ritten.

His life was an unhappy one. It was embittered by a morbid affection,
and by his religious sentiments. Nor are we to wonder at this, or bring
it as a charge against religion; for it is the nature of the poetical
temperament to carry every thing to excess, whether it be love,
religion, pleasure, or pain, as we may see in the case of Cowper and of
Burns, and to find torment or rapture in that in which others merely
find a resource from _ennui_, or a relaxation from common occupation.

There are two poets still living who belong to the same class of
excellence, and of whom I shall here say a few words; I mean Crabbe, and
Robert Bloomfield, the author of the Farmer's Boy. As a painter of
simple natural scenery, and of the still life of the country, few
writers have more undeniable and unassuming pretensions than the
ingenious and self-taught poet, last-mentioned. Among the sketches of
this sort I would mention, as equally distinguished for delicacy,
faithfulness, and _naivete_, his description of lambs racing, of the
pigs going out an acorning, of the boy sent to feed his sheep before the
break of day in winter; and I might add the innocently told story of the
poor bird-boy, who in vain through the live-long day expects his
promised companions at his hut, to share his feast of roasted sloes with
him, as an example of that humble pathos, in which this author excels.
The fault indeed of his genius is that it is too humble: his Muse has
something not only rustic, but menial in her aspect. He seems afraid of
elevating nature, lest she should be ashamed of him. Bloomfield very
beautifully describes the lambs in springtime as racing round the
hillocks of green turf: Thomson, in describing the same image, makes the
mound of earth the remains of an old Roman encampment. Bloomfield never
gets beyond his own experience; and that is somewhat confined. He gives
the simple appearance of nature, but he gives it naked, shivering, and
unclothed with the drapery of a moral imagination. His poetry has much
the effect of the first approach of spring, "while yet the year is
unconfirmed," where a few tender buds venture forth here and there, but
are chilled by the early frosts and nipping breath of poverty.--It
should seem from this and other instances that have occurred within the
last century, that we cannot expect from original genius alone, without
education, in modern and more artificial periods, the same bold and
indepe