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matic wit, a smart antithesis richly trimmed with rhyme, or the softness of an elegiac complaint. To such his manly classical spirit could not readily recommend itself, till, after a more attentive perusal, they had got the better of their prejudices, and either acquired or affected a truer taste. A few others stood aloof, merely because they had long before fixed the articles of their poetical creed, and resigned themselves to an absolute despair of ever seeing any thing new and original. These were somewhat mortified to find their notions disturbed by the appearance of a Poet, who seemed to owe nothing but to Nature and his own genius; but, in a short time, the applause became unanimous, every one wondering how so many pictures, and those so familiar, should have moved them but faintly to what they felt in his descriptions. His digressions, too, the overflowings of a tender benevolent heart, charmed the reader no less, leaving him in doubt whether he should more admire the Poet or love the man.

From that time Mr. Thomson's acquaintance was courted by all men of taste; and several ladies of high rank and distinction became his declared patronesses; the Countess of Hertford, Miss Drelincourt, afterwards Viscountess Primrose, Mrs. Stanley, and others. But the chief happiness which his Winter procured him, was that it brought him acquainted with Dr. Rundle, afterwards Lord Bishop of Derry, who, upon conversing with Mr. Thomson, and finding in him qualities greater still, and of more value than those of a poet, received him into his intimate confidence and friendship, promoted his character every where, introduced him to his great friend the Lord Chancellor Talbot, and some years after, when the eldest son of that nobleman was to make his tour of travelling, recommended Mr. Thomson as a proper companion for him. His affection and gratitude to

Dr. Rundle, and his indignation at the treatment that worthy prelate had met with, are finely expressed in his poem to the Memory of Lord Talbot. The true cause of that undeserved treatment has been secreted from the public, as well as the dark manœuvres that were employed; but Mr. Thomson, who had access to the best information, places it to the account of

....Slanderous zeal, and politics infirm,
Jealous of worth....

Mean while our Poet's chief care had been, in return for the public favour, to finish the plan which their wishes laid out for him: and the expectations which his Winter had raised, were fully satisfied by the successive publication of the other Seasons; of Summer in the year 1727, of Spring in the beginning of the following year, and of Autumn in a quarto edition of his works printed in 1730.

In that edition the Seasons are placed in their natural order, and crowned with that inimitable Hymn, in which we view them in their beautiful succession, as one whole, the immediate effect of infinite power and goodness. In imitation of the Hebrew bard, all Nature is called forth to do homage to the Creator, and the reader is left enraptured in silent adoration and praise *.

* Excellent as the works of Mr. Thomson are, it is remarkable that there has not been any considerable criticism on his merits and character, and therefore we will take the liberty of transcribing those few remarks which have appeared, as well as introducing our own. An ingenious and elegant writer says, "Thomson had peculiar and powerful talents for this "species of composition. He possessed a strong and copious fancy; he has enriched poetry with a variety of new and "original images, which he painted from Nature itself, and "from his own actual observations: his descriptions have,

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Besides these, and his tragedy of Sophonisba, written and acted with applause in the year 1729, Mr. Thomson had, in 1727, published his poem to the memory of Sir Isaac Newton, then lately deceased, containing a deserved encomium of that incomparable man, with an account of his chief discoveries; sublime

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"therefore, a distinctness and truth which are utterly wanting to those of poets who have only copied from each other, and "have never looked abroad on the objects themselves. Thom"son was accustomed to wander for many weeks attentive to "each rural scene; while many Poets, whose views have "rarely been extended beyond the sphere of London, have at"tempted to describe the beauties of Nature. Hence that nau"seous repetition of the same circumstance; and that disgust❝ing impropriety of introducing what may be called a set of "hereditary images, without proper regard to the age, climate, "or occasion, in which they were formerly used. Though the "diction of the Seasons is sometimes harsh and inharmonious, "and sometimes turgid and obscure, and though in many in"stances, the numbers are not sufficiently diversified by differ"ent pauses, yet is this Poem, on the whole, from the num"berless strokes of Nature in which it abounds, one of the "most captivating and amusing in our language; and which, "as its beauties are not of a fugacious kind, as depending on "particular customs and manners, will ever be perused with "delight. The scenes of Thomson are frequently as wild and "romantic as those of Salvator Rosa, pleasingly varied with "precipices, torrents, cliffs, deep vallies, mountains, and gloomy "caverns. Innumerable are the little circumstances in his de"scriptions, totally unobserved by all his predecessors. What "poet hath ever taken notice of the leaf, that, towards the end "of the Autumn,

"Incessant rustles from the mournful grove,
"Oft' startling such as, studious, walk below,
"And slowly circles through the waving air?"

"Where is the dust which has not been alive?”

ly poetical, and yet so just, that an ingenious foreigner, the count Algarotti, takes a line of it for the text of his Philosophical Dialogues, Il Neutonianismo per le dame: this was in part owing to the assistance he had of his friend Mr. Gray, a gentleman well versed in the Newtonian philosophy, who, on that occasion, gave

enquires the pensive and pathetic Young. How sublime the following lines! and how beautifully do they prove that the Poet

"Look'd through Nature up to Nature's God."

Gradual, from these what numerous kinds descend,
Evading e'en the microscopic eye!

Full Nature swarms with life; one wond'rous mass
Of animals or atoms organiz'd,

Waiting the vital Breath, when Parent-Heaven
Shall bid his spirit blow. The hoary fen,
In putrid streams, emits the living cloud
Of pestilence. Thro' subterranean cells,

Where searching sun-beams scarce can find a way,
Earth animated heaves. The flowery leaf
Wants not its soft inhabitants. Secure
Within its winding citadel, the stone

Holds multitudes. But chief the forest-boughs,
That dance unnumber'd to the playful breeze,
The downy orchard, and the melting pulp
Of mellow fruit, the nameless nations feed
Of evanescent insects.

The Poet's caution to the anglers, must be pleasing to every advocate for humanity.

But let not on thy hook the tortur'd worm
Convulsive, twist in agonizing folds;
Which, by rapacious hunger, swallowed deep,
Gives, as you tear it from the bleeding breast

him a very exact, though general, abstract of his principles.

That same year the resentment of our merchants for the interruption of their trade by the Spaniards in America running very high, Mr. Thomson zealously took part in it, and wrote his poem Britannia, to

Of the weak, helpless, uncomplaining wretch,
Harsh pain and horror to the tender hand.

The fate of the industrious bees, how finely pictured!
And see where robb'd, and murder'd, in that pit
Lies the still heaving hive! at evening snatch'd,
Beneath the cloud of guilt-concealing night,
And fix'd o'er sulphur: while, not dreaming ill,
The happy people, in their waxen cells,
Sat tending public cares, and planning schemes
Of temperance, for Winter poor; rejoic'd
To mark, full-flowing round, their copious stores.
Sudden the dark oppressive steam ascends;
And us'd to milder scents, the tender race,

By thousands, tumble from their honeyed domes,
Convolv'd, and agonizing in the dust.

Mr. Kirk's painting, from the following affecting passage, we hope, will be as much admired for its truth and simplicity by all our patrons, as it has been to a few who have seen it previous to its publication.

In vain for him th' officious wife prepares

The fire fair-blazing, and the vestment warm;
In vain his little children, peeping out
Into the mingling storm, demand their sire,
With tears of artless innocence. Alas!
Nor wife, nor children, more shall he behold,
Nor friends, nor sacred home. On every nerve
The deadly Winter seizes; shuts up sense;

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