REMAINS OF ROBERT BLOOMFIELD (1824)

The grey eye of morning, was dear to my youth,

When I sprang like the roe from my bed,

With the glow of the passions, the feelings of truth,

And the light hand of Time on my head.

For then ’twas my maxim through life to be free,5

And to sport my short moments away;

The cry of the hounds, was the music for me,

My glory—the dawn of the day.

In yellow-leaved autumn, the haze of the morn

Gave promise of rapture to come;10

Then melody woke in the sound of the horn,

As we cheer’d the old fox from his home;

The breeze and the shout met the sun’s early beam,

With the village response in full play;

All vigour, my steed leap’d the fence or the stream,15

And was foremost at dawn of the day.

The well-tuned view-halloo that shook the green wood,

And arrested the ploughman’s gay song,

Gave nerve to the hunters, and fire to the blood

Of the hounds, as they bounded along.20

And shall I relinquish this joy of my heart

While years with my strength roll away?

Hark! the horn—bring my horse—see, they’re ready to start!

Tally-o! at the dawning of day.