Wilder'd and tossing through distempered dreams? And every blooming pleasure, wait without, To bless the wildly-devious morning walk? Like others of the illustrious brotherhood, our poet lived for the present, and seldom indulged any anxiety about the future; the consequence was, that his purse was not unfrequently exhausted. On a certain occasion he was surprised by an unexpected visit from Quin, the comedian, whom he had known only by reputation. Puzzled to think what could have induced such a visit, he pressed the question, when Quin replied, "Why, I will tell you. Soon after I had read your Seasons, I took it into my head, that as I had something to leave behind me when I died, I would make my will. Among the rest of my legatees, I set down the author of the Seasons for a hundred pounds: and this day, hearing that you were in this house, I thought I might as well have the pleasure of paying the money myself as order my executors to pay it, when perhaps you might have less need of it; and this, Mr. Thomson, is the object of my visit." The "poet of the Seasons" did much to improve the poetic taste of his day. Campbell justly remarks: "Habits of early admiration teach us all to look back upon this poet as the favourite companion of our solitary walks, and as the author who has first, or chiefly, reflected back to our minds a heightened and refined sensation of the delight which rural scenery affords us." Thomson's sketches are Claude-like,—full of pastoral beauty and sunshine, Here is a beautiful burst of song, descriptive of summer dawn :— The meek-eyed Morn appears, mother of dews, At first faint-gleaming in the dappled east : White break the clouds away. With quicken'd step The dripping rock, the mountain's misty top, And from the bladed field the fearful hare And thick around the woodland hymns arise. After describing the traveller lost in the snow, the tinues : : In vain for him the officious wife prepares The fire fair blazing, and the vestment warm; In vain his little children, peeping out poet every nerve Stretched out, and bleaching on the northern blast! As long as human passions shall animate or disturb the world, COLLINS's masterly Ode will doubtless be perused and prized: yet the gifted author suffered from neglect and poverty, and ultimately became the victim of mental disease. Some evil genius seemed to have presided over his destiny, for in early life he fell in love with. a fair damsel, who was born a day before himself, and she refused to respond to his appeals. "Your case is a hard one," said a friend. “It is so indeed,” replied Collins, "for I came into the world a day after the fair." When at Magdalen College, Oxford, he was entertaining a few friends at tea. Hampton, the translator of Polybius, unexpectedly entered, and finding no one disposed to dispute with him, deliberately upset the tea-table, scattering its contents across the room. Collins, although constitutionally somewhat choleric, was so utterly confounded at the unexpected demonstration, that he took no notice of the aggressor, but calmly began picking up the broken pieces of china, mildly quoting this line of Horace :— "Invenias etiam disjecti membra poeta." Now for his masterly Ode: When Music, heavenly maid, was young, The Passions oft, to hear her shell, From the supporting myrtles round, Sweet lessons of her forceful art, First Fear his hand, its skill to try, Next Anger rushed, his eyes on fire, In lightnings owned his secret stings; In one rude clash he struck the lyre, With woful measures wan Despair, Low, sullen sounds his grief beguiled; But thou, oh Hope, with eyes so fair, Still would her touch the strain prolong; She called on Echo still, through all the song; A soft responsive voice was heard at every close, And longer had she sung;-but, with a frown, Revenge impatient rose; He threw his blood-stained sword, in thunder, down, The war-denouncing trumpet took, And blew a blast so loud and dread, Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe! And, ever and anon, he beat The double drum with furious heat; And though sometimes, each dreary pause between, Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild, unaltered mien, While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head. With eyes upraised, as one inspired, Pale Melancholy sat retired; And, from her wild, sequestered seat, In notes by distance made more sweet, Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul; Bubbling runnels joined the sound ; Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole, Love of peace and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away. |