August 19.
Sts. Timothy, Agapius, and Thecla, A. D. 304. St. Lewis, Bp., A. D. 1297. St. Mochteus, A. D. 535. St. Cumin, Bp. 7th Cent.
Chronology.
On the 19th of August, 1823, Robert Bloomfield died at Shefford, in Bedfordshire, aged 57. He was born at Honington, near Bury, in Suffolk, where he received instruction in reading and writing at a common school, and became a “Farmer’s boy;” which occupation he has related with simplicity and beauty in a poem under that title. He wrote that production when a journeyman shoemaker: under the auspices of the late Mr. Capel Llofft it was ushered into the world; and Bloomfield, unhappily for himself, subsequently experienced the insufficient and withering patronage of ostentatious greatness. His first poem was succeeded by “Rural Tales,” “Good Tidings, or News from the Farm,” “Wild Flowers,” “Banks of the Wye,” and “May-Day with the Muses.” In his retirement at Shefford, he was afflicted with the melancholy consequent upon want of object, and died a victim to hypochondria, with his mind in ruins, leaving his widow and orphans destitute. His few books, poor fellow, instead of being sent to London, where they would have produced their full value, were dissipated by an auctioneer unacquainted with their worth, by order of his creditors, and the family must have perished if a good Samaritan had not interposed to their temporary relief. Mr. Joseph Weston published the “Remains of Robert Bloomfield,” for their benefit, and set on foot a subscription, with the hope of securing something to Mrs. Bloomfield for the exclusive and permanent advantage of herself and her fatherless children. It has been inadequately contributed to, and is not yet closed.
ON THE DEATH OF BLOOMFIELD.
Thou shouldst not to the grave descend
Unmourned, unhonoured, or unsung;—
Could harp of mine record thy end,
For thee that rude harp should be strung;
And plaintive sounds as ever rung
Should all its simple notes employ,
Lamenting unto old and young
The Bard who sang The Farmer’s Boy.
Could Eastern Anglia boast a lyre
Like that which gave thee modest fame,
How justly might its every wire
Thy minstrel honours loud proclaim:
And many a stream of humble name,
And village-green, and common wild,
Should witness tears that knew not shame,
By Nature won for Nature’s child.
It is not quaint and local terms
Besprinkled o’er thy rustic lay,
Though well such dialect confirms
Its power unlettered minds to sway,
It is not these that most display
Thy sweetest charms, thy gentlest thrall,—
Words, phrases, fashions pass away,
But Truth and Nature live through all.
These, these have given thy rustic lyre
Its truest and its tenderest spell;
These amid Britain’s tuneful choir
Shall give thy honoured name to dwell:
And when Death’s shadowy curtain fell
Upon thy toilsome earthly lot,
With grateful joy thy heart might swell
To feel that these reproached thee not.