r. Few minds are so devoid of sento experience the most gratefal the inexhaustible bounties of the bloom around in spring, in beaudelight the eye in summer with e; and ripen in autumn into rich erfection. In general, even in eptible in other respects, we selition to grateful admiration, when ravages in the creation; the orof their golden fruits; and barle groves, now bending with the ty withered, and their verdure

le life is seen,
eats his tuneful call,

of some rude evergreen,
east on the moss-grown wall.

JOHN SCOTT.

tation to a redbreast by Vint by the amiable Cowper, riate lines:

to me.

winter constrains-
it can-
ne reigns,
*elling of man.
trude,
free,

le!
Das warte to exprure the
bet laisselle

ast at his wins la pecabar to this season, with I wwfulness in each to mert a . Whether he contemplates of its various scenery; whether

AS, researches to our temperate zone,

vu to sing: rions to the polar regions ; each

with a song.'

approaches,

or enters into

B

subject, separately considered, will afford ample room for poetical illustration and philosophical inquiry.

Of all the poets, ancient or modern, Thomson has exhibited the noblest group of winter imagery. Nor is this to be wondered at in a poet, who, in his earliest years, was fond of viewing nature, not only in her beautiful and smiling aspects, but, like the great Salvator Rosa, in the frowning, the terrific, and sublime. This he intimates himself, at the opening of his poem, in which he introduces Winter approaching with all the gloomy pomp of personification.

See, Winter comes, to rule the varied year,
Sullen and sad, with all his rising train:
Vapours, and clouds, and storms. Be these my theme,
These! which exalt the soul to solemn thought
And heavenly, musing. Welcome, kindred glooms !
Congenial horrors, hail! With frequent foot,
Pleased have I, in my cheerful morn of life,
When nursed by careless Solitude I lived,
And sung of Nature with unceasing joy,
Pleased have I wandered through your rough domain;
Trod the pure virgin snows, myself as pure;
Heard the winds roar, and the big torrents burst;
Or seen the deep fermenting tempest brewed

In the grim evening sky. Contemplations of this kind were, indeed, suited to the serious and virtuous soul of Thomson. They raised to nobler heights the fire of poetry and the ardour of devotion ; and the winds, and storms, and torrents, led him to exclaim,

Nature! great parent!, whose unceasing hand Rolls round the seasons of the changeful year, How mighty, how majestic are thy works! With what a pleasing dread they swell the soul, That sees astonished, and astonished sings! It is remarkable that the first written of Thomson's Seasons was Winter, and Cowper has dedi

cated three of the six books of his Task to winter subjects. Hear also the poet, BURNS:

The weeping blast, the sky o'ercast,

The joyless winter-day,
Let others fear, to me more dear

Than all the pride of May.
The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul,

My grief it seems to join ;
The leafless trees my fancy please,

Their fate resembles mine. Virgil, in a fine specimen of that variety, that magic art which constitutes one of the greatest beauties of poetry, suddenly conveys his reader from the pastoral scenes of Africa to the picturesque horrors of a Scythian winter'. Thomson's view of Winter in the polar circle is a noble imitation of this description; but he soars far beyond his master, over deserts of snow, and oceans of ice, to the pole itself. Here again be personifies Winter, and enthrones him in dreadful solitude and magnificent desolation.

Still pressing on beyond Tornca's lake,
And Heela flaming through a waste of srow,
Apd farthest Creenland, to the pole itself,
Where, falling gradual, life at length goes ont,
The mase expands ber solitary flight;
And borsing o'er the side stupendous scene,
Babiks see scenes beneath anothers sky,
Terused in his pelace of cerulean ice,
Here Wister bolds his unrejoacing cart.
And troch his airy hall the land mistule
Os driving tempest is for ever beard;
Here the orin tyrant meditates his wrath;
Here arms his winds with all-subduing frost;
Wsti kas bietet bail, and treasures up he says,

* Like us optises tail hege, L a general siew of winter, in this country, 1 shall not attempt to give a philosophical awant Caii shi sastates Lştza, te. GLORC. III. 319.

subject, separately considered, will afford ample room for poetical illustration and philosophical inquiry.

Of all the poets, ancient or modern, Thomson has exhibited the noblest group of winter imagery. Nor is this to be wondered at in a poet, who, in his earliest years, was fond of viewing nature, not only in her beautiful and smiling aspects, but, like the great Salvator Rosa, in the frowning, the terrific, and sublime. This he intimates himself, at the opening of his poem, in which he introduces Winter approaching with all the gloomy pomp of personification.

See, Winter comes, to rule the varied year,
Sullen ánd sad, with all his rising train:
Vapours, and clouds, and storms. Be these my theme,
These! which exalt the soul to solemn thought
And heavenly, musing. Welcome, kindred glooms !
Congenial horrors, hail! With frequent foot,
Pleased have I, in my cheerful morn of life,
When nursed by careless Solitude I lived,
And sung of Nature with unceasing joy,
Pleased have I wandered through your rough domain;
Trod the pure virgin snows, myself as pure;
Heard the winds roar, and the big torrents burst;
Or seen the deep fermenting tempest brewed
In the grim evening sky.

Contemplations of this kind were, indeed, suited to the serious and virtuous soul of Thomson. They raised to nobler heights the fire of poetry and the. ardour of devotion; and the winds, and storms, and torrents, led him to exclaim,

Nature! great parent! whose unceasing hand
Rolls round the seasons of the changeful year,
How mighty, how majestic are thy works!
With what a pleasing dread they swell the soul,

That sees astonished, and astonished sings! It is remarkable that the first written of Thomson's Seasons was Winter, and Cowper has dedi

cated three of the six books of his Task to winter subjects. Hear also the poet, BURNS:

The weeping blast, the sky o'ercast,

The joyless winter-day,
Let others fear, to me more dear

T'han all the pride of May.
The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul,

My grief it seems to join ;
The leafless trees my fancy please,

Their fate resembles mine. Virgil, in a fine specimen of that variety, that magic art which constitutes one of the greatest beauties of poetry, suddenly conveys his reader from the pastoral scenes of Africa to the picturesque horrors of a Scythian winter'.' Thomson's view of Winter in the polar circle is a noble imitation of this description; but he soars far beyond his master, over deserts of snow, and oceans of ice, to the pole itself. Here again he personifies Winter, and enthrones him in dreadful solitude and magnificent desolation.

Still pressing on beyond Tornea's lake,
And Hecla flaming through a waste of snow,
And farthest Greenland, to the pole itself,
Where, falling gradual, life at length goes out,
The muse expands her solitary flight;
And hov'ring o'er the wide stupendous scene,
Beholds new scenes beneath another sky?,
Throned in his palace of cerulean ice,
Here Winter holds his unrejoicing court,
And throngh his airy hall the loud misrule
Of driving tempest is for ever heard ;
Here the grim tyrant meditates his wrath;
Here arms his winds with all-subduing frost;
Moulds his fierce hail, and treasures up his snows,

With which he now oppresses half the globe. In a general view of winter, in this country, I shall not attempt to give a philosophical account Quid tibi pastores Lybiæ, &c. Georg. III. 319. i The other hemisphere.