When I behold thee, though my light be dim,
Distant and low, I can in thine see him,
Who looks upon thee from his glorious throne,
And minds the covenant betwixt all and One.

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How bright wert thou, &c. The reader who is acquainted with Mr. Campbell's verses to The Rainbow, will perceive that he has imitated Vaughan :

"When o'er the green undeluged earth
Heaven's covenant thou didst shine,
How came the world's gray fathers forth
To watch thy sacred sign."

THE WREATH. (TO THE REDEEMER.)
Since I in storms most us'd to be,
And seldom yielded flowers,
How shall I get a wreath for thee
From those rude barren hours?

The softer dressings of the spring,
Or summer's later store,

I will not for thy temples bring,
Which thorns, not roses, wore :
But a twin'd wreath of grief and praise,
Praise soil'd with tears, and tears again
Shining with joy, like dewy days,
This day I bring for all thy pain,
Thy causeless pain; and as sad death,
Which sadness breeds in the most vain,
O not in vain! now beg thy breath,

Thy quick'ning breath, which gladly bears
Through saddest clouds to that glad place
Where cloudless quires sing without tears,
Sing thy just praise, and see thy face.

JAMES THOMSON.

Born in 1700.-Died in 1748.

This admirable poet was born in Scotland, but he removed to London while young, and devoted himself to poetry. The sweetness of Thomson's disposition, and the purity and elegance of his taste, procured him patrons and he spent his life surrounded by discerning friends and generous benefactors."

Thomson's principal, and most popular work, is the Seasons. A descriptive poem like the Seasons, was unknown in ancient literature. It was impossible under the system of paganism that the sentiment of piety could have the tender and pervading influence which sweetens and sanctifies the poetry of Thomson and Cowper. "The religion of the ancients had not taught poetry,” says Mr. Campbell, "to contemplate nature as one great image of the Divine benignity, or all created beings as the objects of comprehensive human sympathy. Before popular poetry could assume this character, Christianity, Philosophy, and Freedom, must have civilized the human mind."

The Castle of Indolence is less read than Thomson's Seasons; but to the genuine and cultivated lover of poetry, the refinement and beautiful expression of this exquisite poem perhaps exalts it above all other of Thomson's poetry. The following extract from the Castle of Indolence is full of instruction. The happiest use that its blameless and benevolent author could have desired should be made of it, is, that it should awaken in young minds the consciousness of their own power, and stimulate them to the natural and energetic exertion of faculties designed for all high and holy purposes.

INTELLECTUAL LABOUR,

"The Knight of Arts and Industry,
And his achievements fair.".

"It was not by vile loitering in ease

That Greece obtain'd the brighter palm of art,
That soft yet ardent Athens learn'd to please,
To keen the wit, and to sublime the heart,
In all supreme! complete in every part!
It was not thence majestic Rome arose,
And o'er the nations shook her conquering dart :
For sluggard's brow the laurel never grows;
Renown is not the child of indolent: repose.

"Had unambitious mortals minded nought,
But in loose joy their time to wear away;
Had they alone the lap of dalliance sought,
Pleas'd on her pillow their dull heads to lay;
Rude nature's state had been our state to-day:
No cities e'er their towery fronts had rais'd,
No arts had made us opulent and gay;

With brother-brutes the human race had graz'd: None e'er had soar'd to fame, none honour'd been, none prais'd.

"Great Homer's song had never fir'd the breast To thirst of glory, and heroic deeds,

Sweet Maro's Muse, sunk in inglorious rest,
Had silent slept mid the Mincian reeds :
The wits of modern time had told their beads,
And monkish legends been their only strains;
Our Milton's Eden had lain wrapt in weeds,

Our Shakspeare stroll'd and laugh'd with Warwick swains,

Nor had my master Spencer charm'd his Mulla's plains.
"Dumb too had been the sage historic Muse,
And perish'd all the sons of ancient fame;
Those starry lights of virtue, that diffuse

Through the dark depth of time, their vivid flame,
Had all been lost with such as have no name.

Who then had scorn'd his ease for others' good?
Who then had toil'd rapacious men to tame?
Who in the public breach devoted stood,

And for his country's cause been prodigal of blood?
"Come, follow me, I will direct you right,
Where pleasure's roses, void of serpents, grow;
Sincere as sweet; come, follow this good knight,
And you will bless the day that brought him to your sight.
"Some he will lead to courts, and some to camps ;
To senates some, and public sage debates,
Where, by the solemn gleam of midnight lamps,
The world is pois'd, and manag'd mighty states;
To high discovery some, that new-creates
The face of earth; some to the thriving mart;
Some to the rural reign, and softer fates;
To the sweet Muses some, who raise the heart;
All glory shall be yours, all nature, and all art.

"There are, I see, who listen to my lay,
Who wretched sigh for virtue, but despair.
All may be done (methinks I hear them say)
Ev'n death despis'd by generous actions fair;
All, but for those who to these bowers repair,
Their every power dissolv'd in luxury.
To quit of torpid sluggishness the lair,
And from the powerful arms of sloth get free,
'Tis rising from the dead-Alas!-It cannot be !

"Would you then learn to dissipate the band
Of these huge threatening difficulties dire,
That in the weak man's way like lions stand,
His soul appal, and damp his rising fire!
Resolve, resolve, and to be men aspire.
Exert that noblest privilege, alone,

Here to mankind indulg'd: control desire:
Let godlike reason, from her sovereign throne,

Speak the commanding word-I will-and it is done."

COLLINS.

William Collins died at the age of thirty-five, 1756. The latter years of his life were clouded by melancholy. In this state Dr. Johnson describes him as having lost all relish for books-except one. This was the best of books, and it may be presumed that he who had lost all interest in temporal things, as his sad eye explored the pages of the Gospel, enjoyed a foretaste of heavenly happiness. Collins's verses on the death of Thomson are tender and pastoral. The poet supposes the author of the Seasons to repose on the banks of the Thames, in a delightful spot, suitable to a lover of nature; and he fancies that the living will long connect the memory of his gentle spirit with the beauty of that quiet and charming scene.

"In yonder grave a Druid lies,

Where slowly winds the stealing wave!
The year's best sweets shall duteous rise,
To deck the poet's sylvan grave!

In yon deep bed of whispering reeds
His airy harp shall now be laid,
That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds,
May love through life the soothing shade.

The 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.

Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore,

When Thames in summer wreaths is drest;

And oft suspend the dashing oar,

To bid his gentle spirit rest!

And oft as ease and health retire
To breezy lawn, or forest deep,

The friend shall view yon whitening spire,
And mid the varied landscape weep.