The Sun.
London, England, 1823-10-04 00:00:00

A 'MONODY

On the DEA.TII of R. BLOOMFIELD, the Suffolk Bard.

ny w. FLETCHER.
(From the Bury Gauette,)
Sicilian maids I woo ye once again,
And call ye from your rocks and heathy
Your balsam breathing groves and Bowery
Your forest haunts and fount 3 of' bubbling rills.

I call ye from your desert shores, •
Where the troubled ocean mars,
Lashing with its thousand waves
Hoary dill's and mould'ring Cave;
From the forest dark and deep,
Where the hamadryads sleep,
Secure among their favour'd trees
Cradled by the western breeze ;
Or from gently stealing brook,
Where the naiads love to` look,
From the couch whereon they lie,
On the lofty clear blue sky;
From spicy meads, or woodland dales,
Heathy plains, or giassy vales;
Where the shepherd tends his flock
From the height of some hoar rock,
Pouring o'er the speckled field
All the strains his pipe can yield;
Or from pastures gay and new,
Spangled with the, morr.lng dew ;
Bank or brake, or shady springs,
Where the bird of evening sings,
Mingling with the water's chime
All its minstrelsy sublime.
I call ye forth, and bid ye hither bring
In either hand its simple offering :
Flowers, simple flowers, from blooming hedge-rows wild,
For he was nature's own and simplestebild ;
The humble daisy and the violet's bloom
Shall droop and wither o'er the poet'S tomb ;
With every bud and flow'ret of the vale,
That smiles o'er Nature's face and scents the gale.

With ardent thirst the muse's ►ictim drew
Full draughts of inspiration pure and true ;
Then plum'd his wings and urg'd his upward flight
To move a poet in the worldling's sight:
How recompens'd those worldings little know
Who saw but his not him engulphl in woe ;
Small care had they to draw the veil aide
Which hid the man,—the poet they descried,
And satisfied with that, no further went
To learn the little form'd his poor content;
Nor further sought to cherish, whilst they praial
The being genius had so boldly rais'd ;
But left him, when his glory had pased by,
To lean despair and cold obscurity.

Oh shame ! inglorious age, to think the muse
But nee& the pay of words, howe'er he suet,:
By all the eloquence of verse and tears,
To gain a palliative for age's fears ;
Ye part the poet from the roan, and deem
The firmer all,—the latter but a dream ;
But all is past, and he, the bard, hath fled
To find repose among the lowly dead;
The heart, that glow'd with feelings all his own,
Is gill and senseless as the tablet stone ;
His hands, that labor'd for his daily bread,
When verse and ease' forsook his sithple shed.,
Are nervleless in their rest; whilst, unconfin'd,
To purer realms hits tlowin his heavenly mind ;
Leaving behind but perishable clay,
What Bloomfield was in life's eventful day.

Then strew, oh strew his grave, ye maids of song,
With every tender blossom of the year ;
Weave your wild roses cypress wreaths among,
And o'er your minstrel drop the bitter tear.

Maher let Innocence her footsteps hend
To sanctify the spot where genius lies,
And meek Devotion, by her side attend,
To point him triumphing in happier skies.
For hers he rests, within his silent grave,
All reckless of the cruel trials past;
Who sought, but found no human hand to save,
And meekly bow'd to meet the adverse blast.
The.rosy links which bound idni to the world
Grew heavier as they moulder'd in decay ;
The scroll of life, as slowly it unfurlid,
But shew'd him sorrows' or the future day.
His task was o'er—he panted to be gone;
In other realms to seek his Maker's face ;
To bow before the just,- the Help Oar,
Reposing firmly on the promisiti grace.
Then strere,' oh strew this hallow'd spot around,
And o'er hitt mern'ry'drep the silent tear ;
While from the stillness of the deep profound
A whisper breathes in sad anti solemn sound,
Your Bloomfield sleeps within his mansion here.
Woodbridge. •