once comprehends the vast and attends to the minute. The reader of THE SEASONS wonders that he never saw before what Thomson shews him, and that he never yet has felt what Thomson impresses. His is one of the works in which blank verse seems properly used. Thomson's wide expansion of general views, and his enumeration of circumstantial varieties, would have been obstructed and embarrassed by the frequent intersections of the sense which are the necessary effects of rhyme. His descriptions of extended scenes and general effects bring before us the whole magnificence of nature, whether pleasing or dreadful. The gaiety of Spring, the splendour of Summer, the tranquillity of Autumn, and the horror of Winter, take in their turns possession of the mind. The poet leads us through the appearances of things as they are successively varied by the vicissitudes of the year, and imparts to us so much of his own enthusiasm, that our thoughts expand with his imagery and kindle with his sentiments. Nor is the naturalist without his part in the entertainment; for he is assisted to recollect and to combine, to arrange his discoveries and to amplify the sphere of his contemplation. The great defect of THE SEASONS is want of method; but for this I know not that there was any remedy. Of many appearances subsisting all at once, no rule can be given why one should be mentioned before another; yet the memory wants the help of order, and the curiosity is not excited by suspense or expectation. His diction is in the highest degree florid and luxuriant, such as may be said to be to his images and thoughts both their lustre and their shade;' such as invest them with splendour, through which perhaps they are not alwys easily discerned. It is too exuberant, and sometimes may be charged with filling the ear more than the mind. These poems, with which I was acquainted at their first appearance, I have since found altered and enlarged by subsequent revisals, as the author supposed his judg ment to grow more exact, and as books or conversation extended his knowledge and opened his prospects. They are, I think, improved in general; yet I know not whe ther they have not lost part of what Temple calls their race;' a word which, applied to wines in its primitive sense, means the flavour of the soil. 'Liberty,' when it first appeared, I tried to read, and soon desisted. I have never tried again, and therefore will not hazard either praise or censure. The highest praise which he has received ought not to be suppressed: it is said by Lord Lyttelton, in the Prologue to his posthumous play, that his works contained No line which, dying, he could wish to blot. AT the west end of the north aisle of Richmond Church is the following:— In the earth below this tablet are the remains of JAMES THOMSON; AUTHOR OF THE BEAUTIFUL POEMS, ENTITLED THE SEASONS, CASTLE OF INDOLENCE, &c. &c. Who died at Richmond on the 27th day of August, and was buried here on the 29th, old style, 1748. The Earl of Buchan, unwilling that so good a man and sweet a poet should be without a memorial, has denoted the place of his interment for the satisfaction of his admirers in the year of our Lord 1792. Father of light and life! Thou good Supreme! From ev'ry low pursuit; and feed my soul SPRING. The subject proposed. Inscribed to the Countess of Hertford. The season is described as it affects the various parts of nature, ascending from the lower to the higher; with digressions arising from the subject. Its influence on inanimate matter. On vegetables. On brute animals. And last, on man. Concluding with a dissuasive from the wild and irregular passion of love, opposed to that of a pure and happy kind. COME, gentle Spring, ethereal mildness, come, Which thy own season paints; when nature all And see where surly Winter passes off, Lifts the light clouds sublime, and spreads them thin, * B Fleecy and white o'er all-surrounding heav'n. Drives from their stalls, to where the well-used plough Be gracious, Heav'n! for now laborious man Think these lost themes unworthy of your ear: In ancient times, the sacred plough employ'd And some, with whom compar'd your insect tribes The plough, and greatly independent liv'd. Ye generous Britons, venerate the plough; So with superior boon may your rich soil, Nor only through the lenient air this change, United light and shade! where the sight dwells From the moist meadow to the wither'd hill, In all the colours of the flushing year, By nature's swift and secret-working hand, Within its crimson folds. Now from the town, Or taste the smell of dairy; or ascend One boundless blush, one white-empurpled show't If brush'd from Russian wilds a cutting gale b |