of
the over-populous capital which drains the whole country-side of all
produce, which makes the Suffolk dairy-wives run mad for cream, leaving
nothing but the "three-times skimmed sky-blue" to make cheese for local
consumption. What a cheese it is, that has the virtue of a post, which
turns the stoutest blade, and is at last flung in despair into the
hog-trough, where

It rests in perfect spite,
Too big to swallow and too hard to bite!

We then come to the sheep, "for Giles was shepherd too," and here there
is more evidence of his observant eye when he describes the character of
the animals, also in what follows about the young lambs, which forms the
best passage in this part. I remember that, when first reading it, being
then little past boyhood myself, how much I was struck by the vivid
beautiful description of a crowd of young lambs challenging each other
to a game, especially at a spot where they have a mound or hillock for a
playground which takes them with a sort of goatlike joyous madness. For
how often in those days I used to ride out to where the flock of one to
two thousand sheep were scattered on the plain, to sit on my pony and
watch the glad romps of the little lambs with keenest delight! I cannot
but think that Bloomfield's fidelity to nature in such pictures as
these does or should count for something in considering his work. He
concludes:--

Adown the slope, then up the hillock climb,
Where every mole-hill is a bed of thyme,
Then panting stop; yet scarcely can refrain;
A bird, a leaf, will set them off again;
Or if a gale with strength unusual blow,
Scattering the wild-briar roses into snow,
Their little limbs increasing efforts try,
Like a torn rose the fair assemblage fly.

This image of the wind-scattered petals of the wild rose reminds
him bitterly of the destined end of these joyous young lives--his
white-fleeced little fellow-mortals. He sees the murdering butcher
coming in his cart to demand the firstlings of the flock; he cannot
suppress a cry of grief and indignation--he can only strive to shut out
the shocking image from his soul!

"Summer" opens with some reflections on the farmer's life in a prosy
Crabbe-like manner; and here it may be noted that as a rule Bloomfield
no sooner attempts to rise to a general view than he grows flat; and in
like manner he usually fails when he attempts wide prospects and large
effects. He is at his best only