refinement of taste. The natural fervour of the man overpowered the rules of the scholar. The first edition of the Seasons' differs materially from the second, and the second still more from the third. Every alteration was an improvement in delicacy of thought and language, of which we may mention one instance. In the scene betwixt Damon and Musidora-'the solemnly-ridiculous bathing,' as Campbell has justly termed it-the poet had originally introduced three damsels! Of propriety of language consequent on these corrections, we may cite an example in a line from the episode of La
ing chancellor bestowed the situation on another, Thomson not having, it is said, from characteristic indolence, solicited a continuance of the office. He again tried the stage, and produced Agamemnon, which was coldly received. Edward and Eleonora followed, and the poet's circumstances were bright- ened by a pension of L.100 a-year, which he ob- tained through Lyttelton from the Prince of Wales. He further received the appointment of Surveyor General of the Leeward Islands, the duties of which he was allowed to perform by deputy, and which brought him L.300 per annum. He was now in comparative opulence, and his residence at Kew-vinia- lane, near Richmond, was the scene of social enjoy- ment and lettered ease. Retirement and nature became, he said, more and more his passion every day. I have enlarged my rural domain,' he writes to a friend: 'the two fields next to me, from the first of which I have walled-no, no-paled in, about as much as my garden consisted of before, so that the walk runs round the hedge, where you may figure me walking any time of the day, and sometimes at night.' His house appears to have
been elegantly furnished: the sale catalogue of his effects, which enumerates the contents of every room, prepared after his death, fills eight pages of print, and his cellar was stocked with wines and Scotch ale. In this snug suburban retreat Thomson now applied himself to finish the Castle of Indolence, on which he had been long engaged, and a tragedy on the subject of Coriolanus. The poem was published in May 1748. In August following, he took a boat at Hammersmith to convey him to Kew, after having walked from London. He caught cold, was thrown into a fever, and, after a short illness, died (27th of August 1748). No poet was ever more deeply lamented or more sincerely mourned.
Though born a poet, Thomson seems to have advanced but slowly, and by reiterated efforts, to
And as he viewed her ardent o'er and o'cr, stood originally
And as he run her ardent o'er and o'er. One of the finest and most picturesque similes in the work was supplied by Pope, to whom Thomson had given an interleaved copy of the edition of 1736. The quotation will not be out of place here, as it is honourable to the friendship of the brother poets, and tends to show the importance of careful revision, without which no excellence can be attained in literature or the arts. How deeply must it be re- gretted that Pope did not oftener write in blank verse! In autumn, describing Lavinia, the lines of Thomson were-
Thoughtless of beauty, she was Beauty's self, Recluse among the woods; if city dames
Will deign their faith: and thus she went, compelled By strong necessity, with as serene
And pleased a look as Patience e'er put on,
To glean Palemon's fields.
Pope drew his pen through this description, and supplied the following lines, which Thomson must have been too much gratified with not to adopt with pride and pleasure-and so they stand in all the subsequent editions:-
Thoughtless of beauty, she was Beauty's self, Recluse among the close-embowering woods. As in the hollow breast of Apennine, Beneath the shelter of encircling hills
A myrtle rises, far from human eyes,
And breathes its balmy fragrance o'er the wild;
So flourished blooming, and unseen by all, The sweet Lavinia; till at length compelled By strong Necessity's supreme command, With smiling patience in her looks, she went To glean Palemon's fields.*
That the genius of Thomson was purifying and working off its alloys up to the termination of his existence, may be seen from the superiority in style and diction of the 'Castle of Indolence.' 'Between the period of his composing the Seasons and the Castle cf Indolence,' says Mr Campbell, 'he wrote several works which seem hardly to accord with the improvement and maturity of his taste exhibited in the latter production. To the Castle of Indolence he brought not only the full nature, but the perfect art of a poet. The materials of that exquisite poem are derived originally from Tasso; but he was more immediately indebted for them to the Faery Queen: and in meeting with the paternal spirit of Spenser, he seems as if he were admitted more intimately to the home of inspiration.' If the critic had gone
The interleaved copy with Pope's and Thomson's alterations is in the possession of the Rev. J. Mitford. See that gentleman's edition of Gray's works, vol. ii. p. 8, where other instances are given. All Pope's corrections were adopted by Thomson.
over the alterations in the 'Seasons,' which Thomson had been more or less engaged upon for about sixteen years, he would have seen the gradual improvement of his taste, as well as imagination. So far as the art of the poet is concerned, the last corrected edition is a new work. The power of Thomson, however, lay not in his art, but in the exuberance of his genius, which sometimes required to be disciplined and controlled. The poetic glow is spread over all. He never slackens in his enthusiasm, nor tires of pointing out the phenomena of nature which, indolent as he was, he had surveyed under every aspect, till he had become familiar with all. Among the mountains, vales, and forests, he seems to realise his own words
Amid the glad creation, musing praise, And looking lively gratitude.
But he looks also, as Johnson has finely observed, 'with the eye which nature bestows only on a poet -the eye that distinguishes, in everything presented to its view, whatever there is on which imagination can delight to be detained, and with a mind that at once comprehends the vast, and attends to the minute.' He looks also with a heart that feels for all mankind. His sympathies are universal. His touching allusions to the condition of the poor and suffering, to the hapless state of bird and beast in winter; the description of the peasant perishing in the snow, the Siberian exile, or the Arab pilgrims, all are marked with that humanity and true feeling which shows that the poet's virtues formed the magic of his song.' The genuine impulses under which he wrote he has expressed in one noble stanza
of the Castle of Indolence :'
I care not, Fortune, what you me deny; You cannot rob me of free Nature's grace, You cannot shut the windows of the sky,
only strikes us by its unwieldy difference from the common costume of expression.' Cowper avoided this want of keeping between his style and his sub- jects, adapting one to the other with inimitable ease, grace, and variety; yet only rising in one or two instances to the higher flights of Thomson. In 1843, a Poem to the Memory of Mr Congreve, Inscribed to her Grace Henrietta, Duchess of Marl- borough, was reprinted for the Percy Society (under the care of Mr Peter Cunningham) as a genuine though unacknowledged production of Thomson, first published in 1729. We have no doubt of the genuineness of this poem as the work of Thomson. It possesses all the characteristics of his style-its exaggeration, enthusiasm, and the peculiar rhythm | of his blank verse. The poet's praise of Congreve is excessive, and must have been designed rather to gratify the Duchess of Marlborough than to record Thomson's own deliberate convictions. Jeremy Collier would have started with amazement from such a tribute as the following:-
What art thou, Death! by mankind poorly feared, Yet period of their ills. On thy near shore Trembling they stand, and see through dreaded mists This various misery, these air-fed dreams The eternal port, irresolute to leave Which men call life and fame. Mistaken minds! "Tis happiness supreme, to venture forth 'Tis reason's prime aspiring, greatly just; of dark futurity, with heaven our guide, In quest of nobler worlds; to try the deeps The unerring Hand that led us safe through time: That planted in the soul this powerful hope, This infinite ambition of new life, And endless joys, still rising, ever new.
These Congreve tastes, safe on the ethereal coast, Joined to the numberless immortal quire Of spirits blest. High-seated among these, He sees the public fathers of mankind, The greatly good, those universal minds,
Through which Aurora shows her brightening face; Who drew the sword or planned the holy scheme,
You cannot bar my constant feet to trace
The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve: Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace, And I their toys to the great children leave; Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave. 'The love of nature,' says Coleridge, 'seems to have led Thomson to a cheerful religion; and a gloomy religion to have led Cowper to a love of nature. The one would carry his fellow-men along with him into nature; the other flies to nature from his fellowmen. In chastity of diction, however, and the harmony of blank verse, Cowper leaves Thomson immeasurably below him; yet, I still feel the latter to have been the born poet.' The ardour and fulness of Thomson's descriptions distinguish them from those of Cowper, who was naturally less enthusiastic, and who was restricted by his religious tenets, and by his critical and classically formed taste. The diction of the Seasons is at times pure and musical; it is too elevated and ambitious, however, for ordinary themes, and where the poet descends to minute description, or to humorous or satirical scenes (as in the account of the chase and foxhunters' dinner in Autumn), the effect is grotesque and absurd. Mr Campbell has happily said, that as long as Thomson dwells in the pure contemplation of nature, and appeals to the universal poetry of the human breast, his redundant style comes to us as something venial and adventitious-it is the flowing vesture of the Druid; and perhaps to the general experience, is rather imposing; but when he returns to the familiar narrations or courtesies of life, the same diction ceases to seem the mantle of inspiration, and
For liberty and right; to check the rage Of blood-stained tyranny, and save a world. Such, high-born Marlbro', be thy sire divine With wonder named ; fair freedom's champion he, By heaven approved, a conqueror without guilt; And such on earth his friend, and joined on high By deathless love, Godolphin's patriot worth, Just to his country's fame, yet of her wealth With honour frugal; above interest great. Hail men immortal! social virtues hail! First heirs of praise! But I, with weak essay, Wrong the superior theme; while heavenly choirs, In strains high warbled to celestial harps, Resound your names; and Congreve's added voice In heaven exalts what he admired below. With these he mixes, now no more to swerve From reason's purest law; no more to please, Borne by the torrent down a sensual age. Pardon, loved shade, that I with friendly blame, Slight note thy error; not to wrong thy worth, Or shade thy memory (far from my soul Be that base aim), but haply to deter, From flattering the gross vulgar, future pens Powerful like thine in every grace, and skilled To win the listening soul with virtuous charms.
The gentle and benevolent nature of Thomson is seen in this slight shade of censure. He, too, flattered the 'gross vulgar,' but it was with adulation, not licentiousness.
We subjoin a few of the detached pictures and descriptions in the 'Seasons,' and part of the Castle of Indolence.'
The north-east spends his rage; he now, shut up Within his iron cave, the 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 either, but by swift degrees, In heaps on heaps the doubled vapour sails Along the loaded sky, and, mingling deep, Sits on the horizon round, a settled gloom; Not such as wintry storms on mortals shed, Oppressing life; but lovely, gentle, kind, And full of every hope, of 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. The uncurling floods, diffused In glassy breadth, seem, 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. Hushed in short suspense, The plumy people streak their wings with oil, To throw the lucid moisture trickling off, And wait the approaching sign, to strike at once Into the general choir. Even mountains, vales, And forests, seem impatient to demand The promised 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 freshened world. The stealing shower is scarce to patter heard By such as wander through the forest-walks, Beneath the umbrageous multitude of leaves.
[Birds Pairing in Spring.]
To the deep woods They haste away, all as their fancy leads, Pleasure, or food, or secret safety, prompts; That nature's great command may be obeyed: Nor all the sweet sensations they perceive Indulged in vain. Some to the holly hedge Nestling repair, and to the thicket some; Some to the rude protection of the thorn Commit their feeble offspring; the cleft tree Offers its kind concealment to a few, Their food its insects, and its moss their nests: Others apart, far in the grassy dale
Or roughening waste their humble texture weave: But most in woodland solitudes delight, In unfrequented glooms or shaggy banks, Steep, and divided by a babbling brook, Whose murmurs soothe them all the live-long day,
When by kind duty fixed. Among the roots Of hazel pendent o'er the plaintive stream, They frame the first foundation of their domes, Dry sprigs of trees, in artful fabric laid,
And bound with clay together. Now 'tis nought But restless hurry through the busy air, Beat by unnumbered wings. The swallow sweeps The slimy pool, to build his hanging house Intent and often from the careless back Of herds and flocks a thousand tugging bills Steal hair and wool; and oft, when unobserved, Pluck from the barn a straw; till soft and warm, Clean and complete, their habitation grows. As thus the patient dam assiduous sits, Not to be tempted from her tender task Or by sharp hunger or by smooth delight,
Though the whole loosened spring around her
Her sympathising lover takes his stand High on the opponent bank, and ceaseless sings The tedious time away; or else supplies Her place a moment, while she sudden flits To pick the scanty meal. The appointed time With pious toil fulfilled, the callow young, Warmed and expanded into perfect life, Their brittle bondage break, and come to light; A helpless family! demanding food With constant clamour: O what passions then, What melting sentiments of kindly care, On the new parent seize! away they fly Affectionate, and, undesiring, bear The most delicious morsel to their young, Which, equally distributed, again
The search begins. Even so a gentle pair, By fortune sunk, but formed of generous mould, And charmed with cares beyond the vulgar breast, In some lone cot amid the distant woods, Sustained alone by providential heaven, Oft as they, weeping, eye their infant train, Check their own appetites, and give them all.
Nor toil alone they scorn; exalting love, By the great Father of the spring inspired, Gives instant courage to the fearful race, And to the simple art. With stealthy wing, Should some rude foot their woody haunts molest, Amid the neighbouring bush they silent drop, And whirring thence, as if alarmed, deceive The unfeeling schoolboy. Hence around the head Of wandering swain the white-winged plover wheels Her sounding flight, and then directly on, In long excursion, skims the level lawn
To tempt him from her nest. The wild-duck hence
O'er the rough moss, and o'er the trackless waste The heath-hen flutters: pious fraud! to lead The hot-pursuing spaniel far astray.
[A Summer Morning.]
With quickened step
Brown night retires: young day pours in apace, And opens all the lawny prospect wide. The dripping rock, the mountain's misty top Swell on the sight, and brighten with the dawn. Blue, through the dusk, the smoking currents shine; And from the bladed field the fearful hare Limps awkward; while along the forest glade The wild-deer trip, and often turning gaze At early passenger. Music awakes The native voice of undissembled joy; And thick around the woodland hymns arise. Roused by the cock, the soon-clad shepherd leaves His mossy cottage, where with peace he dwells; And from the crowded fold, in order, drives His flock, to taste the verdure of the morn.
Low walks the sun, and broadens by degrees, Just o'er the verge of day. The shifting clouds Assembled gay, a richly gorgeous train, In all their pomp attend his setting throne. Air, earth, and ocean smile immense. And now, As if his weary chariot sought the bowers Of Amphitrite, and her tending nymphs, (So Grecian fable sung) he dips his orb; Now half immersed; and now a golden curve Gives one bright glance, then total disappears. Confessed from yonder slow-extinguished clouds, All ether softening, sober evening takes Her wonted station in the middle air; A thousand shadows at her beck.
She sends on earth; then that of deeper dye Steals soft behind; and then a deeper still, In circle following circle, gathers round, To close the face of things. A fresher gale Begins to wave the wood, and stir the stream, Sweeping with shadowy gust the fields of corn: While the quail clamours for his running mate. Wide o'er the thistly lawn, as swells the breeze, A whitening shower of vegetable down Amusive floats. The kind impartial care Of nature nought disdains: thoughtful to feed Her lowest sons, and clothe the coming year, From field to field the feathered seeds she wings. His folded flock secure, the shepherd home Hies merry-hearted; and by turns relieves The ruddy milkmaid of her brimming pail ; The beauty whom perhaps his witless heart- Unknowing what the joy-mixed anguish means- Sincerely loves, by that best language shown Of cordial glances, and obliging deeds. Onward they pass o'er many a panting height, And valley sunk, and unfrequented; where At fall of eve the fairy people throng, In various game and revelry, to pass The summer night, as village stories tell. But far about they wander from the grave Of him whom his ungentle fortune urged Against his own sad breast to lift the hand Of impious violence. The lonely tower Is also shunned; whose mournful chambers hold- So night-struck fancy dreams-the yelling ghost. Among the crooked lanes, on every hedge,
The glowworm lights his gem; and through the dark A moving radiance twinkles. Evening yields The world to night; not in her winter robe Of massy Stygian woof, but loose arrayed In mantle dun. A faint erroneous ray, Glanced from the imperfect surfaces of things, Flings half an image on the straining eye; While wavering woods, and villages, and streams, And rocks, and mountain-tops, that long retained The ascending gleam, are all one swimming scene, Uncertain if beheld. Sudden to heaven Thence weary vision turns; where, leading soft The silent hours of love, with purest ray Sweet Venus shines; and from her genial rise, When daylight sickens till it springs afresh, Unrivalled reigns, the fairest lamp of night.
But see the fading many-coloured woods, Shade deepening over shade, the country round Imbrown; a crowded umbrage dusk and dun, Of every hue, from wan declining green To sooty dark. These now the lonesome muse, Low whispering, lead into their leaf-strown walks, And give the season in its latest view.
Meantime, light shadowing all, a sober calm Fleeces unbounded ether: whose least wave Stands tremulous, uncertain where to turn The gentle current: while illumined wide, The dewy-skirted clouds imbibe the sun, And through their lucid veil his softened force Shed o'er the peaceful world. Then is the time, For those whom virtue and whom nature charm, To steal themselves from the degenerate crowd, And soar above this little scene of things: To tread low-thoughted vice beneath their feet; To soothe the throbbing passions into peace; And woo lone Quiet in her silent walks.
Thus solitary, and in pensive guise, Oft let me wander o'er the russet mead, And through the saddened grove, where scarce is heard
One dying strain, to cheer the woodman's toil.
Haply some widowed songster pours his plaint, Far, in faint warblings, through the tawny copse; While congregated thrushes, linnets, larks, And each wild throat, whose artless strains so late Swelled all the music of the swarming shades, Robbed of their tuneful souls, now shivering sit On the dead tree, a dull despondent flock: With not a brightness waving o'er their plumes, And nought save chattering discord in their note. O let not, aimed from some inhuman eye, The gun the music of the coming year Destroy; and harmless, unsuspecting harm, Lay the weak tribes a miserable prey In mingled murder, fluttering on the ground! The pale descending year, yet pleasing still, A gentler mood inspires; for now the leaf Incessant rustles from the mournful grove; Oft startling such as studious walk below, And slowly circles through the waving air. But should a quicker breeze amid the boughs Sob, o'er the sky the leafy deluge streams; Till choked, and matted with the dreary shower, The forest walks, at every rising gale, Roll wide the withered waste, and whistle bleak. Fled is the blasted verdure of the fields; And, shrunk into their beds, the flowery race Their sunny robes resign. E'en what remained Of stronger fruits falls from the naked tree; And woods, fields, gardens, orchards all around, The desolated prospect thrills the soul.
The western sun withdraws the shortened day, And humid evening, gliding o'er the sky, In her chill progress, to the ground condensed The vapour throws. Where creeping waters ooze, Where marshes stagnate, and where rivers wind, Cluster the rolling fogs, and swim along The dusky-mantled lawn. Meanwhile the moon, Full-orbed, and breaking through the scattered clouds,
Shows her broad visage in the crimsoned east. Turned to the sun direct her spotted disk, Where mountains rise, umbrageous dales descend, And caverns deep as optic tube descries, A smaller earth, gives us his blaze again, Void of its flame, and sheds a softer day. Now through the passing clouds she seems to stoop,
Now up the pure cerulean rides sublime. Wide the pale deluge floats, and streaming mild O'er the skied mountain to the shadowy vale, While rocks and floods reflect the quivering gleam; The whole air whitens with a boundless tide Of silver radiance trembling round the world.
The lengthened night elapsed, the morning shines Serene, in all her dewy beauty bright, Unfolding fair the last autumnal day. And now the mounting sun dispels the fog; The rigid hoar-frost melts before his beam; And hung on every spray, on every blade Of grass, the myriad dew-drops twinkle round.
The lovely young Lavinia once had friends; And Fortune smiled, deceitful, on her birth; For, in her helpless years deprived of all, Of every stay, save innocence and heaven, She, with her widowed mother, feeble, old, And poor, lived in a cottage, far retired Among the windings of a woody vale; By solitude and deep surrounding shades, But more by bashful modesty, concealed. Together thus they shunned the cruel scorn Which virtue, sunk to poverty, would meet From giddy passion and low-minded pride: Almost on Nature's common bounty fed;
Like the gay birds that sung them to repose, Content, and careless of to-morrow's fare. Her form was fresher than the morning rose When the dew wets its leaves; unstained and pure, As is the lily, or the mountain snow. The modest virtues mingled in her eyes, Still on the ground dejected, darting all Their humid beams into the blooming flowers: Or when the mournful tale her mother told, Of what her faithless fortune promised once, Thrilled in her thought, they, like the dewy star Of evening, shone in tears. A native grace Sat fair-proportioned on her polished limbs, Veiled in a simple robe, their best attire, Beyond the pomp of dress; for loveliness Needs not the foreign aid of ornament, But is, when unadorned, adorned the most. Thoughtless of beauty, she was beauty's self, Recluse amid the close-embowering woods. As in the hollow breast of Apennine, Beneath the shelter of encircling hills, A myrtle rises, far from human eye,
And breathes its balmy fragrance o'er the wild; So flourished blooming, and unseen by all, The sweet Lavinia; till, at length, compelled By strong Necessity's supreme command, With smiling patience in her looks, she went To glean Palemon's fields. The pride of swains Palemon was, the generous, and the rich; Who led the rural life in all its joy And elegance, such as Arcadian song Transmits from ancient uncorrupted times; When tyrant custom had not shackled man, But free to follow nature was the mode. He then, his fancy with autumnal scenes Amusing, chanced beside his reaper-train To walk, when poor Lavinia drew his eye; Unconscious of her power, and turning quick With unaffected blushes from his gaze: He saw her charming, but he saw not half The charms her downcast modesty concealed. That very moment love and chaste desire Sprung in his bosom, to himself unknown;
For still the world prevailed, and its dread laugh, Which scarce the firm philosopher can scorn, Should his heart own a gleaner in the field: And thus in secret to his soul he sighed :
'What pity! that so delicate a form, By beauty kindled, where enlivening sense And more than vulgar goodness seem to dwell, Should be devoted to the rude embrace
Of some indecent clown! She looks, methinks, Of old Acasto's line; and to my mind Recalls that patron of my happy life, From whom my liberal fortune took its rise; Now to the dust gone down; his houses, lands, And once fair-spreading family, dissolved. 'Tis said that in some lone obscure retreat, Urged by remembrance sad, and decent pride, Far from those scenes which knew their better days, His aged widow and his daughter live, Whom yet my fruitless search could never find. Romantic wish! would this the daughter were!' When, strict inquiring, from herself he found She was the same, the daughter of his friend, Of bountiful Acasto, who can speak
The mingled passions that surprised his heart, And through his nerves in shivering transport ran? Then blazed his smothered flame, avowed, and bold; And as he viewed her, ardent, o'er and o'er, Love, gratitude, and pity, wept at once. Confused and frightened at his sudden tears, Her rising beauties flushed a higher bloom, As thus Palemon, passionate and just, Poured out the pious rapture of his soul. And art thou, then, Acasto's dear remains?
She, whom my restless gratitude has sought, So long in vain? Oh heavens! the very same, The softened image of my noble friend, Alive his every look, his every feature, More elegantly touched. Sweeter than Spring! Thou sole surviving blossom from the root That nourished up my fortune! Say, ah where, In what sequestered desert hast thou drawn The kindest aspect of delighted Heaven? Into such beauty spread, and blown so fair; Though poverty's cold wind, and crushing rain, Beat keen and heavy on thy tender years? Oh let me now into a richer soil
Transplant thee safe! where vernal suns and showers Diffuse their warmest, largest influence;
And of my garden be the pride and joy! Ill it befits thee, oh, it ill befits Acasto's daughter, his whose open stores, Though vast, were little to his ample heart, The father of a country, thus to pick
The very refuse of those harvest-fields, Which from his bounteous friendship I enjoy. Then throw that shameful pittance from thy hand, But ill applied to such a rugged task;
The fields, the master, all, my fair, are thine; If to the various blessings which thy house Has on me lavished, thou wilt add that bliss, That dearest bliss, the power of blessing thee!' Here ceased the youth: yet still his speaking eye Expressed the sacred triumph of his soul, With conscious virtue, gratitude, and love, Above the vulgar joy divinely raised. Nor wanted he reply. Won by the charm Of goodness irresistible, and all
In sweet disorder lost, she blushed consent. The news immediate to her mother brought, While, pierced with anxious thought, she pined away The lonely moments for Lavinia's fate; Amazed, and scarce believing what she heard, Joy seized her withered veins, and one bright gleam Of setting life shone on her evening hours: Not less enraptured than the happy pair; Who flourished long in tender bliss, and reared A numerous offspring, lovely like themselves, And good, the grace of all the country round.
Through the hushed air the whitening 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 Bow their hoar head; and ere the languid sun Faint from the west, emits his evening ray; Earth's universal face, deep hid, and chill, Is one wide dazzling waste, that buries wide The works of man. Drooping, the labourer-ox Stands covered o'er with snow, and then demands The fruit of all his toil. The fowls of heaven, Tamed by the cruel season, crowd around The winnowing store, and claim the little boon Which Providence assigns them. One alone, The red-breast, sacred to the household gods, Wisely regardful of the embroiling sky, 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
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