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The rigid hoar-frost melts before his beam ;
And hung on every spray, on every blade
Of grass, the myriad dew-drops twinkle


James Thomson.-Born 1700, Died 1748.

873.-A WINTER LANDSCAPE. Through the hushed air the whit'ning shower

descends, At first thin-wavering, till at last the flakes Fall broad and wide, and fast, dimming the

day With a continual flow. The cherished fields Put on their winter robe of purest white : 'Tis brightness all, save where the new snow

melts Along the mazy current. Low the woods Bow their hoar head; and ere the languid


Faint from the west, emits his evening ray ;
Earth's universal face, deep hid, and chill,
Is one wide dazzling waste, that buries wide
The works of man. Drooping, the labourer.


All winter drives along the darken'd air,
In his own loose revolving fields the swain
Disaster'd stands; sees other hills ascend,
Of unknown joyless brow, and other scenes,
Of horrid prospect, shag the trackless plain ;
Nor finds the river nor the forest, hid
Beneath the formless wild ; but wanders on
From hill to dale, still more and more astray,
Impatient flouncing through the drifted

heaps, Stung with the thoughts of home; the

thoughts of home Rush on his nerves, and call their vigour

forth In many a vain attempt. How sinks his

soul ! What black despair, what horror, fills his

heart! When for the dusky spot which fancy

feign'd, His tufted cottage rising through the snow, He meets the roughness of the middle waste, Far from the track and bless'd abode of man ; While round him night resistless closes fast, And every tempest howling o'er his head, Renders the savage wilderness more wild. Then throng the busy shapes into his mind, Of cover'd pits, unfathomably deep, A dire descent! beyond the power of frost; Of faithless bogs ; of precipices huge Smoothed up with snow; and what is land

unknown, What water of the still unfrozen spring, In the loose marsh or solitary lake, Where the fresh fountain from the bcttom

boils. These check his fearful steps, and down he

sinks Beneath the shelter of the shapeless drift, Thinking o'er all the bitterness of death, Mix'd with the tender anguish nature shoots Through the wrung bosom of the dying man,His wife, his children, and his friends, un

seen. In vain for him the 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.

The deadly winter seizes, shuts up sense,
And o'er his inmost vitals creeping cold,
Lays him along the snows a stiffen'd corse,
Stretch'd out, and bleaching on the northern

James Thomson.-Born 1700, Died 1748.

Stands covered o'er with snow, and then

demands The fruit of all his toil. The fowls of heaven, Tamed by the cruel season, crowd around The winnowing store, and claim the little

boon Which Providence assigns them. One alone, The redbreast, sacred to the household gods, Wisely regardful of the embroiling sky, In joyless fields and thorny thickets, leaves His shivering mates, and pays to trusted




he is :

On every

His annual visit. Half afraid, he first
Against the window beats; then, brisk,

alights On the warm hearth; then hopping o'er the

floor, Eyes all the smiling family askance, And pecks, and starts, and wonders where Till more familiar grown, the table crumbs Attract his slender feet. The foodless wilds Pour forth their brown inhabitants. The

hare, Though timorous of heart, and hard beset By death in various forms, dark snares and

dogs, And more unpitying men, the garden seeks, Urged on by fearless want. The bleating

kine Eye the bleak heaven, and next, the glist' ning

earth, With looks of dumb despair ; then, sad dis

persed, Dig for the wither'd herb through heaps of

snow. As thus the snows arise, and foul and


874.-A HYMN. These, as they change, Almighty Father, these Are but the varied God. The rolling year

Is full of thee. Forth in the pleasing

Spring Thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and love. Wide flush the fields; the softening air is

Th' impetuous song, and say from whom you

rage. His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling


balm ;

Echo the mountains round; the forest

smiles ; And every sense, and every heart, is joy. Then comes thy glory in the Summer

months, With light and heat refulgent. Then thy

Sun Shoots full perfection through the swelling

year : And oft thy voice in dreadful thunder

speaks ; And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve, By brooks and groves, in hollow-whispering

gales. Thy bounty shines in Autumn unconfined, And spreads a common feast for all that

lives. In Winter awful thou ! with clouds and

storms Around thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest

roll'd, Majestic darkness ! on the whirlwind's wing, Riding sublime. thou bidst the world adore, And humblest. nature with thy northern

blast. Mysterious round! what skill, what force

divine, Deep felt, in these appear ! a simple train, Yet so delightful mix’d, with such kind art, Such beauty and beneficence combined ; Shade, unperceived, so softening into shade ; And all so forming an harmonious whole ; That, as they still succeed, they ravish still. But wandering oft, with bruto unconscious

gaze, Man marks not thee, marks not the mighty

hand, That, ever busy, wheels the silent spheres ; Works in the secret deep; shoots, steaming,

thence The fair profusion that o'erspreads the

Spring : Flings from the Sun direct the flaming day; Feeds every creature ; hurls the tempests

forth; And, as on Earth this grateful change

revolves, With transport touches all the springs of life.

Nature, attend ! join every living soul, Beneath the spacious temple of the sky, In adoration join ; and, ardent, raise One general song! To him, ye vocal gales, Breathe soft, whose Spirit in your freshness

breathes : Oh, talk of him in solitary glooms; Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely waving

pine Fills the brown shade with a religious awe. And

ye, whose bolder note is heard afar, Who shake th' astonish'd world, lift high to


And let me catch it as I muse along.
Ye headlong torrents, rapid and profound ;
Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze
Along the vale ; and thou, majestic main,
A secret world of wonders in thyself,
Sound his stupendous praiso; whose greater

voice Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall. Soft roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and

flowers, In mingled clouds to him ; whose Sun exalts, Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil

paints. Ye forests bend, ye harvests wave, to him ; Breathe your still song into the reaper's

heart, As home he goes beneath the joyous Moon. Ye that keep watch in Heaven, as Earth

asleep Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams, Ye constellations, while your angels strike, Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre. Great source of day! best image here below Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide, From world to world, the vital ocean round, On Nature write with every beam his praise. The thunder rolls; be hush'd the prostrato

world; While cloud to cloud returns the solemn

hymn. Bleat out afresh, ye hills : ye mossy rocks, Retain the sound: the broad responsive low, Ye valleys, raise ; for the Great Shepherd

reigns; And his unsuffering kingdom yet will come. Ye woodlands all, awake: a boundless song Burst from the groves! and when the restless

day, Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep, Sweetest of birds ! sweet Philomela, charm The listening shades, and teach the night his

praise. Ye chief, for whom the whole creation smiles, At once the head, the heart, and tongue of

all, Crown the great hymn! in swarming cities

vast, Assembled men, to the deep organ join The long-resounding voice, oft breaking

clear, At solemn pauses, through the swelling base ; And, as each mingling flame increases each, In one united ardour rise to Heaven. Or if you rather chuse the rural shade, And find a fane in every secret grove; There let the shepherd's flute, the virgin's

lay, The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre, Still sing the God of Seasons, as they roll. For me, when I forget the darling theme, Whether the blossom blows, the Summer


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Great Homer's song had never fired the

breast To thirst of glory, and heroic deeds ; Sweet Maro's Muse, sunk in inglorious

rest, Had silent slept amid the Mincian reeds : The wits of modern time had told their

beads, And monkish legends been their only

strains ; Our Milton's Eden had lain wrapt in

weeds, Our Shakspeare stroll’d and laugh'd with

Warwick swains, Ne had my master Spenser charm'd his

Mulla's plains.

Sinre God is ever present, ever felt,
In the void waste, as in the city full ;
And where he vital breathes, there must be

joy. When er'n at last the solemn hour shall

cone, And wing my mystic flight to future worlds, I cheerful will obey : there, with new

Will rising wonders sing : I cannot go
Where Universal Love not smiles around,
Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their suns ;
From seeming evil still educing good,
And better thence again, and better still,
In infinite progression. But I lose
Myself in him, in Light ineffable ;
Come then, expressive Silence, muse his

Jumes Thomson.-Born 1700, Died 1748.

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0, who can speak the vigorous joy of

health ? Unclogg'd the body, unobscured the mind : The morning rises gay, with pleasing

stealth, The temperate evening falls serene and

kind. In health the wiser brutes true gladness

find. See! how the younglings frisk along the

meads, As May comes on, and wakes the balmy

wind; Rampant with life, their joy all joy

exceeds : Yet what but high-strung health this dancing

pleasaunce breeds?”
James Thomson.-Born 1700, Died 1748.

A thousand shapes you wear with ease,
And still in every shape you please.
Now wrapt in some mysterious dream,
A lone philosopher you seem ;
Now quick from hill to vale you fly,
And now you sweep the vaulted sky;
A shepherd next, you haunt the plain,
And warble forth your oaten strain.
A lover now, with all the grace
Of that sweet passion in your face ;
Then, calm’d to friendship, you assume
The gentle-looking Hartford's bloom,
As, with her Musidora, she
(Her Musidora fond of thee)
Amid the long withdrawing vale,
Awakes the rivall’d nightingale.

Thine is the balmy breath of morn,
Just as the dew-bent rose is born ;
And while meridian fervours beat,
Thine is the woodland dumb retreat ;
But chief, when evening scenes decay,
And the faint landscape swims away,
Thine is the doubtful soft decline,
And that best hour of musing thine.

Descending angels bless thy train,
The virtues of the sage, and swain ;
Plain Innocence, in white array’d,
Before thee lifts her fearless head :
Religion's beams around thee shine,
And cheer thy glooms with light divine :
About thee sports sweet Liberty ;
And rapt Urania sings to thee.

Oh, let me pierce thy secret cell!
And in thy deep recesses dwell ;
Perhaps from Norwood's oak-clad hill,
When Meditation has her fill,
I just may cast my careless eyes
Where London's spiry turrets rise,
Think of its crimes, its cares, its pain,
Then shield me in the woods again.

876.–ODE. O Nightingale, best poet of the grove, That plaintive strain can ne'er belorg to

thee, Blest in the full possession of thy love : O lend that strain, sweet nightingale, to

me !

'Tis mine, alas! to mourn my wretched fate :

I love a maid who all my bosom charms, Yet lose my days without this lovely mate;

Inhuman Fortune keeps her from my arms.

You, happy birds! by nature's simple laws Lead your soft lives, sustain'd by Nature's

fare ; You dwell wherever roving fancy draws,

And love and song is all your pleasing care :

James Thomson.-Born 1700, Died 1748.

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878.—THE HAPPY MAN. He's not the Happy Man to whom is given A plenteous fortune by indulgent Heaven ; Whose gilded roofs on shining columns rise, And painted walls enchant the gazer's eyes ; Whose table flows with hospitable cheer, And all the various bounty of the year ; Whose valleys smile, whose gardens breathe

the spring, Whose carved mountains bleat, and forests

sing; For whom the cooling shade in Summer

twines, While his full cellars give their generous

wines ; From whose wide fields unbounded Autumn

pours A golden tide into his swelling stores;

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While youth, and health, and vigour string

his nerves. Er'n not all these, in one rich lot combined, Can make the Happy Man, without the

mind; Where Judgment sits clear-sighted, and

surveys The chain of Reason with unerring gaze ; Where Fancy lives, and to the brightening

His fairer scenes and bolder figures rise ;

Where social Love exerts her soft command, | And plays the pas

ons with

tender hand, Whence every virtue flows, in rival strife, And all the moral harmony of life.

James Thomson.-Born 1700, Died 1748.

879.-RULE BRITANNIA. When Britain first, at Heaven's command,

Arose from out the azure main, This was the charter of the land,

And guardian angels sung the strain : Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves !

Britons never shall be slaves.

Silent nymph, with curious eye,
Who, the purple evening, lie
On the mountain's lonely van,
Beyond the noise of busy man;
Painting fair the form of things,
While the yellow linnet sings ;
Or the tuneful nightingale
Charms the forest with her tale ;
Come, with all thy various hues,
Come and aid thy sister Muse ;
Now, while Phæbus riding high,
Gives lustre to the land and sky!
Grongar Hill invites my song,
Draw the landscape bright and strong ;
Grongar, in whose mossy cells
Sweetly musing Quiet dwells ;
Grongar, in whose silent shade,
For the modest Muses made ;
So oft I have, the evening still,
At the fountain of a rill,
Sate upon a flowery bed,
With my hand beneath my head ;
While stray'd my eyes o'er Towy's flood,
Over mead and over wood,
From house to house, from hill to hill,
Till Contemplation had her fill.

About his chequer'd sides I wind,
And leave his brooks and meads behind,
And groves, and grottoes where I lay,
And vistas shooting beams of day :
Wide and wider spreads the vale,
As circles on a smooth canal :
The mountains round, unhappy fate ;
Sooner or later of all height,
Withdraw their summits from the skies,
And lessen as the others rise :
Still the prospect wider spreads,
Adds a thousand woods and meads;
Still it widens, widens still,
And sinks the newly-risen hill.

Now, I gain the mountain's brow,
What a landscape lies below!
No clouds, no vapours intervene;
But the gay, the open scene
Does the face of Nature show,
In all the hues of Heaven's bow!
And, swelling to embrace the light,
Spreads around beneath the sight.

Old castles on the cliffs arise,
Proudly towering in the skies !
Rushing from the woods, the spires
Seem from hence ascending fires !
Half his beams Apollo sheds
On the yellow mountain-heads !
Gilds the fleeces of the flocks,
And glitters on the broken rocks!

Below me trees unnumber'd rise,
Beautiful in various dyes :
The gloomy pine, the poplar blue,
The yellow beech, the sable yew,
The slender fir that taper grows,
The sturdy oak with broad-spread borghs.
And beyond the purple grove,
Haunt of Phyllis, queen of love!

The nations not so blest as thee,

Must in their turn to tyrants fall, Whilst thou shalt flourish great and free, The dread and envy of them all.

Rule Britannia, &c.

Still more majestic shalt thou rise,

More dreadful from each foreign stroke; As the loud blast that tears the skies, Serves but to root thy native oak.

Rule Britannia, &c.

Thee hanghty tyrants ne'er shall tame ;

All their attempts to bend thee down Will but arouse thy generous flame, And work their woe and thy renown.

Rule Britannia, &c.

To thee belongs the rural reign ;

Thy cities shall with commerce shine; All shall be subject to the main, And every shore it circles thine.

Rule Britannia, &c.

The Muses, still with freedom found,

Shall to thy happy coast repair ; Biest isle, with matchless beauty crowned, And manly hearts to guard the fair.

Rule Britannia, &c. James Thomson.-Born 1700, Died 1748.

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