more in society there than elsewhere, but appear to be even less pleased there than usual. The Genevese, on their side, declare that they cannot recognize their ancient friends the English, "who were (say they,) sedate and reasonable, and in whom some little tint of barbarism gave additional value to that chivalric generosity and that cultivation of mind which formed the basis of their character. Their young folks gave indeed into some excesses and follies, but they soon recovered themselves, and ere they reached a riper age, became as steady as their fathers. Instead of this, we see an inundation rushing in upon us without cessation, making their crusades to Rome, instead of the Holy Sepulchre. The ancient barbarism

has become disdain, and sometimes degenerates into rudeness. They keep themselves in a corner, say nothing, or if they speak, it is but to mock. Whether through pride or suspicion, they fly even from each other, as if fearful of a plague: one knows not what conduct to pursue among them. If you invite many, you disoblige them; it is to force them to give countenance to persons whom they are in despair to see seated near them. If you ask them alone, they seem to be ennuyé. Speak to them of the English of former times, it must have been before the deluge; talk of literature, it is pedantry, and they yawn; of politics, and they instantly bother about Buonaparte."

MAY DAY WITH THE MUSES.-BY ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.

A GREAT many ploughmenting that he is but a fraction, declares,

shepherds-ditchers-and shoemakers-nay, even tailors-have in this free and happy country of ours wooed the Muses. Apollo on the other hand, had been made love to, by vast flocks of young women in the lower walks of life, dairy-maids, nurses, house-keepers, knitters in the sun, and Cinderellas. A very droll volume or two might be made up of their productions. One thing we observe in the POETRY of them all-male and female -a strong bias to the indulgence of the tender passion. They are all most excessively amorous, and every volume is a perfect dove-cote, sounding with a continual coo. Roger, the ploughman, makes love in a bold, vigorous, straightforward fashion, as if he were " in glory and in joy," "following his plough upon the mountain-side." Jamie, the shepherd, the yellow-haired laddieis more figurative and circumlocutory; but just let him alone for a few minutes, and he is sure to get upon his subject at last, and to acquit himself in a truly pastoral and patriarchal manner. Hobinol, the ditcher, goes to work, as if he were paid by the piece. The shoemaker melts like his own wax, and shews himself to be a most active understrapper; while the tailor, forget

"I dare do all that may become a man." Who dares do more, is none."

In short, the professions of the man and the lover go hand in hand; and it will be as impossible to mistake "an amatory effusion" of a genuine Roger for one of a Sammy Snip, as to mistake such an erection as the London Monument for the handle of a milk churn.

To be serious after this little flightof all the motley group of humble versemen and verse-women, we think that in our days, the only names worth mentioning, are Burns, Dermody, (whom Mr. Jeffrey, in the Edinburgh Review, with great Christian charity, the most amiable sweetness of nature, and the most polite and gentlemanly dislike of all personality, called shortly and emphatically, "Dermody the Drunkard,") Hogg, Allan Cunning hame, Clare, and Robert Bloomfield. All these are men of genius, more or less-at least we think solet the word genius mean what it will. They have all done some good things; how good it may not be easy to say, but good enough to give delight, and therefore to deserve remembrance.

Mr. Bloomfield, on the publication of "The Farmer's Boy," was looked on as a poetical prodigy, and not with

out reason. For he showed in that poem a very fine feeling for the beauties and the occupations of the country. He had few or no advantages of training, but had treasured up, in an innocent, and happy, and thoughtful mind, many youthful remembrances of a rural life; and immediately on hitting upon a good subject, he seems to have put them easily and naturally, and often very elegantly, into verse. Having read but little, and thought and felt much, and having no ambition of equalling or surpassing any particular model, he wrote away, from his own mind and his own heart, and the public were justly delighted with his fervour and simplicity. It is most agreeable to read his unlaboured descriptions of ploughing, and sowing, and reaping, and sheave-binding, and compunctious shooting of rooks, And every now and then he deals out, with a sort of unostentatious profusion, feelings and sentiments awakened by the contemplation of lowly life-its sufferings, and its virtues. His hero, young Giles, is really an exceedingly pleasant and interesting lad; and the situations in which he is often placed are affecting, by their solitariness, and the unconscious independence of the harmless and happy being, in his labour and his poverty. Now and then single lines occur that are quite exquisite; and his picture of Poor Polly the ruined and insane maiden, is equal to Cowper's Crazy Jane, if not indeed, superior to it; and there cannot be higher praise. England is justly proud of Bloomfield, on account of his genius and of that simple and pure tone of morality which breathes over all this his first, and, of course, best Poem. Besides all these its merits, which we have just slightly glanced at, "The Farmer's Boy" is by far the best written, as to style and composition, of any work of our uneducated poets. The melody of the versification is often exceedingly beautiful; and there are fewer faults of coarse and vulgar taste in it, though some there undoubtedly are, than in any book of any man similarly situated, with which we are ac

quainted. All this shews a mind delicately formed by nature; and accordingly, "The Farmer's Boy," now that the mere wonder and astonishment are passed by, continues to hold its place, and can never be perused by any candid and cultivated reader, without the highest pleasure and approbation.

Now, when so interesting a man as Mr. Bloomfield re-appears before the Public, after a retirement so long and deep as finally to have given rise (he tells us so in his preface to "May-day with the Muses") to a report of his death, it cannot but be gratifying to all lovers of good poetry-be it high or low-to hear him once more tuning his rustie reed. And it gives us pleasure to be able to say conscientiously, that his new little volume is one of the most agreeable he has ever written, and one that shews his powers are noways impaired. The idea of the poem is really a very pretty and ingenious extravaganza; and its improbability in a world so selfish as ours, is by no means against it. Mr. Bloomfield has a pleasant smile upon his own face, at the notion of a worthy old landholder accepting of rhymes from his tenants in lieu of rents; and therefore we hope that no stupid and sour critic will put a frown upon his, especially during these times of agricultural distress, when many an English farmer that formerly weighed twenty stone, is now a mere shadow and reduced to seventeen.

Sir Ambrose Higham, being somewhere about fourscore, and having got sick of his annual Spring visit to London, resolves to give a grand fete champetre to his tenantry, and to demand payment in poetry, instead of pounds. A number of big tables are set out upon a lawn near the hall; and after bolting bacon and bowzing beer, one bard after another rises up, makes a leg, and lays his poem. And this Mr. Bloomfield very prettily calls "May day with the Muses."

The poem opens thus, and it is the only passage in which Mr. B. speaks of himself, certainly with much modesty and feeling.

THE INVITATION.

O for the strength to paint my joy once more!
That joy I feel when Winter's reign is o'er;
When the dark despot lifts his hoary brow,
And seeks his polar realm's eternal snow.
Though bleak November's fogs oppress my brain,
Shake every nerve, and struggling fancy chain;
Though time creeps o'er me with his palsied hand,
And frost-like bid the stream of passion stand."

The Gathering" and the "Banquet" are admirable, and it would be doing injustice to our poet not to quote it at full length.

No cringing looks, no pauper tales to tell,
No timid glance, they knew their host too well,-
Freedom was there, and joy in every eye:
Such scenes were England's boast in days gone by.
Beneath the thorn was good Sir Ambrose found,
His guests an ample crescent form'd around;
Nature's own carpet spread the space between,
Where blithe domestics plied in gold and green.
The venerable chaplain waved his wand,
And silence follow'd as he stretch'd his hand,
And with a trembling voice, and heart sincere,
Implor'd a blessing on th' abundant cheer.
Down sat the mingling throng, and shared a feast
With hearty welcome given, by love increased;
A patriarch family, a close link'd band,

True to their rural chieftian heart and hand:
The deep carouse can never boast the bliss,
The animation, of a scene like this.
At length the damask'd cloths were whisk'd away,
Like fluttering sails upon a summer's day;
The hey-day of enjoyment found repose;
The worthy Baronet majestic rose;

They viewd'd him, while bis ale was filling round
The monarch of his own paternal ground.
His cup was full, and where the blossoms bow'd
Over his head, Sir Ambrose spoke aloud,
Nor stoop'd a dainty form or phrase to cull-
His heart elated, like his cup, was full:-
Full be your hopes, and rich the crops that fall;
Health to my neighbours, happiness to all.'
Dull must that clown be, dull as winter's sleet,
Who would not instantly be on his feet;
An echoing health to mingling shouts give place,
Sir Ambrose Higham and his noble race.'"

A Thut came the jovial day, no streaks of red
O'er the broad portals of the morn were spread,
But one high-sailing mist of dazzling white,
A screen of gossamer, a magic light,
Doom'd instantly, by simplest shepherd's ken
To reign awhile, and be exhaled at ten.
O'er leaves, o'er blossoms, by his power restored,
Forth came the conquering sun and look'd abroad;
Millions of dew-drops fell, yet millions hung,
Like words of transport trembling on the tongue
Too strong for utt'rance:-Thus the infant boy,
With rosebud cheeks, and features tuned to joy,
Weeps while he struggles with restraint or pain.
But change this scene and make him laugh again,
His heart rekindles, and his cheek appears
A thousand times more lovely through his tears.
From the first glimpse of day a busy scene
Was that high swelling lawn, that destined green,
Which shadowless expanded far and wide,
The mansion's ornament, the hamlet's pride ;
To cheer, to order, to direct, contrive,
Even old Sir Ambrose had been up at five;
There his whole household labour'd in his view-
But light is labour where the task is new.
Some wheel'd the turf to build a grassy throne
Round a huge thorn that spread his boughs alone,
Rough rined and bold, as master of the place;
Five generations of the Higham race
Had pluck'd his flowers, and still he held his sway,
Waved his white head, and felt the breath of May.
Some from the green house ranged exotics round
To bask in open day on English ground:
And 'midst then in a line of splendour drew
Long wreaths and garlands gather'd in the dew.
Some spread the snowy canvass, propp'd on high
O'er sheltered tables with their whole supply;
Some swung the biting scythe with merry face,
And cropp'd the daisies for a dancing space.
Some roll'd the mouldy barrel in his might,
From prison'd darkness into cheerful light,
And fenced him round with eans; and others bore
The creaking hamper with its costly store,
Well cork'd, well flavour'd and well tax'd that came, The ballad is tedious, and we suspect
From Lusitanian mountains dear to fame,

Whence Gama steer'd and led the conquering way
To eastern triumphs and the realms of day.
A thousand minor tasks fill'd every hour
Till the sun gain'd the zenith of his power,
When every path was throng'd with old and young,
And many a sky-lark in his strength up sprung
To bid them welcome.-Not a face was there
But for May-day at least had banish'd care;

We will trouble the Ettrick Shepherd, at his leisure, to write any thing as good as this-or the Galloway Lad, or the Northamptonshire Peasant. But we are sorry to say that the first poet who comes forward to pay his rent has not borrowed his notes from the Muses. His christian name is Philip and he recites a ballad entitled the Drunken Father," in which is narrated the conversion to habits of sobriety of a tippling husband, partly by a fright caused by a mill-dam and a miller with a lantern, and partly by the judicious good temper of his wife, who instead of scolding him one night when he had got a cup too much, took him into her bosom, and gave him a gentle and pathetic remonstrance only, seasoned with conjugal endearments.

Philip himself must have been halfseas-over when he penned it. It was, however, we are told, applauded to the very echo, and made the whole party very facetious.

"Thenceforward converse flow'd with perfect ease, Midst country wit, and rustic repartees.

One drank to Ellen, if such might be found,
And archly glanced at female faces round.
If one with tilted can began to bawl,
Another cried Remember Andrew Hall.'
Then, multifarious topics, corn and hay,
Vestry intrigues, the rates they had to pay,
The thriving stock, the lands too wet, too dry,
And all that bears on fruitful husbandry,

Ran mingling thro' the crowd-a crowd that might
Transferr❜d to canvass, give the world delight;

A scene that Wilkie might have touch'd with pride-
The May-day banquet then had never died."

The Game-keeper is succeeded by Why the woodstack was burnt, or who set it on fire. the Shepherd with

I took up my staff, as a knight would his lance,
And said, 'Here's my sceptre, my baton, my spear,
And there's my prime minister far in advance,
Who serves me with truth for his food by the year.'
So I slept without care till the dawning of day,
Then trimm'd up my woodbines that whistled amain;
My minister heard as he bounded away,
And we led forth our sheep to their pastures again."

The old Shepherd has fairly beat both the Farmer and the Game-keeper; but he meets with a formidable rival in a sun-scorched Veteran, who had fought in India and Spain, and who narrates with an affecting simplicity, his emotions on returning to his native home. The topic is trite; but in Mr. Bloomfield's hands it almost assumes a character of novelty. Burn's "Soldier's Return" is not, to our taste, one whit superior.

THE SOLDIER'S HOME.

My untried muse shall no high tone assume,
Nor strat in arms;-farewell my cap and plume:
Brief be my verse, a task within my power,
I tell my feelings in one happy hour;
But what an hour was that! when from the main
I reach'd this lovely valley once again!
A glorious harvest fill'd my eager sight,
Half shock'd, half waving in a flood of light;
On that poor cottage roof where I was born
The sun look'd down as in life's early morn.
I gazed around, but not a soul appear'd,
I listen'd on the threshold, nothing heard ;
I call'd my father thrice, but no one came;
It was not fear or grief that shook my frame,
But an overpowering sense of peace and home,
Of toils gone by, perhaps of joys to come.
The door invitingly stood open wide,
I shook my dust, and set my staff aside.

How sweet it was to breathe that cooler air,
And take possession of my father's chair!
Beneath my elbow, on the solid frame,
Appear'd the rough initials of my name,
Cut forty years before!-the same old clock
Struck the same bell, and gave my heart a shock
I never can forget. A short breeze sprung,
And while a sigh was trembling on my tongue,
Caught the old dangling almanacks behind,
And up they flew, like banners in the wind;
Then gently, singly, down, down, down, they went,
And told of twenty years that I had spent
Far from my native land :—that instant came
A robin on the threshold; though so tame,
At first he look'd distrustful, almost shy,
And east on me his coal-black stedfast eye,
And seem'd to say (past friendship to renew)
'Ah ba! old worn-out soldier, is it you?'
Through the room ranged the imprison'd humble bee,
And bomb'd and boune'd, and struggled to be free.
Dashing agains the panes with sullen roar,
That threw their diamond sunlight on the floor:
That floor, clean sanded, where my fancy stray'd
O'er undulating waves the broom had made,

Reminding me of those of hideous forms
That met us as we pass'd the Cape of Storms,
Where high and loud they break, and peace comes

never;

They roll and foam, and roll and foam for ever.
But here was peace, that peace which home can yield;
The grasshopper, the partridge in the field,
And ticking clock, were all at once become
The substitutes for clarion, fife, and drum.
While thus I mused, still gazing, gazing still
On beds of moss that spread the window sill,
I deem'd no moss my eyes had ever seen
Had been so lovely, brilliant, fresh, and green,
And guess'd some infant hand had plae'd it there,
And prized its hue, so exquisite, so rare.
Feelings on feelings mingling, doubling rose,
My heart felt every thing but calm repose;
I could not reckon minutes, hours, nor years,
But rose at once, and bursted into tears;
Then, like a fool, confused, sat down again,
And thought upon the past with shame and pain;
And glory's quagmire, where the brave are lost.

I raved at war and all its horrid cost,

On carnage, fire, and plunder, long I mused,
And cursed the murdering weapons I had used.
Two shadows then I saw, two voices heard,
One bespoke age, and one a child's appear'd.—
In stepp'd my father with convulsive start,
And in an instant clasp'd me to his heart.
Close by him stood a little blue-eyed maid,
And stooping to the child, the old man said,
'Come hither, Nancy, kiss me once again,
This is your uncle Charles, come home from Spain.'
The child approach'd, and with her fingers light,
Stroked my old eyes, almost deprived of sight.-
But why thus spin my tale, thus tedious be?
Happy old soldier! what's the world to me?"

The rustic company begin now to yawn a little bit, and some one happi

ly proposes a dance. So to it they go,
toe and heel-swinging and smacking
in all directions.

"The Forester caught lasses one by one,
And twirl'd his glossy green against the sun;
The Shepherd threw his doublet on the ground,
And clapp'd his hands, and many a partner found :
His hat-loops bursted in the jocund fray,
And floated o'er his head like blooming May;
Behind his heels, his dog was barking loud,
And threading all the mazes of the crowd;
And, had he boasted one, had wagg'd his tail,
And plainly said, 'What can my master ail?'
To which the Shepherd, had he been more cool,
Had only said, ""Tis Oakly Feast, you fool.""

By way of contrast, came forward a stout bluff yeoman, who,

"button'd to the throat, Faced the whole ring, and shook his leathern coat."

He is decidedly the best poet on all Sir Ambrose's estate; and being a father, and a true-hearted, honest, and affectionate Englishman, his tale may be even read with pleasure in the closet, We need not say what effect it must