Then hateful is the morning hour, The deep-toned winds, the moaning sea, The condor's hollow scream. SWEET Scented flower! who art wont to bloom And o'er the wintry desert drear To waft thy waste perfume! Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now, And as I twine the mournful wreath, I'll weave a melancholy song: And sweet the strain shall be and long, Come, funeral flower! who lov'st to dwell And we will sleep a pleasant sleep, So peaceful and so deep. And hark! the wind-god, as he flies, Sweet flower! that requiem wild is mine, The cold turf altar of the dead; My grave shall be in yon lone spot, A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed. *The Rosemary buds in January. It is the flower commonly put in the coffins of the dead. ODE TO DISAPPOINTMENT. COME, Disappointment, come! Come in thy meekest, saddest guise ; And round my brow resign'd, thy peaceful cypress twine. Though Fancy flies away Before thy hollow tread, Hears, with faint eye, the lingering knell, And though the tear By chance appear, Yet she can smile, and say, "My all was not laid here." Come, Disappointment, come! From vanity, And point to scenes of bliss that never, never die. What is this passing scene? A peevish April day! A little sun-a little rain, And then night sweeps along the plain, Man (soon discuss'd) Yields up his trust, And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust. O, what is beauty's power? It flourishes and dies; Will the cold earth its silence break, Her praise resounds no more when mantled in her pall. The most beloved on earth, Not long survives to-day; So music past is obsolete, And yet 't was sweet, 't was passing sweet, But now 't is gone away. In memory fade, When in forsaken tomb the form beloved is laid. Then since this world is vain, With anxious skill, When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing heart be still? Come, Disappointment, come! My race will run, I only bow, and say, "My God, thy will be done!" ROBERT BLOOMFIELD. BLOOMFIELD was the Farmer's Boy of his own poem at about the age of eleven, but soon afterwards became apprentice to a shoemaker in London. There, in a garret with five other workmen, and while at work upon his last, he composed the delightful description of his early rural occupations, and for want of leisure moments to write down regularly what he had mentally completed during the day, finished the whole of Winter and a part of Autumn, long before a line of it was committed to paper. The poem was introduced to public notice in the year 1800, through the refined taste and effectual kindness of Capel Lofft, Esq. and was soon read and applauded by all classes of people, while its author became equally the object of esteem. The narrative of his brother, together with his own description of his entrance to London, of his previous employments in the country, his habits of life while a shoemaker, the progress of his poem, its publication and the consequence to himself, making him "known to the literary and esteemed by the good," and causing a total change in his society and connexions, are full of interest. The Farmer's Boy is an extremely natural and beautiful rural poem. For minute, accurate, and interesting delineation of particular scenes and objects in country life, it is unrivalled. EMPLOYMENTS OF THE FARMER'S BOY IN SPRING. FLED now the sullen murmurs of the North, Or sweets from frequent showers and evening dews; Where writhing earth-worms meet th' unwelcome day; Again disturb'd, when Giles with wearying strides Yet oft with anxious heart he looks around, And marks the first green blade that breaks the ground; In fancy sees his trembling oats uprun, His tufted barley yellow with the sun; Sees clouds propitious shed their timely store, From field to field the flock increasing goes; Their danger well the wary plunderers know, Will scatter death amongst them as they rise. This task had Giles, in fields remote from home: Oft has he wished the rosy morn to come; Yet never fam'd was he nor foremost found To break the seal of sleep; his sleep was sound: But when at day-break summon'd from his bed, Light as the lark that carol'd o'er his head.His sandy way, deep-worn by hasty showers, O'er-arch'd with oaks that form'd fantastic bow'rs, Waving aloft their tow'ring branches proud, In borrow'd tinges from the eastern cloud, Gave inspiration, pure as ever flow'd, And genuine transport in his bosom glow'd. His own shrill matin join'd the various notes Of nature's music from a thousand throats: The blackbird strove with emulation sweet, And echo answered from her close retreat; The sporting white-throat on some twig's end borne, Pour'd hymns to Freedom and the rising morn; Stopt in her song perchance, the starting thrush Shook a white shower from the blackthorn bush, Where dew-drops thick as early blossoms hung, And trembled as the minstrel sweetly sung. Across his path, in either grove to hide, The timid rabbit scouted by his side; Or pheasant boldly stalk'd along the road, Whose gold and purple tints alternate glow'd. But groves no farther fenc'd the devious way; A wide-extended heath before him lay, |