Even The Seasons
Failed To Supply This Want, Since Thomson In His Great Work Is
Of No Place And Abides Nowhere, But Ranges On Eagle's Wings
Over The Entire Land, And, For The Matter Of That, Over The
Whole Globe.
But I did get it in the Farmer's Boy.
I
visualized the whole scene, the entire harmonious life; I was
with him from morn till eve always in that same green country
with the same sky, cloudy or serene, above me; in the rustic
village, at the small church with a thatched roof where the
daws nested in the belfry, and the children played and shouted
among the gravestones in the churchyard; in woods and green
and ploughed fields and the deep lanes - with him and his
fellow-toilers, and the animals, domestic and wild, regarding
their life and actions from day to day through all the
vicissitudes of the year.
The poem, then, appears to fill a place in our poetic
literature, or to fill a gap; at all events from the point of
view of those who, born and living in distant parts of the
earth, still dream of the Old Home. This perhaps accounts for
the fact, which I heard at Honington, that most of the
pilgrims to Bloomfield's birthplace are Americans.
Bloomfield followed his great example in dividing his poem
into the four seasons, and he begins, Thomson-like, with an
invitation to the Muse: -
O come, blest spirit, whatsoe'er thou art,
Thou kindling warmth that hov'rest round my heart.
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