As for his more distinguishing qualities of mind and heart, they are better represented in his writings, than they can be by the pen of any biogra pher. There, his love of mankind, of his country and friends; his devotion to the Supreme Being, founded on the most elevated and just conceptions of his operations and providence, shine out in every page. So unbounded was his tenderness of heart, that it took in even the brute creation judge what it must have been towards his own species. He is not indeed known, through his whole life, to have given any person one moment's pain, by his writings or otherwise. He took no part in the poetical squabbles which happened in his time; and was respected ad left undisturbed by both sides. He would even refuse to take offence when he justly might, by interrupting any personal story that was brought him, with some jest, or some humorous apology for the offender. Nor was he ever seen ruffled or discomposed, but when he read or heard of some flagrant instance of injustice, oppression, or cruelty: then, indeed, the strongest marks of horror and indignation were visible in his countenance.

These amiable virtues, this divine temper of mind

did not fail of their due reward. His friends loved
him with an enthusiastic ardor, and lamented his
untimely fate in the manner that is still fresh in
every one's memory; the best and greatest meu of
his time honoured him with their friendship and
protection; the applause of the public attended every
appearance he made;
the actors, of whom the more
eminent were his friends and admirers, grudging no
pains to do justice to his tragedies. At present, in-
deed, if we except Tancred, they are seldom called

for;
the simplicity of his plots, and the models he
worked after, not suiting the reigning taste, nor
the impatience of an English theatre. They may
hereafter come to be in vogue: but we hazard no
comment or conjecture upon them, or upon any
part of Mr. Thomson's works; neither need they any
defence or apology, after the reception they have
had at home, and in the foreign languages into
which they have been translated. We shall only say,
that, to judge from the imitations of his manner,
which have been following him close, from the very
first publication of Winter, he seems to have fixed
no inconsiderable era of the English poetry.

ODE

ON THE

DEATH OF MR. THOMSON,

BY MR. COLLINS.

The scene of the following stanzas is supposed to lie on the Thames, near Richmond.

I.

N yonder grave a Druid lies

Where slowly winds the stealing wave; The year's best sweets shall duteous rise To deck its Poet's sylvan grave.

II.

In yon deep bed of whisp'ring reeds
His airy harp (1) shall now be laid,
That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds,
May love thro' life the soothing shade.

(1) The harp of EOLUS, of which see a description in the CASTLE OF INDOLENCE.

III.

Then maids and youths shall linger here,
And while its sounds at distance swell,
Shall sadly seem in Pity's ear,

To hear the Woodland Pilgrim's knell.

IV.

Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore

When Thames in summer wreath is drest, And oft suspend the dashing oar

To bid his gentle spirit rest.

V.

And oft as Ease and Health retire

To breezy lawn, or forest deep,

The friend shall view yon whitening (1) spire, And 'mid the varied landscape weep,

VI.

But Thou, who own'st that earthy bed,
Ah! what will every dirge avail?

Or tears, which Love and Pity shed
That mourn beneath the gliding sail?

VII.

Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye

(1) RICHMOND Church.

Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimm'ring near?

With him, sweet bard, may Fancy die,

And Joy desert the blooming year.

VIII.

But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide
No sedge-crown'd Sisters now attend,
Now waft me from the green hill's side
Whose cold turf hides the buried friend.
IX.

And see, the fairy valleys fade,

Dun Night has veil'd the solemn view; Yet once again, dear parted shade,

Meek Nature's Child, again adieu.

X.

The genial meads assign'd to bless

Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom;
Their hinds, and shepherd-girls shall dress
With simple hands thy rural tomb.
XI.

Long, long, thy stone, and pointed clay,
Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes;
Oh! vales, and wild woods, shall He say,
In yonder grave Your Druid lies!