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  #1  
Unread 10-27-2005, 08:28 PM
Golias Golias is offline
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The life and literary history of English poet Robert Bloomfield (1766-1823)is worthy of little less admiration than that of his friend and admirer John Clare. Of the two, Bloomfield, a poor cobbler, was the more popular poet. His major work, written in heroic couplets but laced with earthy rural images and his native Suffolk dialect until gussied up by an aristocratic editor, was "The Farmer's Boy" which sold something over 100,000 copies between 1800 and 1826. He and several other laboring-class poets were lionized for a time by English society though scorned by the likes of Lord Byron (see English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, stanza 37). Then, except for Robert Burns, they were largely forgotten.

In recent times the poems and personal story of Robert Bloomfield are enjoying renewed attention. A very interesting book on this poet and "The Farmer's Boy" is being written by Peter Cochran, the well-known Byron scholar and lecturer. An in-progress draft of the MS will soon appear at another popular literary website.


To My Old Oak Table

by Robert Bloomfield


Friend of my peaceful days! substantial friend,
Whom wealth can never change, nor int'rest bend,
I love thee like a child. Thou wert to me
The dumb companion of my misery,
And oftner of my joys;--then as I spoke,
I shar'd thy sympathy, Old Heart of Oak!
For surely when my labour ceas'd at night,
With trembling, feverish hands, and aching sight,
The draught that cheer'd me and subdu'd my care,
On thy broad shoulders thou wert proud to bear
O'er thee, with expectation's fire elate,
I've sat and ponder'd on my future fate:
On thee, with winter muffins for thy store,
I've lean'd, and quite forgot that I was poor.

Where dropp'd the acorn that gave birth to thee?
Can'st thou trace back thy line of ancestry?
We're match'd, old friend, and let us not repine,
Darkness o'erhangs thy origin and mine;
Both may be truly honourable: yet,
We'll date our honours from the day we met;
When, of my worldly wealth the parent stock,
Right welcome up the Thames from Woolwich Dock
Thou cam'st, when hopes ran high and love was young;
But soon our olive-branches round thee sprung;
Soon came the days that tried a faithful wife,
The noise of children, and the cares of life.
Then, midst the threat'nings of a wintry sky,
That cough which blights the bud of infancy,
The dread of parents, Rest's inveterate foe,
Came like a plague, and turn'd my songs to woe.

Rest! without thee what strength can long survive,
What spirit keep the flame of Hope alive?
The midnight murmur of the cradle gave
Sounds of despair; and chilly as the grave.
We felt its undulating blast arise,
Midst whisper'd sorrows and ten thousand sighs.
Expiring embers warn'd us each to sleep,
By turns to watch alone, by turns to weep,
By turns to hear, and keep from starting wild,
The sad, faint wailings of a dying child.
But Death, obedient to Heav'n's high command,
Withdrew his jav'lin, and unclench'd his hand;
The little sufferers triumph'd over pain,
Their mother smil'd, and bade me hope again.
Yet Care gain'd ground, Exertion triumph'd less,
Thick fell the gathering terrors of Distress;
Anxiety, and Griefs without a name,
Had made their dreadful inroads on my frame;
The creeping Dropsy, cold as cold could be,
Unnerv'd my arm, and bow'd my head to thee.
Thou to thy trust, old friend, hast not been true;
These eyes the bitterest tears they ever knew
Let fall upon thee; now all wip'd away;
But what from memory shall wipe out that day?
The great, the wealthy of my native land,
To whom a guinea is a grain of sand,
I thought upon them, for my thoughts were free,
But all unknown were then my woes and me.

Still, Resignation was my dearest friend,
And Reason pointed to a glorious end;
With anxious sighs, a parent's hopes and pride,
I wish'd to live--I trust I could have died!
But winter's clouds pursu'd their stormy way,
And March brought sunshine with the length'ning day,
And bade my heart arise, that morn and night
Now throbb'd with irresistible delight.
Delightful 'twas to leave disease behind,
And feel the renovation of the mind!
To lead abroad upborne on Pleasure's wing,
Our children, midst the glories of the spring;
Our fellow sufferers, our only wealth,
To gather daisies in the breeze of health!

'Twas then, too, when our prospects grew so fair,
And Sabbath bells announc'd the morning pray'r;
Beneath that vast gigantic dome we bow'd,
That lifts its flaming cross above the cloud;
Had gain'd the centre of the checquer'd floor;--
That instant, with reverberating roar
Burst forth the pealing organ----mute we stood;--
The strong sensation boiling through my blood,
Rose in a storm of joy, allied to pain,
I wept, and worshipp'd GOD, and wept again;
And felt, amidst the fervor of my praise,
The sweet assurances of better days.

In that gay season, honest friend of mine,
I mark'd 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 falsehoods 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.


G



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  #2  
Unread 10-29-2005, 09:54 PM
Julie Steiner Julie Steiner is offline
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Thank you, Wiley. I've been enjoying this over the past few days.

Interesting that the poet uses more strokes to characterize the person he isn't (i.e., the hypothetical "hated" person in the final stanza, who would take the table for granted and fail to appreciate its company through life's ups and downs) than he uses to characterize his "faithful wife" and the precious children nearly lost to illness, who also accompanied him through those ups and downs. He bravely wrestles with the enormity of his feelings for them--particularly the children--but reveals no glimpses of their unique personalities. (Perhaps this was intentional, to make the narrator an Everyman.)

Julie Stoner


[This message has been edited by Julie Stoner (edited October 29, 2005).]
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  #3  
Unread 10-30-2005, 12:27 PM
Janet Kenny Janet Kenny is offline
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Wiley,
Thank you for posting this.

He doesn't seem, to me, to be anything like as fine a poet as Clare who makes me almost weep with the simple beauty of his images.

On the strength of this poem Bloomfield is more of a worthy than a true poet. But still it's interesting. I think I'm with Byron as far as Bloomfield's concerned.

There are some nice passages. I share Julie's response to his self-involvement although he does show sympathy here:
Soon came the days that tried a faithful wife,.

I'm grateful for the information and the explanation about the labouring-class poets. That explains several puzzling poets in "The Oxford Book of English Verse".
best,
Janet
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  #4  
Unread 10-30-2005, 03:39 PM
Golias Golias is offline
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Having read almost all of Bloomfield's verse, Janet, I think I agree with you that he was a worthy poet, not really a great one...but for a poor, sickly lad with negligible education (almost as little as Clare), an apprentice cobbler, learning poetic style from reading London literary magazines only, he did pretty well in producing very enjoyable verse. One must admit the soundness of his meters and smoothness of his rhythm as well as his frequently striking images and figures of speech.

Soon, when Peter Cochran's mss, also called "The Farmer's Boy," is published by Jaimes Alsop, I think you will find this poet's story most engaging. I first learned of Bloomfield when Eric Robinson (the leading Clare scholar of recent times) telephoned me several months ago asking for help in getting Dr. Cochran's book published on the internet. Dr. Robinson had previously aided me with the Clare pages for The Susquehanna Quarterly, so I owed him one, which I was glad to repay once I saw and became fascinated by the Bloomfield story.

Here is one of two poems Clare wrote about Bloomfield. The note following is by Peter Cochran:

Sweet unassuming Minstrel not to thee
The dazzling fashions of the day belong
Natures wild pictures field and cloud and tree
And quiet brooks far distant from the throng
In murmurs tender as the toiling bee
Make the sweet music of thy gentle song
Well—nature owns thee let the crowd pass bye—
The tide of fashion is a stream too strong
For pastoral brooks that gently flow and sing
But nature is their source and earth and sky
Their annual offerings to her current bring
Thy injured muse and memory need no sigh
For thine shall murmur on to many a spring
When their proud stream is summer burnt and dry

There’s an element, even in Clare’s attitude, of something which Bloomfield was never without – condescension. For Clare, Bloomfield is one of Gray’s “mute inglorious Miltons,” except that he was gifted with a voice, and was glorious – or, at least, found a patron. (PC)


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  #5  
Unread 10-31-2005, 02:33 PM
David Anthony David Anthony is offline
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I'm delighted to hear the Alsop Review Press is back in business.
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  #6  
Unread 11-03-2005, 06:14 PM
Golias Golias is offline
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Indeed, David,

Jaimes is back in harness and has just Posted Peter Cochran's illustrated mss on Bloomfield and "The Farmer's Boy"(as a work in progress)at http://www.alsopreview.com/thecollections.htm

G/W

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  #7  
Unread 11-08-2005, 05:38 AM
Margaret Moore Margaret Moore is offline
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Wiley,
Many thanks for posting this. Do think there's a refreshing vigour in Bloomfield's work not wholly dulled by the literary conventions of his time.

Best wishes,
Margaret.
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