his personal errors or sceptical moods of soul, he died a Christian-saying in effect, "Lord, I believe; help thou mine unbelief." He was buried in Richmond churchyard, and in 1762 a monument was erected to him in Westminster Abbey. No one was ever more cordially beloved. He seems to have been a being totally destitute of malice or guile, firm in his attachments, generous to his friends and foes alike; and his very indolence and sensuality were pardoned because they were his. A certain careless greatness is the principal element of his genius. He was, as Coleridge truly said, " rather a great than a good poet." Except in passages of the "Castle of Indolence," there is little finish or true polish about his poetry. He did, indeed, labour much at the file, but it was seldom under the presence of a high ideal of Art; and his alterations, like those of John Foster, were often anything but improvements. His great power lay in his deep, glowing, childlike enthusiasm for nature, and in the fulness with which he retained this on to mature manhood; so that, while in understanding he was thirty, in freshness of feeling he was only thirteen. He excelled more in the wide landscape view, than in the cabinet picture or the miniature. He was better at describing the Torrid Zone than a lady bathing-coping with the aggregate terrors of Winter than telling a tale of individual woe. He is more a sublime and sensuous, than he is a refined, spiritualized, or beautiful poet. He resembles rather Byron in all but his elasticity, and the fierce and savage nature that burned in him, than such poets as Shelley, who seem half abstracted from earth, and to converse more with its hovering shadows than with its solid substance. The "Seasons" was his favourite, and is probably his best work. It contains, indeed, some sounding nonsense, and a great deal of description that misses its mark, and strays aimless and hookless as the dishevelled down of the thistle. But, on the other hand, what broad, large pictures constantly occur, blended with occasional touches so felicitous and exquisitely true to nature! His knowledge of the theme so extensive and unaffectedly accurate his love for it so enthusiastic and so catholic! Wherever a sun shines, or a green field expands, or a mountain checks, to glorify the landscape, there Thomson is at home; and Nova Zembla and Cathay, California and Japan, are alike to his all-embracing genius. "The Castle of Indolence," more thoroughly complete, more delicately finished, and aspiring to a certain plot and story, displays more of the artist, with very little less of the poet, than the "Seasons." It is, certainly, the sweetest piece of poetic seduction in the world. No hymn to Sleep ever was so soft-no "dream within a dream," of rest beyond the dreaming land, was ever so subtle. It "Britannia," "To the Memory of Lord Talbot," and "To the Memory of Sir Isaac Newton," are three strains of kindred although various merit. All have much volubility of language, sustained pomp, and occasional beauties. The third alone we think entirely worthy of Thomson. ranks along with the second sermon of Dr Chalmers's Astronomical Discourses, as one of the most glowing panegyrics passed upon that great man, who reminds us always, in his simplicity and his achievements, of the first rude shape of the telescope-at once so plain, and yet shewing and prophesying so much. The greatest sentence in this poem is "Have ye not listen'd while he bound the Suns And Planets to their spheres ?" Yet it yields to a line in the "Seasons," where he calls Science "Mother severe of infinite delights." "Liberty" exhibits Thomson in a false position. He was not the man to sing of that "Lord of the lion heart and eagle eye.” He was too lazy and too luxurious. We see him sweating at the work, in a hot summer day, with his coat off, and occasionally napping in the course of his lucubrations. And yet, clumsy and tedious as portions of this poem are, it has noble passages, and its paintings of historical events are often in spirit and in language worthy of the themes and of the bard. Let none sneer at "Liberty" till they have read it; and if, during the operation, they may sometimes sleep, yet assuredly at the close of it they will be ashamed any longer to sneer. We regret that the plan of our publication does not permit us to give any specimens of Thomson's letters. They shew him in a new aspect, as the affectionate brother, the steadfast friend, the acute observer of human nature-in short, the "fine fat fellow" that he was, no less certainly than one of our most genuine and popular poets. |