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1766–1823

The Confession.

Robert Bloomfield

All doubts gave way, all retrospective lore, Whence cooler Reason tortur'd him before; Comparison of times, the Lab'rer' s hire, And many a truth Reflection might inspire,

Sunk powerless.‘ Dame, I am a fool,’ he cried; ‘ Alone I might have reason'd till I died. ‘ I caus'd those tears of Jane's:— but as they fell ‘ How much I felt none but ourselves can tell.

‘ While dastard fears withheld me from her sight; ‘ Sighs reign'd by day and hideous dreams by night; ‘'Twas then the Soldier's plume and rolling Drum ‘ Seem'd for a while to strike my sorrows dumb;

‘ To fly from Care then half resolv'd I stood, ‘ And without horror mus'd on fields of blood, ‘ But Hope prevail'd.— Be then the sword resign'd; ‘ And I'll make Shares for those that stay behind,

‘ And you, sweet Girl,’ ——— He would have added more, Had not a glancing shadow at the door

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The Confession. · Robert Bloomfield · Poetry Cove