Death's shafts fly thick:-Here falls the village | Deep read in stratagems, and wiles of courts. swain,

And there his pamper'd lord.-The cup goes round,

And who so artful as to put it by?

'Tis long since death had the majority;

Yet, strange! the living lay it not to heart.
See yonder maker of the dead man's bed,
The sexton, hoary-headed chronicle!

Of hard unmeaning face, down which ne'er stole
A gentle tear; with mattock in his hand,
Digs thro' whole rows of kindred and acquain-
tance,

By far his juniors.-Scarce a skull's cast up,
But well he knew its owner; and can tell
Some passage of his life. Thus hand in hand
The sot has walk'd with death twice twenty
years;

Now vain their treaty-skill; Death scorns to treat.

Here the o'erloaded slave flings down his burthen
From his gall'd shoulders; and, when the stern
tyrant,

With all his guards and tools of pow'r about him,
Is meditating new unheard-of hardships,
Mocks his short arm, and, quick as thought,

escapes

Where tyrants vex not, and the weary rest.
Here the warm lover, leaving the cool shade,
The tell-tale echo, and the bubbling stream,
(Time out of mind the fav'rite seats of love,)
Fast by his gentle mistress lays him down,
Unblasted by foul tongue. Here friends and

foes

Lie close, unmindful of their former feuds.

And yet ne'er younker on the green laughs The lawn-robed prelate, and plain presbyter, louder,

Or clubs a smuttier tale:-When drunkards meet,
None sings a merrier catch, or lends a hand
More willing to his cup. Poor wretch! he minds
not,

That soon some trusty brother of the trade
Shall do for him what he has done for thousands.

On this side, and on that, men see their friends
Drop off, like leaves in autumn; yet launch out
Into fantastic schemes, which the long livers
In the world's hale and undegen'rate days
Could scarce have leisure for.-Fools that we are,
Never to think of death and of ourselves
At the same time; as if to learn to die
Were no concern of ours. O more than sottish!
For creatures of a day, in gamesome mood,
To frolic on eternity's dread brink,
Unapprehensive; when, for aught we know,
The very first swollen surge shall sweep us in.
Think we, or think we not, time hurries on
With a resistless, unremitting stream;

Yet treads more soft than e'er did midnight
thief,

That slides his hand under the miser's pillow,
And carries off his prize. What is this world?
What but a spacious burial-field unwall'd,
Strewed with death's spoils, the spoils of animals,
Savage and tame, and full of dead men's bones.
The very turf on which we tread once lived;
And we that live must lend our carcasses
To cover our own offspring; in their turns
They too must cover theirs. "Tis here all meet,
The shivering Icelander, and sun-burnt Moor;
Men of all climes, that never met before;
And of all creeds, the Jew, the Turk, the Chris-
tian.

Here the proud prince, and favourite yet prouder,
His sovereign's keeper, and the people's scourge,
Are huddled out of sight. Here lie abash'd
The great negotiators of the earth,
And celebrated masters of the balance,

Erewhile that stood aloof, as shy to meet,
Familiar mingle here, like sister streams
That some rude interposing rock has split.
Here is the large-limb'd peasant; here the child
Of a span long, that never saw the sun,
Nor press'd the nipple, strangled in life's porch.
Here is the mother, with her sons and daughters;
The barren wife, and long-demurring maid,
Whose lonely unappropriated sweets
Smiled like yon knot of cowslips on the cliff,
Not to be come at by the willing hand.
Here are the prude severe, and gay coquette,
The sober widow, and the young green virgin,
Cropp'd like a rose before 'tis fully blown,
Or half its worth disclosed. Strange medley here!
Here garrulous old age winds up his tale;
And jovial youth, of lightsome vacant heart,
Whose every day was made of melody,
Hears not the voice of mirth.-The shrill-tongued
shrew,

Meek as the turtle-dove, forgets her chiding.
Here are the wise, the generous, and the brave;
The just, the good, the worthless, the profane;
The downright clown, and perfectly well-bred;
The fool, the churl, the scoundrel, and the mean;
The supple statesman, and the patriot stern;
The wrecks of nations, and the spoils of time,
With all the lumber of six thousand years.

Poor man! how happy once in thy first state,
When yet but warm from thy great Maker's hand,
He stamp'd thee with his image, and, well pleased,
Smiled on his last fair work. Then all was well:
Sound was the body, and the soul serene;
Like two sweet instruments ne'er out of tune,
That play their several parts. Nor head, nor heart
Offer'd to ache; nor was there cause they should;
For all was pure within: no fell remorse,
Nor anxious castings up of what might be,
Alarmed his peaceful bosom. Summer seas
Show not more smooth when kissed by southern
winds,

148

Just ready to expire. Scarce importuned,
The generous soil, with a luxuriant hand,
Offer'd the various produce of the year,
And everything most perfect in its kind.
Blessed, thrice blessed days! but ah! how short!
Bless'd as the pleasing dreams of holy men,
But fugitive, like those, and quickly gone.
O slippery state of things! What sudden turns!
What strange vicissitudes, in the first leaf
Of man's sad history! To-day most happy,
And ere to-morrow's sun has set, most abject.
How scant the space between these vast extremes!
Thus fared it with our sire: not long he enjoy'd
His paradise.-Scarce had the happy tenant
Of the fair spot due time to prove its sweets
Or sum them up, when straight he must be gone,
Ne'er to return again.-And must he go?
Can nought compound for the first dire offence
Of erring man? Like one that is condemn'd,
Fain would he trifle time with idle talk,
And parley with his fate. But 'tis in vain.
Not all the lavish odours of the place,
Offer'd in incense, can procure his pardon,
Or mitigate his doom. A mighty angel,
With flaming sword, forbids his longer stay;
And drives the loiterer forth; nor must he take
One last and farewell round. At once he lost
His glory and his God. If mortal now,
And sorely maim'd, no wonder! Man has sinn'd;
Sick of his bliss, and bent on new adventures,
Evil he would needs try; nor tried in vain.
(Dreadful experiment! Destructive measure!
Where the worst thing could happen is success)
Alas! too well he sped; the good he scorn'd
Stalk'd off reluctant, like an ill-used ghost,
Not to return; or if it did, its visits,
Like those of angels, short and far between:
Whilst the black demon, with his hell-'scap'd train,
Admitted once into its better room,

Grew loud and mutinous, nor would be gone;
Lording it o'er the man; who now, too late,
Saw the rash error which he could not mend-
An error fatal not to him alone,

But to his future sons, his fortune's heirs.
Inglorious bondage! Human nature groans
Beneath a vassalage so vile and cruel,
And its vast body bleeds through every vein.

What havoc hast thou made, foul monster, sin! Greatest and first of ills! The fruitful parent But for thee

Of woes of all dimensions!

Sorrow had never been. All-noxious thing,
Of vilest nature! Other sorts of evils
Are kindly circumscribed, and have their bounds.
The fierce volcano, from its burning entrails
That belches molten stone and globes of fire,
Involved in pitchy clouds of smoke and stench,
Mars the adjacent fields, for some leagues round,
And there it stops. The big-swollen inundation,
Of mischief more diffusive, raving loud,

But that too has its shore it cannot pass.
More dreadful far than those! sin has laid waste,
Not here and there a country, but a world;
Despatching, at a wide-extended blow,
Entire mankind; and, for their sakes, defacing
A whole creation's beauty with rude hands;
And marking all along its way with ruin.
Blasting the fruitful grain and loaded branches,
Accursed thing! Oh! where shall fancy find
A proper name to call thee by, expressive
Of temper so transcendantly malign,
Of all thy horrors! pregnant womb of ills!
That toads and serpents of most deadly kind,
Compared to thee, are harmless. Sicknesses
Of every size and symptom, racking pains,
And bluest plagues, are thine! See how the fiend
Profusely scatters the contagion round!
Whilst deep-mouth'd slaughter, bellowing at her
heels,

Wades deep in blood new-spilt; yet for to-morrow
Shapes out new work of great uncommon daring,
And inly pines till the dread blow is struck.

But, hold! I've gone too far; too much discover'd
My father's nakedness and nature's shame.
Here let me pause-and drop an honest tear,
One burst of filial duty and condolence,
This chaos of mankind. O great man-eater!
O'er all those ample deserts Death has spread,
Whose ev'ry day is carnival, not sated yet!
Unheard-of epicure, without a fellow!
Some intervals of abstinence are sought
The veriest gluttons do not always cram;
To edge the appetite: thou seekest none.
Methinks the countless swarms thou hast de-
vour'd,

This, less than this, might gorge thee to the full.
And thousands that each hour thou gobblest up,
But, ah! rapacious still, thou gap'st for more;
Like one, whole days defrauded of his meals,
On whom lank hunger lays her skinny hand,
And whets to keenest eagerness his cravings.
As if diseases, massacres, and poison,
Famine, and war, were not thy caterers.

But know, that thou must render up the dead,
And with high interest too. They are not thine,
Till the great promised day of restitution;
But only in thy keeping for a season,
When loud diffusive sound from brazen trump
Of strong-lung'd cherub, shall alarm thy captives,
And rouse the long, long sleepers into life,
Daylight and liberty.—

Then must thy gates fly open, and reveal
The mines that lay long forming underground,
In their dark cells immured; but now full ripe,
That twice has stood the torture of the fire
And pure, as silver from the crucible,
And inquisition of the forge. We know
The illustrious Deliverer of mankind,

Buries whole tracts of country, threat'ning more; The Son of God, thee foil'd. Him in thy power

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,
He mounted up to heaven. Methinks I see him
Climb the aerial 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,
And smiled so sweet of late. Thrice-welcome
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 carly 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 faith 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;
And each shall have his own. Hence, ye pro-
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,
And put them as they were. Almighty God
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.

In 1727 he brought out "Summer;" three editions of "Winter" having appeared the After receiving the usual course of school previous year, and inscribed it to Mr. Dodingeducation at the neighbouring town of Jed- ton, afterwards Lord Melcombe. The same burgh, Thomson was sent to the University of year he produced "A Poem on the Death of Edinburgh, and induced by the wishes of his Sir Isaac Newton," and his "Britannia," a family and friends to study for the ministry; poetical appeal designed to rouse the nation to but he soon relinquished his views of the the assertion of its rights against the Spaniards, church, and devoted himself to literature. In for their interruptions to British trade. In the second year of his attendance at the uni- the beginning of 1728 appeared "Spring," versity he lost his father, when his mother addressed to the Countess of Hertford, afterrealized as much as she could from her inherit-wards Duchess of Somerset, which procured ance, and removed with her family to Edinburgh. While at college he acted for some time as tutor to Lord Binning, son of the Earl

his works, in which "The Seasons" are placed | volved in debt, and exposed himself more than in their natural order. It was published by 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.

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 by 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

once to the gripe of the law. One of these 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 the astonished bard time to express his gratitude, took his leave.

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