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But love had, like the canker worm,
Consumed her early prime;

The rose grew pale, and left her cheek-
She died before her time.

Awake! she cried, thy true love calls,

Come from her midnight grave:

Now let thy pity hear the maid
Thy love refused to save.

This is the dark and dreary hour
When injured ghosts complain;
When yawning graves give up their dead,
To haunt the faithless swain.

Bethink thee, William, of thy fault,

Thy pledge and broken oath!
And give me back my maiden-vow,
And give me back my troth.

Why did you promise love to me,

And not that promise keep?
Why did you swear my eyes were bright,
Yet leave those eyes to weep?

How could you say my face was fair,
And yet that face forsake?
How could you win my virgin heart,
Yet leave that heart to break?

Why did you say my lip was sweet,
And made the scarlet pale?
And why did I, young witless maid!
Believe the flattering tale?

That face, alas! no more is fair,

Those lips no longer red:

Dark are my eyes, now closed in death,

And every charm is fled.

The hungry worm my sister is;

This winding sheet I wear:

And cold and weary lasts our night

Till that last morn appear.

But hark! the cock has warned me hence;

A long and last adieu!

Come see, false man, how low she lies,

Who died for love of you.

The lark sung loud; the morning smiled

With beams of rosy red:

Pale William quaked in every limb,

And raving left his bed.

He hied him to the fatal place

Where Margaret's body lay;

And stretched him on the green-grass turf

That wrapt her breathless clay.

And thrice he called on Margaret's name,
And thrice he wept full sore;

Then laid his cheek to her cold grave,

And word spake never more!

JAMES THOMSON, the author of The Seasons, was born at Ednam, near Kelso, in the shire of Roxburgh, on the eleventh of September, 1700. His father, who was, at the time of the future poet's birth, minister of the parish of Ednam, removed a few years afterwards to that of Southdean, in the same county, a primitive and retired district, situated among the lower slopes of the Cheviots. Here the young poet passed his boyish years, and prepared for college; and in the eighteenth year of his age, he was sent to the university of Edinburgh. The death of Thomson's father, during his second year at the university, threw him mainly upon his own resources; and after having, for a short time, studied divinity with a view to entering the church, he abandoned that design, and repaired to London, to push his fortune among the wits of that metropolis. His college associate, Mallet, soon procured for him the situation of tutor to the son of Lord Binning; and Thomson, having previously written many of the descriptive scenes of his 'Winter,' took occasion to show them to his friend. Mallet at once advised him to connect them into one regular poem. This was readily done, and 'Winter' was published in March, 1726, the poet having received, for his copyright, only three guineas. A second, and even a third edition was called for during the same year; and in 1727, appeared his 'Summer.'

The success which attended those publications, induced Thomson to issue, in 1728, proposals for publishing, by subscription, the 'Four Seasons.' The number of subscribers, at a guinea a copy, was three hundred and eightyseven; but many of his friends took two or three copies each. The tragedy of Sophonisba was next produced, and was very favorably received; and in 1731, the poet accompanied as tutor, or travelling companion, the son of Sir Charles Talbot, afterwards lord chancellor of England, to the continent. They visited France, Switzerland, and Italy; and it is easy to conceive with what pleasure Thomson must have sojourned among scenes which he had often viewed in imagination. In November of the same year he was at Rome, and no doubt gratified 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 to England the next year he published his poem of Liberty, and obtained the sinecure situation of Secretary of Briefs in the Court of Chancery, which he held till Lord Talbot's death. The succeeding chancellor bestowed the situation on another, Thomson not having, it is said, from characteristic indolence, solicited a continuance of the office.

By the loss of the situation of Secretary of Briefs, Thomson was roused from his indolence, and turning his attention once more to the stage, produced the tragedy of Agamemnon, which was, however, but coldly received Edward and Eleonora followed; and the poet having, about this time, re

ceived an annual pension of a hundred pounds, bestowed upon him by the Prince of Wales, and the farther appointment of Surveyor General of the Leeward Islands, at a salary of three hundred pounds per annum, began to feel that his circumstances were easy and independent. He now settled at Kewlane, near Richmond, and his residence soon became the scene of social enjoyment and lettered ease. Retirement and the scenes of nature became more and more his passion every day; and he therefore did little in a literary way after he took possession of his suburban retreat, farther than to finish the Castle of Indolence,' on which he had been long engaged, and compose a tragedy on the subject of Coriolanus. The poem was published in May, 1748, and the tragedy was brought upon the stage by the author's executors after his death. In the summer following, he took a cold while on his return from London, a fever succeeded, and after a short illness his death occurred, on the twenty-seventh of August, 1748, leaving as deep lamenting for his loss as ever attended the departure of a poet.

Though the author of a number of works, yet the fame of Thomson is entirely identified with 'The Seasons.' So true and beautiful are the descriptions in the poem, and so entirely do they harmonize with those fresh feelings and glowing impulses which all would wish to cherish, that a love of nature seems to be synonymous with a love of Thomson. It is difficult to conceive a person of education, imbued with an admiration of rural and woodland scenery, without a strong affection and regard for that delightful poet who has painted their charms with so much fidelity and enthusiasm. The same features of blandness and benevolence, of simplicity of design, and beauty of form and color, which we recognize as distinguishing traits of the natural landscape, are seen in the pages of Thomson, conveyed by his artless mind as faithfully as the lights and shades on the face of creation. No exposure of defects in his poetic style has, therefore, ever affected his popularity. In the Seasons we have a poetical subject poetically treated-filled to overflowing with the richest materials of poetry, and the emanations of benevolence. In the Castle of Indolence we have the concentration or essence of those materials applied to a subject less poetical, but still affording room for luxuriant fancy, the most exquisite art, and still greater melody of numbers.

The warmth of our admiration of this interesting poet would induce us, should we indulge it, to linger longer with him; but we can only add, in illustration of the remarks already made, a few detached passages from the 'Seasons,' and an extract from the 'Castle of Indolence' :

SHOWERS IN SPRING.

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 straining 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.

SUMMER EVENING.

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. First this
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 seed 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 glow-worm 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.

AUTUMN EVENING SCENE.

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-strewn walks,
And give the season in its latest view.

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