“Had Mr. N. Bloomfield,” says Henry Kirke White, “made his appearance in the horizon of letters prior to his brother, he would undoubtedly have been considered as a meteor of uncommon attraction; the critics would have admired, because it was the fashion to admire. But it is to be apprehended that our countrymen become inured to phenomena--it is to be apprehended that the frivolity of the age can not endure a repetition of the uncommon--that it will no longer be the rage to patronize indigent merit--that the _beau monde_ will therefore neglect, and that, by a necessary consequence, the critics will sneer! “Nevertheless, sooner or later, merit will meet with its reward; and though the popularity of Mr. Bloomfield may be delayed, he _must_, at one time or other, receive the meed due to its deserts. Posterity will judge impartially; and if bold and vivid images, and original conceptions, luminously displayed, and judiciously apposed, have any claim to the regard of mankind, the name of Nathaniel Bloomfield will not be without its high and appropriate honors. “That Mr. N. Bloomfield’s poems display acuteness of remark, and delicacy of sentiment, combined with much strength, and considerable _selection_ of diction, few will deny. The Pæan to Gunpowder would alone prove both his power of language, and the fertility of his imagination; and the following extract presents him to us in the still higher character of a bold and vivid _painter_. Describing the field after a battle, he says, ‘Now here and there, about the horrid field, Striding across the dying and the dead, Stalks up a man, by strength superior, Or skill and prowess in the arduous fight, Preserved alive:--fainting he looks around; Fearing pursuit--not caring to pursue. The supplicating voice of bitterest moans, Contortions of excruciating pain, The shriek of torture, and the groan of death, Surround him;--and as night her mantle spreads, To veil the horrors of the mourning field, With cautious step shaping his devious way, He seeks a covert where to hide and rest: At every leaf that rustles in the breeze Starting, he grasps his sword; and every nerve Is ready strained for combat or for flight.’ “If Mr. Bloomfield had written nothing besides the Elegy on the Enclosure of Honnington Green, he would have had a right to be considered as a poet of no mean excellence. There is a sweet and tender melancholy pervading the elegiac ballad efforts of Mr. Bloomfield, which has the most indescribable effects on the heart. Were the versification a little more polished, in some instances, they would be read with unmixed delight.” WILLIAM GIFFORD.