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"his generosity, or any other cause, rather than the "merit of the address."

The poem, which, being of a new kind, few would venture at first to like, by degrees gained upon the public; and one edition was very speedily sucteeded by another.

Thomson's credit was now high, and every day brought him new friends; among others Dr. Rundle, a man afterwards unfortunately famous, sought his acquaintance, and found his qualities such, that he recommended him to the Lord Chancellor Talbot. Winter was accompanied, in many editions, not only with a preface and dedication, but with poetical praises by Mr. Hill, Mr. Mallet, (then Malloch), and Mira, the fictitious name of a lady once too well known. Why the dedications are, to Winter and the other Seasons, contrarily to custom, left out in the collected works, the reader may enquire.

The next year (1727) he distinguished himself by three publications; of "Summer," in pursuance of his plan; of " A Poem on the Death of Sir Isaac "Newton," which he was enabled to perform as an exact philosopher by the instruction of Mr. Gray; and of "Britannia,", a kind of poetical invective against the ministry, whom the nation then thought not forward enough in resenting the depredations of the Spaniards. By this piece he declared himself an adherent to the opposition, and had therefore no favour to expect from the Court.

Thomson, having been some time entertained in the family of the lord Binning, was desirous of testifying his gratitude by making him the patron of his "Summer;" but the same kindness which had first disposed lord Binning to encourage him, determined him to refuse the dedication, which was by his advice addressed to Mr. Dodington, a man who had more power to advance the reputation and fortune of a poet.

"Spring" was published next year, with a dedication to the Countess of Hertford; whose practice it was to invite every summer some poet into the country, to hear her verses, and assist her studies. This honour was one summer conferred on Thomson, who took more delight in carousing with lord Hertford and his friends than assisting her ladyship's poe tical operations, and therefore never received another

summons.

Autumn," the season to which the "Spring" and "Summer" are preparatory, still remained unsung, and was delayed till he published (1730) his works collected.

He produced in 1727 the tragedy of " Sophonisba," which raised such expectation, that every rehearsal was dignified with a splendid audience, collected to anticipate the delight that was preparing for the public. It was observed, however, that nobody was much affected, and that the company rose as from a moral lecture.

It had upon the stage no unusual degree of success. Slight accidents will operate upon the taste of pleasure. There is a feeble line in the play:

O, Sophonisba, Sophonisba, O!

This gave occasion to a waggish parody:

O, Jemmy Thomson, Jemmy Thomson, O! which for a while was echoed through the town.

I have been told by Savage, that of the Prologue to "Sophonisba" the first part was written by Pope, who could not be persuaded to finish it; and that the concluding lines were added by Mallet.

Thomson was not long afterwards, by the influence of Dr. Rundle, sent to travel with Mr. Charles

Talbot, the eldest son of the Chancellor. He was yet young enough to receive new impressions, to have his opinions rectified, and his views enlarged; nor can he be supposed to have wanted that curiosity which is inseparable from an active and comprehensive mind. He may therefore now be supposed to have revelled in all the joys of intellectual luxury; he was every day feasted with instructive novelties; he lived splendidly without expense; and might expect when he returned home a certain establishment.

At this time a long course of opposition to Sir Robert Walpole had filled the nation with clamours for liberty, of which no man felt the want, and with care for liberty, which was not in danger. Thomson, in his travels on the Continent, found, or fancied so, many evils arising from the tyranny of other governments, that he resolved to write a very long poem, in five parts, upon Liberty.

While he was busy on the first book, Mr. Talbot died; and Thomson, who had been rewarded for his attendance by the place of secretary of the Briefs, pays in the initial lines a decent tribute to his memory.

Upon this great poem two years were spent, and the author congratulated himself upon it as his noblest work; but an author and his reader are not always of a mind. Liberty called in vain upon her votaries to read her praises, and reward her encomiast: her praises were condemned to harbour spiders, and to gather dust: none of Thomson's performances were so little regarded.

The judgment of the public was not erroneous: the recurrence of the same images must tire in time; an enumeration of examples to prove a position which nobody denied, as it was from the beginning superfluous, must quickly grow disgusting.

The poem of "Liberty" does not now appear in its original state; but, when the author's works were collected after his death, was shortened by Sir George Lyttleton, with a liberty which, as it has a manifest tendency to lessen the confidence of society, and to confound the characters of authors, by making one man write by the judgment of another, cannot be justified by any supposed propriety of the alteration, or kindness of the friend.-I wish to see it exhibited as its author left it.

Thomson now lived in ease and plenty, and seems for a while to have suspended his poetry; but he was soon called back to labour by the death of the Chancellor, for his place then became vacant; and though the lord Hardwicke delayed for some time to give it away, Thomson's bashfulness or pride, or some other motive perhaps not more laudable, withheld him from soliciting; and the new Chancellor would not give him what he would not ask.

He now relapsed to his former indigence; but the Prince of Wales was at that time struggling for popularity, and by the influence of Mr. Lyttelton professed himself the patron of wit; to him Thomson was introduced, and being gaily interrogated about the state of his affairs, said, "that they were in a more poetical posture than formerly ;" and had a pension allowed him of one hundred pounds a year.

Being now obliged to write, he produced (1738*) the tragedy of " Agamemnon," which was much shortened in the representation. It had the fate which most commonly attends mythological stories, and was only endured, but not favoured. It strug gled with such difficulty through the first night, that

*It is not generally known that in this year an edition of Milton's Areopagitica was published by Millar, to which Thomson wrote a Preface.

Thomson, coming late to his friends with whom he was to sup, excused his delay by telling them how the sweat of his distress had so disordered his wig, that he could not come till he had been refitted by a barber.

ance is honourable to both; for friendship is not always the sequel of obligation. By this tragedy a considerable sum was raised, of which part discharged his debts, and the rest was remitted to his sisters, whom, however removed from them by place or condition, he regarded with great tenderness, as will appear by the following Letter, which I communicate with much pleasure, as it gives me at once an oppor

and reflecting on the friendly assistance of Mr. Boswell, from whom I received it.

He so interested himself in his own drama, that if I remember right, as he sat in the upper gallery, he accompanied the players by audible recitation, till a friendly hint frighted him to silence. Pope counte-tunity of recording the fraternal kindness of Thomson, nanced "Agamemnon," by coming to it the first night, and was welcomed to the theatre by a general clap; he had much regard for Thomson, and once -expressed it in a poetical epistle sent to Italy, of which however he abated the value, by transplanting some of the lines into his Epistle to " Arbuthnot."

About this time the act was passed for licensing plays, of which the first operation was the prohibition of "Gustavus Vasa," a tragedy of Mr. Brooke, whom the public recompensed by a very liberal subscription; the next was the refusal of " Edward and Eleonora," offered by Thomson. It is hard to discover why either play should have been obstructed. Thomson likewise endeavoured to repair his loss by a subscription, of which I cannot now tell the success. When the public murmured at the unkind treatment of Thomson, one of the ministerial writers remarked, that "he had taken a Liberty which was not "agreeable to Britannia in any Season."

He was soon after employed, in conjunction with Mr. Mallet, to write the masque of " Alfred," which was acted before the Prince at Cliefden-house.

His next work (1745) was "Tancred and Sigismunda," the most successful of all his tragedies; for it still keeps its turn upon the stage. It may be doubted whether he was, either by the bent of nature or habits of study, much qualified for tragedy. It does not appear that he had much sense of the pathetic; and his diffusive and descriptive style produced declamation rather than dialogue.

His friend Mr. Lyttelton was now in power, and conferred upon him the office of surveyor-general of the Leeward Islands; from which, when his deputy was paid, he received about three hundred pounds a year.

The last piece that he lived to publish was the "Castle of Indolence," which was many years under his hand, but was at last finished with great accuracy. The first canto opens a scene of lazy luxury that fills the imagination.

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He was now at ease, but was not long to enjoy it; for, by taking cold on the water between London and Kew, he caught a disorder, which, with some careless exasperation, ended in a fever that put an end to his life, August 27, 1748. He was buried in the church of Richmond, without an inscription; but a monument has been erected to his memory in Westminster Abbey.

Thomson was of a stature above the middle size, and "more fat than bard beseems;" of a dull countenance, and a gross, unanimated, uninviting appearance; silent in mingled company, but cheerful among select friends, and by his friends very tenderly and warmly beloved.

He left behind him the tragedy of " Coriolanus," which was, by the zeal of his patron Sir George Lyttelton, brought upon the stage for the benefit of his family, and recommended by a Prologue, which Quin, who had long lived with Thomson in fond intimacy, spoke in such a manner as shewed him "to be," on that occasion, "no actor." The commencement of this benevolence is very honourable to Quin; who is reported to have delivered Thomson, then known to him only for his genius, from an arrest by a very considerable present; and its continu

"My dear Sister,

"Hagley in Worcestershire, October the 4th, 1747.

"I thought you had known me better than to "interpret my silence into a decay of affection, es"pecially as your behaviour has always been such "as rather to increase than diminish it. Don't ima"gine, because I am a bad correspondent, that I 66 can ever prove an unkind friend and brother. I "must do myself the justice to tell you, that my "affections are naturally very fixed and constant; " and if I had ever reason of complaint against you "(of which by the bye I have not the least shadow), "I am chonscious of so many defects in myself, as "dispose me to be not a little charitable and for. giving.

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"It gives me the truest heartfelt satisfaction to "hear you have a good, kind husband, and are in easy, contented circumstances; but were they "otherwise, that would only awaken and heighten my tenderness towards you. As our good and ten"der-hearted parents did not live to receive any ma"terial testimonies of that highest human gratitude I "owed them (than which nothing could have given me equal pleasure), the only return I can make "them now is my kindness to those they left behind "them. Would to God poor Lizy had lived longer, "to have been a farther witness of the truth of what "I say, and that I might have had the pleasure of "seeing once more a sister who so truly deserved my "esteem and love! But she is happy, while we "must toil a litlle longer here below; let us however do it cheerfully and gratefully, supported by "the pleasing hope of meeting yet again on a safer "shore, where to recollect the storms and difficulties "of life will not perhaps be inconsistent with that "blissful state. You did right to call your daughter "by her name: for you must needs have had a par"ticular tender friendship for one another, endeared " as you were by nature, by having passed the affec"tionate years of your youth together; and by that great softener and engager of hearts, mutual hardship. That it was in my power to ease it a little, I "account one of the most exquisite pleasures of my "life. But enough of this melancholy, though not unpleasing strain.

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"I esteem you for your sensible and disinterested "advice to Mr. Bell, as you will see by my Letter "to him; as I approve entirely of his marrying again, you may readily ask me why I don't marry at all. "My circumstances have hitherto been so variable " and uncertain in this fluctuating world, as induce to 66 keep me from engaging in such a state; and now, "though they are more settled, and of late (which

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"soon), I might possibly be tempted to think of a "thing not easily repaired if done amiss. I have "always been of opinion, that none make better "wives than the ladies of Scotland; and yet, who more forsaken than they, while the gentlemen are continually running abroad all the world over? "Some of them, it is true, are wise enough to return "for a wife. You see I am beginning to make in"terest already with the Scots ladies. But no more " of this infectious subject.-Pray let me hear from 64 you now and then; and though I am not a regular "correspondent, yet perhaps I may mend in that respect. Remember me kindly to your husband, "and believe me to be

"

"Your most affectionate brother,
"JAMES THOMSON."

(Addressed) "To Mrs. Thomson in Lanark." The benevolence of Thomson was fervid, but not active; he would give on all occasions what assistance his purse would supply; but the offices of intervention or solicitation he could not conquer his sluggishness sufficiently to perform. The affairs of others, however, were not more neglected than his own. He had often felt the inconveniences of idleness, but he never cured it; and was so conscious of his own character, that he talked of writing an Eastern Tale" of

"the Man who loved to be in Distress."

Among his peculiarities was a very unskilful and inarticulate manner of pronouncing any lofty or solemn composition. He was once reading to Dodington, who, being himself a reader eminently elegant, was so much provoked by his odd utterance, that he

snatched the paper from his hands, and told him that he did not understand his own verses.

Nature and on Life with the eye which Naturé bestows only on a poet, the eye that distinguishes, in every thing presented to its view, whatever there is on which imagination can delight to be detained, and with a mind that at 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 intersection of the sense, which are the necessary effects of rhyme.

His description 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 The poet leads us through possession of the mind. 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 range 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 always 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 en

The biographer of Thomson has remarked, that an author's life is best read in his works: his observation was not well-timed. Savage, who lived much with Thomson, once told me, he heard a lady remarking that she could gather from his works three parts of his character, that he was a 66 great Lover, a great "Swimmer, and rigorously abstinent;" but, said Savage, he knows not any love but that of the sex; he was perhaps never in cold water in his life; and he larged by subsequent revisals, as the author supposed his judgment to grow more exact, and as books or indulges himself in all the luxury that comes within conversation extended his knowledge and opened his his reach. Yet Savage always spoke with the most prospects. They are, I think, improved in general; eager praise of his social qualities, his warmth and yet I know not whether they have not lost part of constancy of friendship, and his adherence to his first what Temple calls their "race;" a word which, apacquaintance when the advancement of his reputa-plied to wines in its primitive sense, means the fla

tion had left them behind him.

vour 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

As a writer, he is entitled to one praise of the highest kind: his mode of thinking, and of expressing his thoughts, is original. His blank verse is no more the blank verse of Milton, or of any other poet, than the rhymes of Prior are the rhymes of Cowley. His numbers, his pauses, his diction, are of his own growth, without transcription, without Prologue to his posthumous play, that his works conimitation. He thinks in a peculiar train, and he thinks always as a man of genius; he looks round on

tained.

No line which, dying, he could wish to blot.

SPRING.

ARGUMENT.

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;
And from the bosom of yon dropping cloud,
While music wakes around, veil'd in a show'r
Of shadowing roses, on our plains descend.

O, Hertford! fitted or to shine in courts
With unaffected grace, or walk the plain
With innocence and meditation join'd
In soft assemblage, listen to my song,

Which thy own season paints; when Nature all
Is blooming and benevolent, like thee.

And see where surly Winter passes off,
Far to the north, and calls his ruffian blasts:
His blasts obey, and quit the howling hill,
The shatter'd forest, and the ravag'd vale;
While softer gales succeed, at whose kind touch,
Dissolving snows in livid torrents lost,
The mountains lift their green heads to the sky.
As yet the trembling year is unconfirm'd,
And Winter oft at eve resumes the breeze,
Chills the pale morn, and bids his driving sleets
Deform the day delightless; so that scarce
The bittern knows his time, with bill ingulft
To shake the sounding marsh; or from the shore
The plovers when to scatter o'er the heath,
And sing their wild notes to the list'ning waste.
At last from Aries rolls the bounteous sun,
And the bright Bull receives him. Then no more
Th' expansive atmosphere is cramp'd with cold;
But, full of life and vivifying soul,

Lifts the light clouds sublime, and spreads them thin, Fleecy and white, o'er all-surrounding heav'n.

Forth fly the tepid airs; and unconfin'd,
Unbinding earth, the moving softness strays.
Joyous, th' impatient husbandman perceives
Relenting Nature, and his lusty steers

Drives from their stalls, to where the well-us'd plough
Lies in the furrow, loosen'd from the frost.
There, unrefusing, to the harness'd yoke
They lend their shoulder, and begin their toil,
Cheer'd by the simple song and soaring lark.
Meanwhile incumbent o'er the shining share
The master leans, removes th' obstructing clay,
Winds the whole work, and sidelong lays the glebe.
While thro' the neighb'ring fields the sower stalks,
With measur'd step; and lib'ral throws the grain.
Into the faithful bosom of the ground:

The harrow follows harsh, and shuts the scene.
Be gracious, Heav'n! for now laborious Man
Has done his part. Ye fost'ring breezes, blow!
Ye soft'ning dews, ye tender show'rs, descend !
And temper all, thou world-reviving sun,
Into the perfect year! Nor ye who live
In luxury and ease, in pomp and pride,

Think these lost themes unworthy of your ear:
Such themes as these the rural Maro sung
To wide-imperial Rome, in the full height
Of elegance and taste, by Greece refin'd.
In ancient times, the sacred plough employ'd
The kings, and awful fathers of mankind:
And some, with whom compar'd your insect tribes
Are but the beings of a summer's day,
Have held the scale of empire, rul'd the storm
Of mighty war; then, with victorious hand,
Disdaining little delicacies, seiz'd
The plough, and greatly independent liv'd.

Ye generous Britons, venerate the plough;
And o'er your hills, and long withdrawing vales,
Let Autumn spread his treasures to the sun,
Luxuriant and unbounded: as the sea,
Far through his azure turbulent domain,
Your empire owns, and from a thousand shores
Wafts all the pomp of life into your ports;
So with superior boon may your rich soil,
Exuberant, Nature's better blessings pour
O'er ev'ry land; the naked nations clothe;
And be th' exhaustless granary of a world!

Nor only through the lenient air this change,
Delicious, breathes; the penetrative sun,
His force deep-darting to the dark retreat
Of vegetation, sets the steaming pow'r

At large, to wander o'er the verdant earth,
In various hues; but chiefly thee, gay green!
Thou smiling Nature's universal robe!
United light and shade! where the sight dwells
With growing strength, and ever-new delight.
From the moist meadow to the wither'd hill,
Led by the breeze, the vivid verdure runs ;
And swells, and deepens to the cherish'd eye..
The hawthorn whitens; and the juicy groves
Put forth their buds, unfolding by degrees,
Till the whole leafy forest stands display'd,
In full luxuriance, to the sighing gales;
Where the deer rustle through the twining brake,
And the birds sing conceal'd. At once, array'd
In all the colours 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 promis'd fruit
Lies yet a little embryo, unperceiv'd,
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 sweet-briar hedges I pursue my walk;
Or taste the smell of dairy; or ascend

Some eminence, Augusta, in thy plains,
And see the country, far diffus'd around,
One boundless blush, one white empurpled show'r
Of mingled blossoms, where the raptur❜d eye
Hurries from joy to joy; and, hid beneath
The fair profusion, yellow Autumn spies.

If, brush'd 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, engender'd by the hazy north,
Myriads on myriads, insect armies warp
Keen in the poison'd breeze; and wasteful eat,
Through buds and bark, into the blacken'd core,
Their eager way. A feeble race! yet oft
The sacred sons of vengeance; on whose course
Corrosive Famine waits, and kills the year.
To check this plague, the skilful farmer, chaff
And blazing straw, before his orchard burns;
Til, all involv'd in smoke the latent foe
From ev'ry cranny suffocated falls:

Or scatters o'er the blooms the pungent dust
Of pepper, fatal to the frosty tribe:

Or, when the envenom'd leaf begins to curl,
With sprinkled water drowns them in their nest;
Nor, while they pick them up with busy bill,
The little trooping birds unwisely scares.

Be patient, swains: these cruel-seeming winds Blow not in vain. Far hence they keep repress'd Those deep'ning clouds on clouds, surcharg'd with

rain,

That o'er the vast Atlantic hither borne,

In endless train, would quench the summer blaze,
And, cheerless, drown the crude unripen'd year.
The north-east spends his rage: he now shut up
Within his iron cave, th' effusive south
Warms the wide air; and o'er the void of Heav'n
Breathes the big clouds with vernal show'rs distent.
At first a dusky wreath they seem to rise,
Scarce staining ether; but by swift degrees,
In heaps on heaps, the doubling vapour sails
Along the loaded sky; and mingling deep,
Sits on th' horizon round settled gloom:
Not such as wintry storms on mortals shed,
Oppressing life; but lovely, gentle, kind,
And full of ev'ry hope and ev'ry joy,
The wish of Nature. Gradual sinks the breeze
Into a perfect calm; that not a breath
Is heard to quiver through the closing woods,
Or rustling turn the many-twinkling leaves
Of aspin tall. Th' uncurling floods, diffus'd
In glassy breadth, seem through delusive lapse
Forgetful of their course. 'Tis silence all,
And pleasing expectation. Herds and flocks
Drop the dry sprig, and mute-imploring eye
The falling verdure. Hush'd in short suspense,
The plumy people streak their wings with oil,
To throw the lucid moisture trickling off;
And wait th' approaching sign to strike, at once,
Into the gen'ral choir. E'en mountains, vales,
And forests seem, impatient, to demand
The promis'd sweetness, Man superior walks
Amid the glad creation, musing praise,
And looking lively gratitude. At last,

The clouds consign their treasures to the fields;
And, softly shaking on the dimpled pool
Prelusive drops, let all their moisture flow,
In large effusion, o'er the freshen'd world.
The stealing show'r is scarce to patter heard,
By such as wander through the forest walks,
Beneath th' umbrageous multitude of leaves.

But who can hold the shade, while Heav'n descends
In universal bounty, shedding herbs,

And fruits, and flow'rs, on Nature's ample lap?
Swift Fancy fir'd anticipates their growth;
And, while the milky nutriment distils,
Beholds the kindling country colour round.

Thus all day long the full-distended clouds

Indulge their genial stores, and well-show'r'd earth
Is deep enrich'd 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

Th' illumin'd mountain, through the forest streams,
Shakes on the floods, and in a yellow mist,
Far smoking o'er th' interminable plain,
In twinkling myriads lights the dewy gems.
Moist, bright, and green, the landscape laughs around
Full swell the woods; their every music wakes
Mix'd in wild concert with the warbling brooks
Increas'd, the distant bleatings of the hills,
And hollow lows responsive from the vales,
Whence blending all the sweeten'd zephyr springs,
Meantime, refracted from yon eastern cloud,
Bestriding earth, the grand ethereal bow
Shoots up immense; and ev'ry hue unfolds,
In fair proportion, running from the red,
To where the violet fades into the sky.
Here, awful Newton! the dissolving clouds
Form, fronting on the sun, thy show'ry prism;
And to the sage-instructed eye unfold
The various twine of light, by thee disclos'd
From the white mingling maze. Not so the boy:
He wond❜ring views the bright enchantment bend,
Delightful, o'er the radiant fields, and runs
To catch the falling glory; but amaz'd
Beholds the amusive arch before him fly,
Then vanish quite away. Still night succeeds;
A soften'd shade, and saturated earth
Awaits the morning beam, to give to light
Rais'd through ten thousand diff'rent 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 pow'r
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,
Fir'd by the nodding verdure of its brow.
With such a lib'ral hand has Nature flung
Their seeds abroad, blown them about in winds,
Innum❜rous mix'd them with the nursing mold,
The moist❜ning current, and prolific rain.

But who their virtues can declare? who pierce,
With vision pure, into these secret stores
Of health, and life, and joy? the food of Man,
While yet he liv'd in innocence, and told
A length of golden years, unflesh'd in blood;
A stranger to the savage arts of life,
Death, rapine, carnage, surfeit, and disease;
The lord, and not the tyrant, of the world.
The first fresh dawn then wak'd the gladden'd race
Of uncorrupted Man, nor blush'd to see

The sluggard sleep beneath its sacred beam.
For their light slumbers gently fum'd away;
And up they rose as vig'rous as the sun,
Or to the culture of the willing glebe,
Or to the cheerful tendance of the flock.
Meantime the song went round; and dance and sport,
Wisdom and friendly talk, successive, stole
Their hours away: while in the rosy vale
Love breath'd his infant sighs, from anguish free,

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