ROBERT BLAIR.

Thou couldst not hold; self-vigorous he rose,
And, shaking off thy fetters, soon retook
Those spoils his voluntary yielding lent:
(Sure pledge of our releasement from thy thrall!)
Twice twenty days he sojourn'd here on earth,
And show'd himself alive to chosen witnesses,
By proofs so strong that the most slow-assenting
Had not a scruple left. This having done,
Methinks I see him
He mounted up to heaven.
Climb the aërial heights, and glide along
Athwart the severing clouds; but the faint eye,
Flung backwards in the chase, soon drops its
hold,

Disabled quite, and jaded with pursuing.
Heaven's portals wide expand to let him in;
Nor are his friends shut out: as a great prince
Not for himself alone procures admission,
But for his train: it was his royal will,
That where he is there should his followers be.
Death only lies between, a gloomy path!
Made yet more gloomy by our coward fears!
But nor untrod, nor tedious; the fatigue
Will soon go off. Besides, there's no by-road
To bliss. Then why, like ill-conditioned children,
Start we at transient hardships in the way
That leads to purer air and softer skies,
And a ne'er-setting sun? Fools that we are!
We wish to be where sweets unwith'ring bloom,
But straight our wish revoke, and will not go.
So have I seen, upon a summer's even,
Fast by the riv'let's brink, a youngster play:
How wishfully he looks to stem the tide!
This moment resolute, next unresolved:
At last he dips his foot; but, as he dips,
His fears redouble, and he runs away
From th' inoffensive stream, unmindful now
Of all the flowers that paint the further bank,
Thrice-welcome
And smiled so sweet of late.

death!

That, after many a painful bleeding step,
Conducts us to our home, and lands us safe
On the long-wish'd-for shore. Prodigious change!
Our bane turn'd to a blessing; death, disarm'd,
Loses its fellness quite. All thanks to Him
Who scourg'd the venom out. Sure the last end
Of the good man is peace. How calm his exit!
Night dews fall not more gently to the ground,
Nor weary worn-out winds expire so soft.
Behold him in the evening-tide of life,
A life well spent, whose early care it was
His riper years should not upbraid his green:
By unperceived degrees he wears away;
Yet, like the sun, seems larger at his setting!

High in his fai h and hope, look how he reaches
After the prize in view! and, like a bird
That's hamper'd, struggles hard to get away;
Whilst the glad gates of sight are wide expanded
To let new glories in, the first fair fruits
Of the fast-coming harvest. Then, O then,
Each earth-born joy grows vile, or disappears,
Shrunk to a thing of nought. O how he longs
To have his passport sign'd, and be dismissed!
'Tis done, and now he's happy. The glad soul
Has not a wish uncrown'd. E'en the lag flesh
Rests too in hope of meeting once again
Its better half, never to sunder more.
Nor shall it hope in vain: the time draws on
When not a single spot of burial earth,
Whether on land or in the spacious sea,
But must give back its long-committed dust
Inviolate: and faithfully shall these
Make up the full account; not the least atom
Embezzled or mislaid of the whole tale.
Each soul shall have a body ready furnish'd;
Hence, ye pro-
And each shall have his own.

fane!

Ask not how this can be. Sure the same pow'r
That rear'd the piece at first, and took it down,
Can reassemble the loose scatter'd parts,
Almighty God
And put them as they were.
Has done much more; nor is his arm impair'd
Thro' length of days; and what he can he will:
His faithfulness stands bound to see it done.
When the dread trumpet sounds, the slumb'ring

dust,

Not unattentive to the call, shall wake;
And ev'ry joint possess its proper place,
With a new elegance of form, unknown
To its first state. Nor shall the conscious soul
Mistake its partner; but, amidst the crowd
Singling its other half, into its arms

Shall rush, with all the impatience of a man
That's new come home, and, having long been
absent,

With haste runs over every different room,

In pain to see the whole. Thrice happy meeting!
Nor time, nor death shall ever part them more.

"Tis but a night, a long and moonless night; We make the grave our bed, and then are gone!

Thus, at the shut of even, the weary bird Leaves the wide air, and in some lonely brake Cow'rs down, and dozes till the dawn of day; Then claps his well-fledged wings, and bears away.

JAMES THOMSON.

BORN 1700- DIED 1748.

his works, in which "The Seasons" are placed | volved in debt, and exposed himself more than in their natural order. It was published by once to the gripe of the law. One of these subscription at a guinea a copy. Among the 387 subscribers was Alexander Pope (to whom Thomson had been introduced by Mallet), who took three copies. In the same year was produced at Drury Lane his tragedy of "Sophonisba," the success of which was not at all commensurate with the expectation which had been raised. The public discovered that splendid diction and poetic imagery, on the faith of which all their anticipations of a good play were founded, did not necessarily imply a high degree of dramatic talent. Slight accidents, too, as Dr. Johnson has remarked, will operate upon the taste of pleasure. There is a feeble line in the tragedy

O, Sophonisba! Sophonisba, O!

which gave rise to a waggish parody

O, Jemmy Thomson! Jemmy Thomson, O!

and for a while was echoed through London.

Having been selected as the travelling companion of the Hon. Charles Talbot, eldest son of the lord-chancellor, he made a tour on the Continent with that young gentleman, visiting most of the courts of Europe. With what pleasure the poet must have passed or sojourned among classic scenes which he had often viewed, in imagination! They spent some time during November, 1731, at Rome, and Thomson no doubt indulged the wish expressed in one of his letters, "to see the fields where Virgil gathered his immortal honey, and tread the same ground where men have thought and acted so greatly." On his return the chancellor appointed him his secretary of briefs, which was almost a sinecure. Soon after he published his poem of "Liberty," which, though but coldly received, he himself thought the best, of all his writings.

occasions furnished Quin, the eminent actor, with an opportunity of displaying at once his generous disposition and his friendship for genius. Being informed that the author of "The Seasons" was in confinement for a debt of about £70, he hastened to the place, although personally unacquainted with the poet, and desired to be introduced to him. On being admitted to Thomson he said, "Sir, you don't know me, I believe; but my name is Quin.” The poet replied that though he could not boast of the honour of a personal acquaintance, he was no stranger either to his name or his talents, and invited him to take a seat. Quin then told him that he had come to sup with him, but that, as he presumed, it would have been inconvenient to have had the supper prepared in the place they were in, he had taken the liberty of ordering it to be sent from an adjacent tavern. The supper accordingly soon made its appearance, with a liberal supply of good wine. After the cloth had been removed, and the bottle had moved briskly between them, Quin took occasion to explain the cause of his visit by saying "it was now time to enter upon business." Thomson, supposing that he desired his poetical assistance in some dramatic matter, expressed his readiness to do anything in his power to serve him. "Sir," said Mr. Quin, "you mistake my meaning. Soon after I had read your Seasons' I took it into my head that as I had something in the world to leave behind me when I died, I would make my will; and among the rest of my legatees, I set down the author of The Seasons' for one hundred pounds; and to-day, hearing that you were in this place, I thought I might as well have the pleasure of paying the money myself as to order my executors to pay it, when, perhaps, you might have less need of it. And this, Mr. Thomson, is the business I came about." Saying which, he laid before him a bank-note for £100, and without giving

tude, took his leave.

By the death of Lord Talbot, Thomson lost his post of secretary. A poem by our author, dedicated to the memory of the chancellor, is one of the most enviable tributes ever paid, the astonished bard time to express his gratiby poetry to the virtues of the judicial office. Thomson was reduced once more to dependence on his talents for support, and preferring rather to trust to the chapter of accidents, than to change his style of life, which joined to elegance some degree of luxury, became in-,

By the good offices of Mr. (afterwards Lord) Lyttleton, Thomson about this time was introduced to the Prince of Wales; and being questioned as to the state of his affairs, he answered "that they were in a more poetical posture

than formerly," which induced Frederick to bestow upon him a pension of £100. In 1738 Thomson produced a second tragedy, entitled "Agamemnon," which, although not very favourably received, brought him a handsome sum. In the year following he offered to the stage another tragedy called "Edward and Eleonora," but the dramatic censor withheld his sanction from its representation in consequence of its political complexion. In 1740, in conjunction with Mallet, he composed "The Masque of Alfred," by command of the prince, for the entertainment of his court at Clief

den, his summer residence. In this piece appeared the national song of “Rule Britannia," written by Thomson. In 1745 the most successful of his plays, entitled "Tancred and Sigismunda," founded on a story in "Gil Blas," was brought out, and received with great applause; and it is still occasionally performed. His friend Lyttleton being now in office, procured for him the situation of surveyor-general of the Leeward Islands, with a' salary of £300, the duties of which were performed by deputy. In 1746 appeared his admirable poem of "The Castle of Indolence," which exhibits throughout a high degree of moral, poetical, and descriptive power.

stage for the benefit of his sisters, to whom through life he had always shown the most brotherly affection. In 1843 a 66 Poem to the Memory of Mr. Congreve, inscribed to Her Grace Henrietta, Duchess of Marlborough," was reprinted for the Percy Society of London, as a genuine though unacknowledged produc tion of Thomson, first published in 1729. As there appears to be no doubt of the genuineness of this poem, possessing as it does all of the characteristics of his style, we give it a place among our selections from the poet of "The Seasons."

Perhaps no poet was ever more deeply mourned. The celebrated Collins, who had also chosen Richmond for his place of residence, and between whom and Thomson the most tender intimacy existed, mourned his loss in the ode beginning

"In yonder grave a Druid lies." With this ode Collins bade adieu to Richmond; which, without his lamented friend, had for his gentle spirit no longer any charms.

"But thou, lorn stream! whose sullen tide
No sedge-crown'd sisters now attend,
Now waft me from the green hill's side,
Whose cold turf hides the buried friend.
"And see, the fairy valleys fade,

Dun Night has veil'd the solemn view!
Yet once again, dear parted shade,
Meek nature's child, again adieu!”

Of Thomson's "Seasons," which has kept its place as an English classic for upwards o a century, Dr. Johnson has said:-"As a write Thomson is entitled to one praise of the highes

Thomson was now in comparative affluence, and his beautiful cottage at Kew Lane, near Richmond, was the scene of social enjoyment and lettered ease; his house was elegantly furnished, as is seen by the sale catalogue of his effects prepared after his death, which enumerates the contents of every room, and fills eight pages of print. While engaged in the pre-kind-his mode of thinking, and of expressing paration of another tragedy for the stage the poet was seized with an illness which terminated his career. One summer evening, in walking home from London, as was his custom, he overheated himself by the time he had reached Hammersmith, and imprudently taking a boat to go the rest of the way by water he caught cold; next day he was in a high fever, and, after a short illness, died August 27, 1748. He was buried in the church at Richmond, where the Earl of Buchan many years afterwards erected a tablet to his memory. In 1762 a monument was erected to him in the Poets' Corner of Westminster Abbey. His tragedy of "Coriolanus," which he left behind him, was brought on the

his thoughts, is original. His blank verse is n more the blank verse of Milton or of any othe poet, than the rhymes of Prior are the rhyme of Cowley. His numbers, his pauses, his di tion are of his own growth, without transcri tion, without imitation. He thinks in a pec liar train; and he always thinks as a man genius; he looks round on nature and on li with the eye which nature only bestows on poet, the eye that distinguishes in everythi presented to its view whatever there is which imagination can delight to be detain and with a mind that at once comprehends 1 vast and attends to the minute. The rea of "The Seasons' wonders that he never before what Thomson shows him, and that