THE EARL OF BUCHAN TO R. BLOOMFIELD
On reciting his Rural Tales at his house in the Adelphi.
BLOOMFIELD I come from Modan's holy spring*
To hear thee speak, to hear thee sweetly sing!
Sing on thou Farmer's Boy, and soothe my soul,
I'll waft thy rural lays from pole to pole.
Sing poet, sing the joys of rural life,
Britain shall now renounce her wonted strife.
'E'en all the joys that victory brings,
'Her bellowing guns and flaming pride;
'Cold momentary comfort flings
'Around where weeping friends reside.'**
Sing poet, sing thy 'ancient wedded pair';
Let tears through smiles, and every joy be there.
BLOOMFIELD, before thy days, when mine were green
On Avon's bank poor CHATTERTON was seen;
I saw him too, and his hard fate deplor'd,
And dropt a tear, though then a glitt'ring Lord!
BLACKLOCK I lov'd, and his lov'd praise remains
To soothe my fancy in his dying strains***.
BEATTIE was mine, and wou'd to heav'n his days
Were cloath'd in light, and like his charming lays****!
Praise from my lips, 'twas BURNS'delight to boast—
MINE was the glory—HE deserved it most.
These are the joys of my declining years,
I hear the stormy stream without its fears*****!
*Fountain of St. Modan, at Dryburg.
**From Bloomfield's 'French mariner' inserted
in last week's paper.
***Alluding to some lines which he wrote to Lord Buchan on his death-bed.
****Beattie is blind, and lives at Edinburgh.
had earlier, on 3 February, printed 'The French Mariner' from
, pp. 78–82.