throw themselves out in that exact horizontal direction that those of the cedar of Lebanon do; they sweep down to the ground in a style of exquisite grace. Heavy, full of life, rich in hue as masses of chased silver, their effect, with their young cones sitting birdlike on them, is like that of some tree of heaven, or of some garden of poetic romance. Besides this superb tree, standing on its ample portion of lawn, there are here the evergreen ilex, hickory, white sassafras, scarlet and Ragland oaks, the tulip-tree, the catalpa, the tupelo, the black American ash, &c. The effect of their fine growth, their varied hues and foliage, their fine, sweeping branches, over the soft velvet turf, is charming, for trees display the effects of breeding and culture quite as much as horses, dogs, or men. A large elm, not far from the house, is pointed out as the one under which Thomson's alcove stood; this alcove has, however, been removed to the extremity of the grounds, and stands now under a large Spanish chestnut-tree in the shrubbery. It is a simple wooden construction, with a plain back, and two outward, sloping sides, a bench running round it within, a roof and boarded floor, so as to be readily removable altogether. It is kept well painted of a dark green, and in it stands an old, small walnut table with a drawer, which belonged to Thomson. On the front of the alcove overhead is painted, on a white oval tablet, "Here Thomson sang The Seasons and their change." Within the alcove hang three loose boards, on which are painted the following inscriptions: Hail, Nature's Poet, whom she taught alone She lent her pencil, too, of wondrous power, Till Nature sickens, and the Seasons die." F. B. Within this pleasing retirement, Allured by the music of the nightingale, Which warbled in soft unison to the melody of his soul, In unaffected cheerfulness, And general though simple elegance, Lived James Thomson. Sensitively alive to the beauties of Nature, He painted their images as they rose in review, Into his inimitable Seasons. Warmed with intense devotion To the Sovereign of the Universe, Its flame glowed through all his compositions. With the tenderest social sensibility, He never gave one moment's pain Save only by his death, which happened "Here Thomson dwelt. He, curious bard, examined every drop That glistens on the thorn; each leaf surveyed That Autumn from the rustling forest shakes, And marked its shape; and traced in the rude wind Its eddying motion. Nature in his hand A pencil, dipped in her own colors, placed, With which he ever faithful copies drew, On a brass tablet in the top of the table in the alcove is inscribed, "This table was the property of James Thomson, and always stood in this seat." Such is the state of the former residence of James Thomson at Richmond. Here, no doubt, he was visited by many of his literary cotemporaries, though it does not appear that he ever was by Pope, who was so near a neighbor. Old poets grow exclusive. As Wordsworth nowadays says he reads no new poets-he leaves them to their cotemporaries—it is enough for him to stick to his old loves; so, in the correspondence of Pope, you find no further mention. of Thomson than that "Thomson and some other young men have published lately some creditable things;" and Gray, writing to one of his friends, says, "Thomson has just published a poem called The Castle of Indolence,' which contains some good stanzas." The view down to the Thames, and over the country beyond, which he enjoyed, is now obstructed by the walls, including part of the royal property, on which the queen has erected her laundry, sending, it seems, all the royal linen from Windsor, the Isle of Wight, and elsewhere, to be washed and got up here, sufficiently, as one would think, near enough to the smoke of London. The vicinity of the royal wash-house certainly does not improve Lord Shaftesbury's residence here, especially as a tall, square, and most unsightly tower, most probably intended to carry the soot from the drying fires pretty high, overlooks his grounds. But it will not disturb the remains of the poet; and let us hope that the queen's linen will enjoy the benefit of all the Seasons from this close neighborhood. Thomson is buried in Richmond Church, at the west end of the north aisle. There is a square brass tablet, well secured into the wall with ten large screws, bearing this inscription: "In the earth below this Tablet Are the remains of JAMES THOMSON, Author of the beautiful Poems entitled The Seasons, Castle of Indo lence, &c., &c., who died at Richmond on the 27th day of August, and was buried here on the 29th, old style, 1748. The Earl of Buchan, unwilling that so good a man and sweet a poet ers, in the year of our Lord, 1792." "Father of light and life, thou Good Supreme! O teach me what is good; teach me myself! they self Save me from folly, vanity, and vice, From every low pursuit! and feed my soul With knowledge, conscious peace, and virtue pure, Sacred, substantial, never-fading bliss!”—Winter, p. 144 No poet of the same pretensions has been so much known through his residence as Shenstone. Without the Leasowes he would have been nothing. His elegies and pastorals would have lain on the dustiest of book-shelves, and his Schoolmistress, by far the best of his productions, would hardly have retained vitality enough to make herself noticeable in the crowd of poetical characters. The Leasowes I was the chief work of Shenstone's life, and it is the chief means of that portion of immortality which he possesses. Into every quarter of the kingdom the fame of this little domain has penetrated. Nature there formed the grand substratum of his art, and nature is always beautiful. But I do confess, that in the Leasowes I have always found so much ado about nothing; such a parade of miniature cas cades, lakes, streams conveyed hither and thither; surprises in the disposition of woods and the turn of walks, with a seat placed here, and another there; with inscriptions, Latin and English; and piping Fauns fauning upon you in |