Oh for the good old times! when all was new, And every hour brought prodigies to view, Our sires in unaffected language told Of streams of amber, and of rocks of gold; Full of their theme, they spurned all idle art; And the plain tale was trusted to the heart. Now all is changed! We fume and fret, poor elves; Less to display our subject than ourselves: Whate'er we paint--a grot, a flower, a bird, Heavens! how we sweat, laboriously absurd! Words of gigantic bulk, and uncouth sound, In rattling triads the long sentence bound; While points with points, with periods periods jar, And the whole work seems one continued war!" Not less poetical, and certainly much more pleasant in its tone, is this reminiscence of his early friendship with Dr. Ireland: 'Chief thou, my friend! who from my earliest years Hast shared my joys, and more than shared my cares, Sure, if our fates hang on some hidden power, And take their color from the natal hour, Then, Ireland, the same planet on us rose, Such the strong sympathies our lives disclose! Thou knowest how soon we felt this influence bland, And sought the brook and coppice, hand in hand, And shaped rude bows, and uncouth whistles blew, And paper kites--a last great effort--flew: And when the day was done, retired to rest, Sleep on our eyes, and sunshine in our breast. In riper years, again together thrown, Our studies, as our sports before, were one. Together we explored the stoic page Of the Ligurian, stern though bearless sage! Or traced the Aquinian through the Latine road, And trembled at the lashes he bestowed. Together, too, when Greece unlocked her stores, We roved in thought o'er Troy's devoted shores, Or followed, while he sought his native soil, 'That old man eloquent' from toil to toil; Lingering, with good Alcinous o'er the tale, Till the east reddened and the stars grew pale." The tenderness of his nature is also shown in the lines he wrote for the tombstone of his faithful servant Ann Davies: "Though here unknown, dear Ann, thy ashes rest, Still lives thy memory in one grateful breast, That traced thy course through many a painful year, And marked thy humble hope, thy pious fear. Oh! when this frame which yet while life remained, Thy duteous love with trembling hand sustained, Dissolves--as soon it must--may that blest Power Who beamed on thine, illume my parting hour! So shall I greet thee where no ills annoy, And what was sown in grief is reaped in joy; Where worth, obscured below, bursts into day, And those are paid whom earth could never pay." CHAPTER V. [Illustration: ROBERT BLOOMFIELD] Robert Bloomfield, THE SHOEMAKER WHO WROTE "THE FARMER'S BOY."