 | The Poems of Robert Bloomfield |  |
Time past, he had on his paternal ground
With pride the latent sparks of genius found
In many a local ballad, many a tale,
As wild and brief as cowslips in the dale,
Though unrecorded as the gleams of light
That vanish in the quietness of night.
“Why not,” he cried, as from his couch he rose,
“To cheer my age, and sweeten my repose,
“Why not be just and generous in time,
“And bid my tenants pay their rents in rhyme?
“For one half year they shall.—A feast shall bring.
“A crowd of merry faces in the spring;—
“Here, pens, boy, pens; I'll weigh the case no more,
“But write the summons:—go, go, shut the door.
With pride the latent sparks of genius found
In many a local ballad, many a tale,
As wild and brief as cowslips in the dale,
Though unrecorded as the gleams of light
That vanish in the quietness of night.
126
“To cheer my age, and sweeten my repose,
“Why not be just and generous in time,
“And bid my tenants pay their rents in rhyme?
“For one half year they shall.—A feast shall bring.
“A crowd of merry faces in the spring;—
“Here, pens, boy, pens; I'll weigh the case no more,
“But write the summons:—go, go, shut the door.
| The Poems of Robert Bloomfield | |