 | The Poems of Robert Bloomfield |  |
159
The hieroglyphics of his leisure hours;
And rough-form'd animals of various name,
Not just like Bewick's, but they meant the same.
Nor these alone his whole attention drew,
He was a poet,—this Sir Ambrose knew,—
A strange one too;—and now had penn'd a lay,
Harmless and wild, and fitting for the day.
No tragic tale on stilts;—his mind had more
Of boundless frolic than of serious lore;—
Down went his hat, his shaggy friend close by
Dozed on the grass, yet watch'd his master's eye.
| The Poems of Robert Bloomfield | |