man become.

Come then, ye hosts that madly pour
From wave-toss'd floats upon our shore !
If fell or gentle, false or true,
Let those inquire who wish to sue:
Nor fiend nor hero from a foreign strand
Shall lord it in our land.

Come then, ye hosts that madly pour
From wave-toss'd floats upon our shore!
An adverse wind or breezeless main,
Lock'd in their ports our tars detain,
To waste their wistful spirits, vainly keen,
Else here ye had not been.

TO A CHILD.

WHOSE imp art thou, with dimpled cheek,
And curly pate and merry eye,

And arm and shoulders round and sleek,
And soft and fair? thou urchin sly!

What boots it who, with sweet caresses,

First call'd thee his, or squire or hind ?—
For thou in every wight that passes,
Dost now a friendly playmate find.

Thy downcast glances, grave, but cunning,
As fringed eyelids rise and fall,

Thy shyness, swiftly from me running,-
'Tis infantine coquetry all!

But far afield thou hast not flown,

With mocks and threats half lisp'd, half spoken,

I feel thee pulling at my gown,

Of right goodwill thy simple token.

And thou must laugh and wrestle too,
A mimic warfare with me waging,
To make, as wily lovers do,

Thy after kindness more engaging.

The wilding rose, sweet as thyself,

And new-cropt daisies are thy treasure: I'd gladly part with worldly pelf,

To taste again thy youthful pleasure.

But yet for all thy merry look,

Thy frisks and wiles, the time is coming, When thou shalt sit in cheerless nook,

The weary spell or horn-book thumbing.

Well; let it be! through weal and wo,
Thou know'st not now thy future range;
Life is a motley, shifting show,

And thou a thing of hope and change.

* It was then frequently said, that our seamen excelled our soldiers,

ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.

ROBERT BLOOMFIELD, the son of a tailor at Honington, in Suffolk, was born on the 3d of December, 1766. His mother, who was the village school-mistress, gave him the only education he ever received, and placed him first, with a farmer of Sapiston, as his assistant, and afterward with George, the brother of our poet, who was a shoemaker in London. His principal occupation was to wait upon the journeymen, in fetching their dinners, &c.; and, in his intervals of leisure, he read the newspaper, and, with the help of a dictionary, was soon able to comprehend and admire the speeches of Burke, Fox, and other statesmen of the day. His next step toward improvement was in his attendance at a dissenting meeting-house, where, he says, he soon learned to accent "hard words," besides which, he also visited a debating society, went sometimes to the theatre, and read the History of England, the British Traveller, and a book of geography. A perusal of some poetry in the London Magazine, led to his earliest attempts in verse, which he sent to a newspaper, under the title of the Milk-maid, or the First of May, and the Sailor's Return. Indeed, says his biographer, in the Annual Obituary, he had so generally and diligently improved himself, that, although only sixteen or seventeen years of age, his brother George and his fellow workmen began to be instructed by his conversation.

In 1784, anxious to avoid a part in some disputes which had arisen between the journeymen and master shoemakers, by whom himself and his brother were employed, Robert returned to his relation at Sapiston, and, for two months, worked at farming. At the expiration of that time he was put apprentice to Mr. Dudbridge, a ladies' shoemaker, and soon became expert at his trade. In 1790, he married the daughter of a boat-builder, and after some years of conjugal poverty, hired a room up one pair of stairs, at No. 14 Bell Alley, Coleman Street. The master of the house, it is said, giving him leave to work in the light garret, two pair of stairs higher, he not only there carried on his occupation, but, in the midst of six or seven other workmen, actually completed his Farmer's Boy: the parts of Autumn and Winter having been composed in his head before a line of them was committed to paper. When the manuscript was fit for publication, he offered it, but in vain, to various booksellers, and to the editor of the Monthly Magazine, who, in his number for September, 1823, gives the following interesting account of the affair:-" He brought his poem to our office; and, though his unpolished appearance, his coarse handwriting, and wretched orthography, afforded no

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prospect that his production could be printed, yet he found attention by his repeated calls, and by the humility of his expectations, which were limited to half-a-dozen copies of the magazine. At length, on his name being announced when a literary gentleman, particularly conversant in rural economy, happened to be present, the poem was finally reexamined, and its general aspect excited the risibility of that gentleman in so pointed a manner, that Bloomfield was called into the room, and exhorted not to waste his time, and neglect his employment, in making vain attempts, and particularly in treading on the ground which Thomson had sanctified. His earnestness and confidence, however, led the editor to advise him to consult his countryman, Mr. Capel Lofft, of Trooton, to whom he gave him a letter of introduction. On his departure, the gentleman present warmly complimented the editor on the sound advice which he had given the poor fellow ;' and it was mutually conceived that an industrious man was thereby likely to be saved from a ruinous infatuation."

The poem at length reached the hands of Mr. Capel Lofft, who sent it, with the strongest recommendations, to Mr. Hill, the proprietor of the Monthly Mirror, who negotiated the sale of the poem with the publishers, Messrs. Vernor and Hood. These gentlemen acted with great liberality towards Bloomfield, by voluntarily giving him £200 in addition to the £50 originally stipulated for, and by securing to him a moiety of the copyright of his poem, which, on its appearance, was received with a burst of wonder and applause from all quarters. The most eminent critics and literati of the day were profuse in their praise of both the author and his poem; and the most polished circles of society were smitten with the charms of rural life, as depicted by the Farmer's Boy. He also received some substantial proofs of the estimation in which he was held, by presents from the Duke of York and other persons of distinction; and the Duke of Grafton, after having had him down to Whittlebury Forest, of which his grace was ranger, settled upon him a gratuity of a shilling a-day, and subsequently appointed him under-sealer in the Seal office. Subscriptions were also entered into for his benefit at various places; in addition to which, he derived considerable emolument from the sale of his work, of which, in a short space of time, near forty thousand copies were sold.

His good fortune, which, he said, appeared to him as a dream, enabled him to remove to a comfortable and commodious habitation in the City Road, where, having given up his situation at the Seal office, in consequence of ill health, he worked at 2L2 401

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