Works

WHEN tender Rose-trees first receive
On half-expanded Leaves, the Shower;
Hope's gayest pictures we believe,
And anxious watch each coining flower.

Then, if beneath the genial Sun...

LITTLE JABBERER,

I have many times thought of addressing to you a few words of advice, as you seem to stand in need of such a friend.
...

OLD MAG (I won't say Neighbour),
...

DEAR MOTHER,
...

Dated "Home Wood."

NEIGHBOUR,
...

I have often, during the spring and summer, heard you of a morning piping away in the hedges, sometimes as soon as I was up myself, and thought your singing pretty fair, and that you conducted yourself as you ought to do. But t...

DEAR AUNT,
...

Dated Lincoln and Ely Fens.

DEAR COUSIN,
...

COUSIN WILDING,
...

(CHARLES BLOOMFIELD.)


Old friend, you certainly have merit;
You really are a bird of spirit.
I'm quite surprised, I must confess;
I did not think you did possess...

(CHARLES BLOOMFIELD.)




I.

As I roamed t'other day,
Neighbour Hop, in my way
I discovered a nice rotten plum,
Which you know is a treat;
And, to taste of the sweet,...

(CHARLES BLOOMFIELD.)


Excuse, Mr. Bee, this epistle, to one
Whose time, from the earliest gleam of the sun
Till he sinks in the west, is so busily spent,...

What a long time it is since I received your kind letter about the ripening corn, and the dangers you were presently to be subject to with all your children!

...

MY GOOD, OLD, WISE, SECLUDED, AND QUIET FRIEND,
...

DISTRESSED NEIGHBOUR,
...

DEAR LITTLE BOB,
...

(CHARLES BLOOMFIELD.)


'Twas the blush of the spring, vegetation was young,
And the birds with a maddening ecstasy sung
To welcome a season so lovely and gay -...

Genius of the Forest Shades!
Lend thy pow'r, and lend thine ear!
A Stranger trod thy lonely glades,
Amidst thy dark and bounding Deer;
Inquiring Childhood claims the verse,...

Written At Clare-Hall, Herts. June 1804.

Welcome silence! welcome peace!
O most welcome, holy shade!
Thus I prove as years increase,
My heart and soul for quiet made.
Thus I fix my firm belief...

Thy favourite Bird is soaring still:
My Lucy, haste thee o'er the dale;
The Stream's let loose, and from the Mill
All silent comes the balmy gale;
Yet, so lightly on its way,
Seems to whisper 'Holiday.'...