AFTER the polished couplets of Pope, artificial in method and diction, the time was ripe for a return to the natural. Thomson's courageous choice of a simple theme, the glooms and joys of Winter, was the turning point of national poetry from subjects and styles interesting only to the educated class, to thoughts and scenes common to all. In this, the first of his poems on "The Seasons," he revealed the beauty that lies in familiar things, in the ordinary play of Nature, when lifted above their commonplace surroundings by poetical reflection. Uneven as was his gift, and careless at first in his art, Thomson must be accorded the high praise of having led the way to that deeper appreciation of natural emotions and scenes which redeems the poetry of the nineteenth century.

He was the son of a minister, born in Scotland in 1700. His poetical tastes, shown in the verses written in youth, were more fully displayed in the complete poem on "Winter," the success of which led to the production of the rest of "The Seasons." The first appeared in 1726, and the finished series in 1730. Next year Thomson traveled in Europe, and on returning issued the first part of his poem on "Liberty," in 1734, and completed it in 1736. A royal pension of £100 a year and a sinecure made the poet comfortable for life. His later writings include the tragedy "Agamemnon," which was a stage failure, the masque of "Alfred," the tragedy of "Tancred and Sigismunda," and his last, also his most artistic production, "The Castle of Indolence," a noble imitation of Spenser's "Faery Queen." It had occupied him for years

but was not published until 1748, in which year he died. Thomson's naturalness, and his delight in describing familiar scenes with rich imaginative freshness, frequently rising into moving eloquence, ensured for his work a popularity enviable for its sincerity and continued vitality. The English national song, Rule Britannia, has ever been a favorite, but few know that it was written by Thomson in his masque, “Alfred."

SPRING.

The Northeast spends his rage, and now shut up
Within his iron cave, th' effusive South

Warms the wide air, and o'er the void of heaven
Breathes the big clouds with vernal showers distent.
At first a dusky wreath they seem to rise,
Scarce staining ether; but by fast degrees,
In heaps on heaps the doubling vapor sails
'Along the loaded sky, and mingling deep
Sits on th' horizon round a settled gloom:
Not such as wintry storms on mortals shed,
Oppressing life; but lovely, gentle, kind,
And full of every hope and every joy,

The wish of Nature. Gradual sinks the breeze
Into a perfect calm; that not a breath.

Is heard to quiver through the closing woods,
Or rustling turn the many twinkling leaves
Of aspen tall. Th' uncurling floods, diffus'd
In glassy breadth, seems through delusive lapse
Forgetful of their course. 'Tis silence all,
And pleasing expectation. Herds and flocks
Drop the dry sprig, and mute-imploring, eye
The falling verdure. Hush'd in short suspense,
The plumy people streak their wings with oil,
To throw the lucid moisture trickling off;
'And wait th' approaching sign to strike, at once,
Into the general choir. Even mountains, vales,
'And forests seem, impatient, to demand

The promis'd sweetness. Man superior walks
Amid the glad creation, musing praise,
And looking lively gratitude. At last,

The clouds consign their treasures to the fields;
'And, softly shaking on the dimpled pool
Prelusive drops, let all their moisture flow,

In large effusion, o'er the freshen'd world.
The stealing shower is scarce to patter heard,
By such as wander through the forest walks,
Beneath the umbrageous multitude of leaves.

But who can hold the shade, while Heaven descends
In universal bounty, shedding herbs,

And fruits, and flowers, on Nature's ample lap?
Swift fancy fir'd anticipates their growth:
And. while the milky nutriment distils,
Beholds the kindling country colour round.

Thus all day long the full-distended clouds

Indulge their genial stores, and well-shower'd earth
Is deep enrich'd with vegetable life;

Till, in the western sky, the downward sun
Looks out, effulgent, from amid the flush
Of broken clouds, gay-shifting to his beam.
The rapid radiance instantaneous strikes

Th' illumin'd mountain, through the forest streams,
Shakes on the floods, and in a yellow mist,

Far smoking o'er th' interminable plain,
In twinkling myriads lights the dewy gems.

Moist, bright, and green, the landscape laughs around.
Full swell the woods; their very music wakes,
Mix'd in wild concert with the warbling brooks
Increas'd, the distant bleatings of the hills,
And hollow lows responsive from the vales,
Whence blending all the sweeten'd zephyr springs.
Meantime, refracted from yon eastern cloud,
Bestriding earth, the grand ethereal bow
Shoots up immense; and every hue unfolds,
In fair proportion running from the red,
To where the violet fades into the sky.

When first the soul of love is sent abroad,
Warm through the vital air, and on the heart
Harmonious seizes, the gay troops begin,

In gallant thought, to plume the painted wing;
And try again the long-forgotten strain,
At first faint-warbled. But no sooner grows
The soft infusion prevalent, and wide,
Than, all alive, at once their joy o'erflows
In music unconfin'd. Up springs the lark,
Shrill-voiced, and loud, the messenger of morn:

Ere yet the shadows fly, he mounted sings
Amid the dawning clouds, and from their haunts
Calls up the tuneful nations. Every copse
Deep-tangled, tree irregular, and bush
Bending with dewy moisture, o'er the heads
Of the coy quiristers that lodge within,
Are prodigal of harmony. The thrush

And wood-lark, o'er the kind-contending throng
Superior heard, run through the sweetest length
Of notes; when listening Philomela designs
To let them joy, and purposes, in thought
Elate, to make her night excel their day.
The blackbird whistles from the thorny brake;
The mellow bullfinch answers from the grove;
Nor are the linnets, o'er the flowering furze
Pour'd out profusely, silent. Join'd to these
Innumerous songsters, in the freshening shade
Of new-sprung leaves, their modulations mix
Mellifluous. The jay, the rook, the daw,
And each harsh pipe, discordant heard alone,
Aid the full concert; while the stock-dove breathes
A melancholy murmur through the whole.

'Tis love creates their melody, and all

This waste of music is the voice of love;

That even to birds, and beast, the tender arts

Of pleasing teaches. Hence the glossy kind
Try every winning way inventive love
Can dictate, and in courtship to their mates
Pour forth their little souls. First, wide around,
With distant awe, in airy rings, they rove,
Endeavoring by a thousand tricks to catch
The cunning, conscious, half-averted glance
Of their regardless charmer. Should she seem
Softening the least approvance to bestow,
Their colours burnish, and, by hope inspir'd,
They brisk advance; then, on a sudden struck,
Retire disorder'd; then again approach;
In fine rotation spread the spotted wing,
And shiver every feather with desire.

Connubial leagues agreed, to the deep woods
They haste away, all as their fancy leads,
Pleasure, or food, or secret safety prompts;