Robert Bloomfield

thumb|right Robert Bloomfield (December 3, 1766 – August 19, 1823) was a self-educated English peasant poet. Quotes A Spring o'erhung with many a flow'r,The grey sand dancing in its bed,Embank'd beneath a Hawthorn bower,Sent forth its waters near my head:A rosy Lass approach'd my view;I caught her blue eye's modest beam:The stranger nodded 'How d'ye do!'And leap'd across the infant stream. Rosy Hannah, stanza 1, from Rural Tales, Ballads, and Songs (1802) The Banks of the Wye (1811) Soon round us spread the hills and dales,Where GEOFFREY spun his magic tales,And call'd them history. The landWhence ARTHUR sprung, and all his bandOf gallant knights. Sire of romance,Who led the fancy's mazy dance,Thy tales shall please, thy name still be,When Time forgets my verse and me. Book I Adieu, LANDOGA, scene most dear,Farewell we bade to ETHEL'S WIER;Round many a point then bore away,Till morn was chang'd to beauteous day:And forward on the lowland shore,Silent majestic ruins woreThe stamp of holiness; this strandThe steersman hail'd, and touch'd the land. Book II Attributed Forty Thousand Quotations (1917) Quotes reported in C. N. Douglas, Forty Thousand Quotations: Prose and Poetical (1917) Build me a shrine, and I could kneelTo rural Gods, or prostrate fall;Did I not see, did I not feel,That one Great Spirit governs all.O heaven, permit that I may lieWhere o’er my corse green branches wave;And those who from life’s tumults flyWith kindred feelings press my grave. But how unlike to April’s closing days!High climbs the sun, and darts his powerful rays;Whitens the fresh drawn mould and pierces throughThe cumbrous clods that tumble round the plough. Dear Ellen, your tales are all plenteously stored,With the joy of some bride and the wealth of her lord,Of her chariots and dresses,And worldly caresses,And servants that fly when she’s waited upon:But what can she boast if she weds unbeloved?Can she e’er feel the joy that one morning I proved,When I put on my new gown and waited for John? Fled now the sullen murmurs of the North,The splendid raiment of the Spring peeps forth. Still Twilight, welcome! Rest, how sweet art thou!Now eve o’erhangs the western cloud’s thick brow;The far-stretch’d curtain of retiring light,With fiery treasures fraught; that on the sightFlash from its bulging sides, where darkness lowers,In Fancy’s eye, a chain of mould’ring tow’rs;Or craggy coasts just rising into view,Midst jav’lins dire and darts of streaming blue. Strange to the world, he wore a bashful look,The fields his study, nature was his book. The kindly intercourse will ever proveA bond of amity and social love. The lessons of prudence have charms,And slighted, may lead to distress;But the man whom benevolence warmsIs an angel who lives but to bless. Unsparing as the scourge of war,Blasts follow blasts, and groves dismantled roar. When now, unsparing as the scourge of war,Blasts follow blasts and groves dismantled roar;Around their home the storm-pinched cattle lows,No nourishment in frozen pasture grows;Yet frozen pastures every morn resoundWith fair abundance thund’ring to the ground. Proud-crested fiend, the world’s worst foe, ambition. Strange to the world, he wore a bashful look; the field his study, Nature was his book. External links Robert_Bloomfield Robert Bloomfield Category:Poets from England Category:1823 deaths