The rigid hoar-frost melts before his beam; 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 sun Faint from the west, emits his evening ray; OX Stands covered o'er with snow, and then demands The fruit of all his toil. The fowls of heaven, Which Providence assigns them. One alone, In joyless fields and thorny thickets, leaves His shivering mates, and pays to trusted man 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 he is: 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 dispersed, Dig for the wither'd herb through heaps of snow. As thus the snows arise, and foul and fierce All winter drives along the darken'd air, 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, What water of the still unfrozen spring, 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 nerve The deadly winter seizes, shuts up sense, James Thomson.-Born 1700, Died 1748. 874.-A HYMN. These, as they change, Almighty Father, these Are but the varied God. The rolling 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, 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. Oh, talk of him in solitary glooms; Fills the brown shade with a religious awe. Th' impetuous song, and say from whom you rage. His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills; And let me catch it as I muse along. Ye headlong torrents, rapid and profound; 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, 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 At solemn pauses, through the swelling base; The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre, ray O, 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. 876.-ODE. O Nightingale, best poet of the grove, That plaintive strain can ne'er belong 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: But we, vain slaves of interest and of pride, Dare not be blest lest envious tongues should blame : And hence, in vain I languish for my bride; O mourn with me, sweet bird, my hapless flame. James Thomson.-Born 1700, Died 1748. 877.-HYMN ON SOLITUDE. Hail, mildly pleasing Solitude, Companion of the wise and good, But, from whose holy, piercing eye, The herd of fools and villains fly. Oh how I love with thee to walk, And listen to thy whisper'd talk, Which innocence and truth imparts, And melts the most obdurate hearts. A thousand shapes you wear with ease, Thine is the balmy breath of morn, Descending angels bless thy train, Oh, let me pierce thy secret cell! I just may cast my careless eyes James Thomson.-Born 1700, Died 1748. 878.-THE HAPPY MAN. He's not the Happy Man to whom is given 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; Whose winter laughs; for whom the liberal gales Stretch the big sheet, and toiling commerce sails; When yielding crowds attend, and pleasure serves: While youth, and health, and vigour string his nerves. Ev'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 eyes, His fairer scenes and bolder figures rise; Where social Love exerts her soft command, And plays the passions with a 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. 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 haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame; 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, James Thomson.-Born 1700, Died 1748. 880.-GRONGAR HILL. Silent nymph, with curious eye, With my hand beneath my head; From house to house, from hill to hill, About his chequer'd sides I wind, The mountains round, unhappy fate; Withdraw their summits from the skies, Now, I gain the mountain's brow, Old castles on the cliffs arise, Below me trees unnumber'd rise, |