To pamper luxury, and thin mankind;
To see each joy the sons of pleasure know
Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe.
Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade,
There the pale artist plies the sickly trade;
Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomps display,
There the black gibbet glooms beside the way.
The dome where Pleasure holds her midnight reign,
Here, richly deck'd admits the gorgeous train:
Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square,
The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare.
Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy!
Sure these denote one universal joy!

Are these thy serious thoughts?Ah! turn thine eyes
Where the poor houseless shivering female lies.
She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest,
Has wept at tales of innocence distrest;
Her modest looks the cottage might adorn,

Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn:
Now, lost to all, her friends, her virtue fled,
Near her betrayer's door she lays her head,

And, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the shower,
With heavy heart deplores that luckess hour,
When idly first, ambitious of the town,

She left her wheel, and robes of country brown.
Do thine, sweet AUBURN, thine, the loveliest train,
Do thy fair tribes participate her pain?
E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led,
At proud men's doors they ask a little bread!

Ah, no! To distant climes, a dreary scene,
Where half the convex world intrudes between,
Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go,
Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe.
Far different there from all that charm'd before,
The various terrors of that horrid shore:
Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray,
And fiercely shed intolerable day;

Those matted woods where birds forget to sing,
But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling;

Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crown'd,
Where the dark scorpion gathers death around;
Where at each step the stranger fears to wake
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake;
Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey,
And savage men more murderous still than they;
While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies,

Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies; -
Far different these from every former scene,
The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green,
The breezy covert of the warbling grove,
That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love.

Good Heaven! what sorrows gloom'd that parting day
That call'd them from their native walks away;
When the poor exiles, every pleasure past,

Hung round the bowers, and fondly look'd their last,
And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain
For seats like these beyond the western main;
And, shuddering still to face the distant deep,
Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep.
The good old sire was first prepared to go
To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe;
But, for himself, in conscious virtue brave,
He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave.
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears,
The fond companion of his helpless years,
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms,
And left a lover's for her father's arms.
With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes,
And bless'd the cot where every pleasure rose;
And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear,
And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear;
Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief
In all the silent manliness of grief.

O luxury! thou curst by Heaven's decree,
How ill exchanged are things like these for thee!
How do thy potions, with insidious joy,
Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy!

Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown,
Boast of a florid vigour not their own.

At every draught more large and large they grow,
A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe;

Till, sapp'd their strength, and every part unsound,
Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round.
E'en now the devastation is begun,

And half the business of destruction done;
E'en now, methinks, as pondering here I stand,
I see the rural virtues leave the land.

Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail,
That idly waiting flaps with every gale,
Downward they move, a melancholy band,
Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand.
Contented toil, and hospitable care,

And kind connubial tenderness are there;
And piety with wishes placed above,
And steady loyalty, and faithful love.
And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid,
Still first to fly where sensual joys invade;
Unfit, in these degenerate times of shame,
To catch the heart or strike for honest fame;
Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried,
My shame in crowds, my solitary pride;
Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe,
That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so;
Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel,
Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well,
Farewell; and, O! where'er thy voice be tried,
On Torno's cliffs or Pambamarca's side,
Whether where equinoctial fervours glow,
Or Winter wraps the polar world in snow,
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time,
Redress the rigours of th' inclement clime;
Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain,
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain;
Teach him, that States of native strength possesst,
Though very poor, may still be very blest;
That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay,
As ocean sweeps the labour'd mole away;
While self-dependent power can time defy,
As rocks resist the billows and the sky.

JAMES THOMSON:

SKETCH OF HIS LIFE.

EDNAM, a small village on the Tweed, near Kelso, in Scotland, was the birth-place of JAMES THOMSON; the time, September 11, 1700. He was the third son and the fourth child in a family of nine children. At the time of his birth, his father was minister of Ednam parish, but soon after removed to Southdean, a larger parish, near Jedburgh, where he continued till his death, in 1718.

About the age of twelve, young Thomson was sent to the Jedburgh Grammar School, where he attracted the notice of a minister of the neighbourhood, and also of several of the gentry, by his early essays at poetry. After three years at the School, he was sent to the University of Edinburgh, with a view of preparing for the ministry. At Edinburgh, the poetical reputation he had already won soon gained him the friendship of David Mallet and of Patrick Murdoch, who afterwards wrote a life of him. On the death of his father, the family became somewhat straitened for means; nevertheless his mother removed with her children to Edinburgh, resolved to complete the education of James by strict economy.

In due time Thomson set about his sacred studies, and stuck to them, more or less, till 1724, when, for some cause or other, he seems to have got so disgusted with divinity, that he threw it up, and turned his mind to more congenial pursuits. Having among his associates in the University some young men who aspired to literary eminence, he took the advice of a lady, a friend of his mother, and resolved to try his fortune in London. His old friend Mallet had already gone to London, and was living there; and there Thomson arrived some time in the year 1725, with little money in his pocket, but well recommended by letters of introduction to persons of influence, both social and literary. Before leaving Edinburgh, he had written much, if not most, of his Winter; and he took the manuscript with him. After some weeks in London, the same lady who had advised him to go thither was instrumental in getting him the place of tutor to a son of Lord Binning, then residing at East Barnet, ten miles from the city.

While thus employed, Thomson finished his Winter, and, this done, lost no time in seeking a publisher. He did not easily find one; but at last a publisher named Millan was induced to purchase the poem at the low price of three guineas. Even at this it was likely for some time to prove a bad bargain for the publisher, as the poem found no readers. The poem was dedicated to Sir Spencer Compton, then Speaker of the House of Commons, but even he took no notice of it. At length, the Rev. Mr. Whatley, afterwards prebendary of York, being one day in Millan's shop, happened to take up the poem, and was so much pleased with what he read, that he forthwith went to sounding the author's praises. The Speaker's attention was now drawn to the poem, and he invited Thomson to visit him; and, on his doing so, made him a present of twenty guineas. The result was, that Winter soon became a general favourite; its growth in popularity being so rapid that two editions were called for before the year was out. The next year, 1727, Summer was given to the public, and was followed, in 1728, by Spring; the latter being dedicated to the Countess of Hertford, at whose residence it was written.

By this time Thomson was a recognised member of the literary circle of London. Still the poems were not putting much money in his purse, though he received fifty guineas for Spring. In 1730, a new edition of The Seasons was published by subscription; the fourth of the series, Autumn, being then added to the others, which was dedicated to Speaker Onslow. The same edition included the author's poem To the Memory of Sir Isaac Newton. Among the subscribers were many persons of high social rank, and also some of the foremost men of letters; Pope himself taking three copies. In five years Thomson had climbed the steep hill of fame, and now stood at the top, numbering among his friends and patrons the first wits of the day, the most famous poets, and the most distinguished members of society.

The year before the publication of the collected Seasons, Thomson undertook to work the mine of dramatic poetry, thinking that the stage would bring him larger returns of money than he had yet gained. Accordingly his tragedy of Sophonisba was acted in February, 1730, and was dedicated to the Queen. Public expectation was raised very high, but the piece was from the first little better than a failure.

The next year, the influence of Dr. Rundle, afterwards Bishop of Derry, procured Thomson the situation of travelling companion to Charles, son of Sir Charles Talbot. The continental tour with young Talbot lasted about a year, the travellers returning to England at the close of 1731. Young Talbot died the September following; and the poet lamented his death in some verses which speak well for his warmth of heart, though not for the felicity of his Muse. Two months afterwards, Sir Charles was made Lord Chancellor; and one of his first official acts was to appoint Thomson to the sinecure office of Secretary of Briefs in the Court of Chancery. This placed the poet in a comfortable position, and relieved him from dependence on his pen. As he had a natural love of country life, in May, 1736, he removed to Richmond, where he took a cottage bordering on the Thames, with a small garden attached, so that he could indulge his favourite taste for gardening. Here he revised and enlarged The Seasons, and carried them through three new editions, in 1738, 1744, and 1746.

The death of the Lord Chancellor, in 1737, cost the poet his office, and this because, either from indolence or pride, he did not apply for it to the new Chancellor, who kept it open for some time on purpose that he might do so. Thomson now became straitened again for means, and so went to trying his hand anew at the drama. He wrote several pieces, but none of them have any real merit. At this period, a note-worthy incident occurred. Thomson had been arrested for a debt of £70. While in confinement, he was visited by Quin, the actor, who had a supper ordered from a neighbouring tavern. When it was over, Quin said it was time they should square accounts. At this the poet was much alarmed. The great actor then said, "When I read The Seasons, I was so delighted, that I put the poet down in my will for £100; and you must allow me to pay it with my own hand." He thereupon laid the sum on the table, and immediately withdrew.

At length, in 1744, Lord Lyttleton came into power, and he at once gave Thomson the office of Surveyor-General of the Leeward Islands, also a sinecure, with a salary of £300 a-year, which he held till his death, Lyttleton's scat at Hagley-Park being one of his favourite resorts.

The last of Thomson's works published during his life was The Castle of Indolence, which he had been working at for fifteen years. Its origin, in his fancy, dates back to his youth; and from a few disconnected stanzas, intended to ridicule the indolence of himself and some of his friends, it grew into its present shape. It is, I think, far the best of his works, and he took the most pains with it.

The poet died in August, 1748, in consequence of a cold caught through careless exposure on the river. He was an exceedingly amiable man, a delightful companion, and was sincerely mourned by a large circle of friends.