THE SEASONS.

BY JAMES THOMSON.

[JAMES THOMSON: A Scottish poet; born at Ednam, September 11, 1700; died at the Leeward Islands, August 27, 1748. His father was a minister, and the son was intended for the same profession, studying to that end in Edinburgh. The ministry being distasteful to him, he became a tutor, then held an appointment in the Court of Chancery, and finally, in 1744, became surveyor general of the Leeward Islands. His most famous poems are "The Seasons," published in four parts, 1726-1730, and "The Castle of Indolence" (1748). He also wrote several plays and less successful poems.]

SPRING.

FROM the moist meadow to the withered hill,
Led by the breeze, the vivid Verdure runs,
And swells, and deepens, to the cherished Eye.
The Hawthorn whitens; and the juicy Groves
Put forth their buds, unfolding by degrees,
Till the whole leafy Forest stands displayed,
In full luxuriance, to the sighing gales;
Where the Deer rustle through the twining brake,
And the Birds sing concealed. At once, arrayed

In all the colors of the flushing Year,

By Nature's swift and secret working Hand,
The Garden glows, and fills the liberal air

With lavish fragrance; while the promised Fruit

Lies yet a little embryo, unperceived,

Within its crimson folds. Now from the Town

Buried in smoke, and sleep, and noisome damps,

Oft let me wander o'er the dewy fields,

Where Freshness breathes, and dash the trembling drops
From the bent bush, as through the verdant maze

Of sweetbrier hedges I pursue my walk;

Or taste the smell of dairy; or ascend

Some eminence, AUGUSTA, in thy plains,
And see the country, far diffused around,

One boundless blush, one white empurpled shower
Of mingled blossoms; where the raptured Eye
Hurries from joy to joy, and, hid beneath

The fair profusion, yellow Autumn spies.

If, brushed from Russian Wilds, a cutting Gale
Rise not, and scatter from his humid wings
The clammy Mildew; or, dry blowing, breathe
Untimely Frost; before whose baleful Blast

The full-blown Spring through all her foliage shrinks,

Joyless and dead, a wide dejected waste.
For oft, engendered by the hazy North,
Myriads on myriads, Insect armies waft
Keen in the poisoned breeze; and wasteful eat,
Through buds and bark, into the blackened Core,
Their eager way. A feeble Race, yet oft

The sacred Sons of Vengeance; on whose course
Corrosive Famine waits, and kills the Year. . . .

Be patient, Swains; these cruel seeming Winds Blow not in vain. Far hence they keep, repressed, Those deepening clouds on clouds, surcharged with rain, That, o'er the vast Atlantic hither borne,

In endless train, would quench the summer blaze,
And, cheerless, drown the crude unripened Year.

Thus all day long the full-distended Clouds
Indulge their genial stores, and well-showered Earth
Is deep enriched with vegetable life;

Till, in the western sky, the downward Sun
Looks out, effulgent, from amid the flush.

Of broken clouds, gay shifting to his beam.
The rapid Radiance instantaneous strikes

The illumined mountain, through the forest streams,
Shakes on the floods, and in a yellow mist,

Far smoking o'er the interminable plain,

In twinkling myriads lights the dewy gems.

Moist, bright, and green, the Landskip laughs around.
Full swell the Woods; their every Music wakes,

Mixed in wild concert, with the warbling Brooks

Increased, the distant bleatings of the Hills,

The hollow lows responsive from the Vales,

Whence, blending all, the sweetened Zephyr springs. . . . Still Night succeeds,

A softened shade, and saturated Earth

Awaits the Morning beam, to give to light,

Raised through ten thousand different plastic tubes

The balmy treasures of the former day.

Then spring the living Herbs, profusely wild,
O'er all the deep green earth, beyond the power
Of Botanist to number up their tribes:
Whether he steals along the lonely Dale,

In silent search; or through the Forest, rank
With what the dull incurious Weeds account,

Bursts his blind way; or climbs the mountain Rock,

Fired by the nodding Verdure of its brow.

With such a liberal hand has Nature flung

Their Seeds abroad, blown them about in winds,
Innumerous mixed them with the nursing mold,
The moistening current, and prolific rain.

SUMMER.

Now swarms the Village o'er the jovial mead:
The rustic Youth, brown with meridian toil,
Healthful and strong; full as the summer rose
Blown by prevailing suns, the ruddy Maid,
Half-naked, swelling on the sight, and all
Her kindled graces burning o'er her cheek.
Even stooping Age is here; and Infant hands
Trail the long rake, or o'er the fragrant load
O'ercharged, amid the kind oppression roll.
Wide flies the tedded grain; all in a row
Advancing broad, or wheeling round the field,
They spread the breathing harvest to the Sun,
That throws refreshful round a rural smell:
Or, as they rake the green appearing ground,
And drive the dusky wave along the mead,
The russet haycock rises thick behind,
In order gay while heard from dale to dale,
Waking the breeze, resounds the blended voice
Of happy Labor, Love, and social Glee.

Or rushing thence, in one diffusive band,
They drive the troubled Flocks, by many a Dog
Compelled, to where the mazy running brook
Forms a deep pool; this bank abrupt and high,
And that fair spreading in a pebbled shore.
Urged to the giddy brink, much is the toil,
The clamor much of Men, and Boys, and Dogs,
Ere the soft fearful People to the flood
Commit their woolly sides. And oft the Swain,
On some, impatient, seizing, hurls them in:
Emboldened then, nor hesitating more,
Fast, fast, they plunge amid the flashing wave,
And, panting, labor to the farther shore.

Repeated this, till deep the well-washed Fleece
Has drunk the flood, and from his lively haunt,

The Trout is banished by the sordid stream.

Heavy, and dripping, to the breezy brow

Slow move the harmless Race: where, as they spread

Their swelling treasures to the sunny ray,

Inly disturbed, and wondering what this wild.