ART. XIV. May-Day with the Muses. By Robert Bloomfield, "Author of the Farmer's Boy," "Rural Tales," &c. 12mo. 4s. Boards. Baldwin and Co. 1822.

WH WHILE in Italy we find poets and scholars assuming the character of shepherds, and emulously enrolling themselves among Gli Arcadi, in England our villagers and yeomen not unfrequently exchange the plough for the lyre, and the pruning-hook for the pen. Of the two metamorphoses, undoubtedly the latter is the most natural and rational; and it is an honorable proof of the extensive influence which our free institutions exert over our habits and feelings, that our literary history affords so many instances of eminent authors who have risen to such celebrity from the lowest situations, This is as it should be in the "Republic of Letters," where genius and talent are the only title to superior distinction. The English public have always recognized the claims of merit, however nameless and humble; and among those who have been raised from their obscurity by the public approbation and encouragement, no one has deserved his elevation more justly than Robert Bloomfield.

As the author of "The Farmer's Boy," this votary of the Muses has long been a favorite with those whose feelings are calm and healthy enough to be delighted with poetry, which borrows its only charm from the innocence and simplicity of rural occupations, and the exhibition of homely affections. In these quiet and unobtrusive descriptions, no writer has been happier than Bloomfield. Unlike Crabbe, who is always most successful when he is painting some scene of wretchedness or knavery, a young girl breaking her heart at the faithlessness of her lover, or a parish-apprentice cheating the overseers, Bloomfield delights to describe the virtues and happiness of rural life, and thus affords us most certainly a more pleasant and more satisfactory picture. We rejoice, therefore, to find him once more appearing before the public; giving a proof not only that he is not dead, but that he has not forgotten how to weave together his villagerhymes as pleasingly as heretofore. I have been reported,' says he in his preface, to be dead, but I can assure the reader that this like many other reports is not true. I have written these tales with anxiety, and in a wretched state of health; and if these formidable foes have not incapacitated me, but left me free to meet the public eye with any degree of credit, that degree of credit I am sure I shall gain.'

May-Day with the Muses is a little collection of poems ingeniously attached together, somewhat in the manner of

Hogg's

Hogg's "Queen's Wake." Sir Ambrose Higham, an aged
baronet of the true old English stamp, determines to hold a
spring-festival, and accordingly remits half a year's rent to all
his tenants who will bring a poetical equivalent to the feast.
"Why not," he cried, as from his couch he rose,
"To cheer my age, and sweeten my repose,
Why not be just and generous in time,

And bid my tenants pay their rents in rhyme ?
For one half year they shall :- a feast shall bring
A crowd of merry faces in the spring."

No doubt this was a very satisfactory arrangement to the tenants, many of whom appeared at Oakly Hall on the appointed day, ready prepared to pay all their arrears in verse. First, Philip, a farmer's son well known for song,' recites an excellent rustic ballad called The Drunken Father,' to the great edification of the rest of the jovial company. This ballad is in the author's best style: simple, forcible, and full of feeling. Then rose the Gamekeeper, in garb of shining plush of grassy green,' and recited The Forester,' in which are many good verses, but in several of them we observe a straining to reach a higher tone of feeling than is natural to the poet. The first four verses are very pleasing.

Born in a dark wood's lonely dell,

Where echoes roar'd, and tendrils curl'd
Round a low cot, like hermit's cell,
Old Salcey Forest was my world.
I felt no bonds, no shackles then,
For life in freedom was begun;
I gloried in th' exploits of men,
And learn'd to lift my father's gun.

O what a joy it gave my

heart!

Wild as a woodbine up I grew ;
Soon in his feats I bore a part,

And counted all the game he slew.
I learn'd the wiles, the shifts, the calls,
The language of each living thing;
I mark'd the hawk that darting falls,
Or station'd spreads the trembling wing.

I mark'd the owl that silent flits,

The hare that feeds at eventide,

The upright rabbit, when he sits

And mocks you, ere he deigns to hide.
I heard the fox bark through the night,
I saw the rooks depart at morn,
I saw the wild deer dancing light,

And heard the hunter's cheering horn.

· Mad

'Mad with delight, I roam'd around

From morn to eve throughout the year,
But still, midst all I sought or found,
My favourites were the spotted deer...
The elegant, the branching brow,

The doe's clean limbs and eyes of love;
The fawn as white as mountain-snow,

That glanced through fern and brier and grove.'

The shepherd now repeats a very fanciful dream, which is in fact an allegorical description of the French Revolution and the great political events that have followed it. We pass over The Soldier's Home,' and Rosamond's Song of Hope,' that we may arrive the sooner at the last tale in the volume, which is called Alfred and Jennet;' and from which we must give a rather copious extract. The story is supposed to be related by the father of Jennet, who had become a favorite at the house of a lady whose son had been born blind. In spite of the inequality of fortune, Alfred grows attached to her, and, according to the antient custom in such cases, they are of course married. The description of Jennet singing is beautiful.

Thus grown familiar, and at perfect ease,
What could be Jennet's duty but to please?
Yet hitherto she kept, scarce knowing why,
One powerful charm reserved, and still was shy.
When Alfred from his grand-piano drew
Those heavenly sounds that seem'd for ever new,
She sat as if to sing would be a crime,
And only gazed with joy, and nodded time."
Till one snug evening, I myself was there,
The whispering lad inquired, behind my chair,
"Bowman, can Jennet sing?" "At home," said I,
"She sings from morn till night, and seems to fly
From tune to tune, the sad, the wild, the merry,
And moulds her lip to suit them like a cherry;

She learn'd them here."-"O ho!" said he, "Oho!"
And rubb'd his hands, and stroked his forehead, so.
Then down he sat, sought out a tender strain,
Sung the first words, then struck the chords again;
"Come, Jennet, help me, you must know the song
Which I have sung, and you have heard so long.'
I mark'd the palpitation of her heart,
Yet she complied, and strove to take a part,
But faint and fluttering, swelling by degrees,
Ere self-composure gave that perfect ease,
The soul of song: then with triumphant glee,
Resting her idle work upon her knee,
Her little tongue soon fill'd the room around
With such a voluble and magic sound,

That,

That, 'spite of all her pains to persevere,
She stopp'd to sigh, and wipe a starting tear;
Then roused herself for faults to make amends,
While Alfred trembled to his fingers' ends.
But when this storm of feeling sunk to rest,
Jennet, resuming, sung her very best,
And on the ear, with many a dying fall,

She pour'd th' enchanting "Harp of Tara's Hall."
Still Alfred hid his raptures from her view,
Still touch'd the keys, those raptures to renew,
And led her on to that sweet past'ral air,
The Highland Laddie with the yellow hair.
She caught the sound, and with the utmost ease
Bade nature's music triumph, sure to please;
Such truth, such warmth, such tenderness express'd,
That my old heart was dancing in my breast.
Upsprung the youth, "O Jennet, where's your hand?
There's not another girl in all the land,

If she could bring me empires, bring me sight,
Could give me such unspeakable delight:

You little baggage! not to tell before

That you could sing; mind you go home no more." • Thus I have seen her from my own fire-side Attain the utmost summit of her pride;

For, from that singing hour, as time roll'd round,
At the great house my Jennet might be found,
And, while I watch'd her progress with delight,
She had a father's blessing every night,
And grew in knowledge at that moral school
Till I began to guess myself a fool.

Music! why she could play as well as he!
At least I thought so, but we'll let that be:
She read the poets, grave and light, by turns,
And talk'd of Cowper's "Task," and Robin Burns';
Nay, read without a book, as I

may say,

As much as some could with in half a day.

'Twas thus I found they pass'd their happy time, In all their walks, when nature in her

prime

Spread forth her scents and hues, and whisper'd love
And joy to every bird in every grove;

And though their colours could not meet his eye, . .
She pluck'd him flowers, then talk'd of poetry.

• Once on a sunbright morning, 'twas in June,
I felt my spirits and my hopes in tune,
And idly rambled forth, as if t' explore
The little valley just before my door;
Down by yon dark green oak I found a seat
Beneath the clustering thorns, a snug retreat
For poets, as I deem'd, who often prize

Such holes and corners far from human eyes;

'I mark'd

I mark'd young Alfred, led by Jennet, stray
Just to the spot, both chatting on their way:
They came behind me, I was still unseen;
He was the elder, Jennet was sixteen.

My heart misgave me, lest I should be deem'd
A prying listener, never much esteem'd,
But this fear soon subsided, and I said,
"I'll hear this blind lad and my little maid."
That instant down she pluck'd a woodbine wreath,
The loose leaves rattled on my head beneath;
This was for Alfred, which he seized with joy,
"O, thank you, Jennet," said the generous boy.
Much was their talk, which many a theme supplied,
As down they sat, for every blade was dried.
I would have skulk'd away, but dared not move,
"Besides," thought I, "they will not talk of love;"
But I was wrong, for Alfred, with a sigh,

A little tremulous, a little shy,

But, with the tenderest accents, ask'd his guide
A question which might touch both love and pride.
"This morning, Jennet, why did you delay,
And talk to that strange clown upon your way,
Our homespun gardener? how can you bear
His screech-owl tones upon your perfect ear?
I cannot like that man, yet know not why,
He's surely quite as old again as I;

He's ignorant, and cannot be your choice,
And ugly too, I'm certain, by his voice,

Besides, he call'd you pretty.' "Well, what then?
I cannot hide my face from all the men;
Alfred, indeed, indeed, you are deceived,
He never spoke a word that I believed;
Nay, can he think that I would leave a home
Full of enjoyment, present, and to come,
While your dear mother's favours daily prove
How sweet the bonds of gratitude and love?
No, while beneath her roof I shall remain,
I'll never vex you, never give you pain."
"Enough, my life," he cried, and up they sprung;
By Heaven, I almost wish'd that I was young;
It was a dainty sight to see them pass,
Light as the July fawns upon the grass,

Pure as the breath of Spring when forth it spreads,
Love in their hearts, and sunshine on their heads.'

The idea of Alfred judging of his rival by his voice is highly natural: but perhaps the poet may have borrowed from an anecdote which is related by Richardson of Milton, who, on hearing a lady sing, exclaimed, "Now will I swear that lady is handsome."

At length Sir Ambrose bids his friends good night:

An