[In the following excerpted review, the author values Bloomfield for his lack of pretension and for his generosity toward his subjects.]

Mr. Bloomfield's poetry, when connected with the remarkable particulars of his story, possessed irresistible attractions for the public curiosity; but even had he possessed every opportunity which the young poet can require to awake his fancy and improve his taste, his poetry would have acquired him a just reputation. His writings, with very few exceptions, have nothing in them which could disparage the scholar and the man of taste: his poetry is easy, natural, and perfectly free from affectation; and he has the good sense to employ himself in describing those scenes and manners which have fallen particularly under his own observation. Instead, therefore, of being a mere copyist of others, as is too frequently the case with modern poets, he has a manner and a character of his own; and acquires the praise of originality without degenerating into extravagance.

The present small collection bears the same character as his former publications. Some of the pieces are of a more playful and humorous cast, and in these we think he particularly excels, as they are descriptive of those scenes which place the manners of the common villagers in the most pleasing and entertaining point of view. The first piece, which paints the courtship of Abner and the Widow Jones, contains many natural traits of simple manners. The friendship of Abner for the old horse, the companion of his toils, affects us the more that it is related without any of that high flown sentiment which unskilful writers have of late put so liberally into the mouths of our clowns.

The address “To My Old Oak Table” is well imagined and interesting. The author, after bringing to his recollection the joys and sorrows of his humbler days which this old companion witnessed, proceeds to describe the commencement of his better fortune:

“In that gay season, honest friend of mine,
I marked the brilliant sun upon thee shine;
Imagination took her flights so free,
Home was delicious with my book and thee,
The purchas'd nosegay, or brown ears of corn,
Were thy gay plumes upon a summer's morn,
Awakening memory, that disdains control,
They spoke the darling language of my soul:
They whisper'd tales of joy, of peace, of truth,
And conjur'd back the sunshine of my youth:
Fancy presided at the joyful birth,
I pour'd the torrent of my feelings forth;
Conscious of truth in Nature's humble track,
And wrote ‘The Farmer's Boy’ upon thy back!
Enough, old friend:—thou'rt mine; and shalt partake,
While I have pen to write, or tongue to speak,
Whatever fortune deals me.—Part with thee!
No, not till death shall set my spirit free;
For know, should plenty crown my life's decline,
A most important duty may be thine:
Then, guard me from Temptation's base control,
From apathy and littleness of soul.
The sight of thy old frame, so rough, so rude,
Shall twitch the sleeve of nodding Gratitude;
Shall teach me but to venerate the more
Honest Oak Tables and their guests—the poor:
Teach me unjust distinctions to deride,
And falshoods gender'd in the brain of Pride;
Shall give to Fancy still the cheerful hour,
To Intellect, its freedom and its power;
To Hospitality's enchanting ring-
A charm, which nothing but thyself can bring.
The man who would not look with honest pride
On the tight bark that stemm'd the roaring tide,
And bore him, when he bow'd the trembling knee,
Home, through the mighty perils of the sea,
I love him not.—He ne'er shall be my guest;
Nor sip my cup, nor witness how I'm blest;
Nor lean, to bring my honest friend to shame,
A sacrilegious elbow on thy frame;
But thou through life a monitor shalt prove,
Sacred to Truth, to Poetry, and Love.”

“The Horkey,” a provincial ballad, describes the fun which takes place in Suffolk at the Harvest-home, or Horkey feast, as it is called there. Some of the provincial expressions of Suffolk are retained with good effect; and upon the whole it is not unworthy to be classed with some of the compositions of Ramsey and Burns of a similar sort. It particularly resembles Christ's “Kirk on the Green,” in its story and structure. …

The “Broken Crutch” is a very pretty poem of a serious cast. It relates the love of a rich farmer for a young maid, whom he was too honourable to seduce or desert although she was poor and in the station of a servant. The moral of the poem is good, and the poetry is pleasing. The style very much resembles those poems of Mr. Bloomfield which are already in the hands of the public, and will we doubt not be equally admired.

“Shooter's Hill” is a pleasing little lyric. The author repaired to this charming spot to recover his lost health, and this circumstance diffuses a tenderness and melancholy over the poem. The following extract proves how well the author deserves his better fortune, from his piety and the reflections he bestows on such as have been less successful than himself:

“I love to mark the flow'ret's eye,
          To rest where pebbles form my bed,
Where shapes and colours scatter'd lie
          In varying millions round my head.
The soul rejoices when alone,
          And feels her glorious empire free;
Sees God in every shining stone,
          And revels in variety.
“Ah me! perhaps within my sight,
          Deep in the smiling dales below,
Gigantic talents, Heav'n's pure light,
          And all the rays of genius glow
In some lone soul, whom no one sees
          With power and will to say ‘Arise,’
Or chase away the slow disease,
          And Want's foul picture from his eyes.
“A worthier man by far than I,
          With more of industry and fire,
Shall see fair Virtue's meed pass by,
          Without one spark of fame expire!
Bleed not my heart, it will be so,
          The throb of care was thine full long;
Rise, like the Psalmist from his woe
          And pour abroad the joyful song.”

“Love of the Country” and “Barnham Water” are pieces of a similar cast; the “Woodland Hallo” is a very pretty little song. The “Visit to Ranelagh” conveys a very good idea of the sameness and insipidity of that place of fashionable resort, which has at length been abandoned. The volume concludes with “Good Tidings from the Farm,” a poem already in the hands of the public, and which was reviewed in the Literary Journal for June, 1804. It is now improved and enlarged.

Were not the merits of this little volume sufficient to recommend it to public notice, we should still heartily wish it success. In the dedication, which is addressed to his only son, the author gives us to understand that this poor boy has an unfortunate lameness, which may prevent him from procuring for himself those comforts and advantages which might otherwise have fallen to his share, and which he can now only expect from the success of his father's writings.