The Poems of Robert Bloomfield :: :: University of Virginia Library

Who was lord of yon beautiful seat;
Yon woods which are tow'ring so high?
Who spread the rich board for the great,
Yet listen'd to pity's soft sigh?
Who gave with a spirit so free,
And fed the distress'd at his door?
Our Morris of Persfield was he,
Who dwelt in the hearts of the poor.

But who e'en of wealth shall make sure,
Since wealth to misfortune has bow'd?
Long cherish'd untainted and pure,
The stream of his charity flow d.
But all his resources gave way;
O what could his feelings control?

What shall curb, in the prosperous day,
Th' excess of a generous soul?

He bade an adieu to the town;
O, can I forget the sad day?
When I saw the poor widows kneel down
To bless him, to weep, and to pray.
Though sorrow was mark'd in his eye,
This trial he manfully bore;
Then pass'd o'er the bridge of the Wye,
To return to his Persfield no more.

'Twas true that another might feel;
That poverty still might be fed;
Yet long we rung out the dumb peal,
For to us noble Morris was dead.
He had not lost sight of his home,
Yon domain that so lovely appears,

When he heard it, and sunk overcome;
He felt it—and burst into tears.

The lessons of prudence have charms,
And slighted, may lead to distress;
But the man whom benevolence warms
Is an angel who lives but to bless.
If ever man merited fame,
If ever man's failings went free,
Forgot at the sound of his name,
Our Morris of Persfield was he .

The author is equally indebted to Mr. Coxe's County History for this anecdote, as for the greater part of the notes subjoined throughout the Journal.