James Thomson (1700 – 1748)
Scottish poet and playwright.
For still the world prevail'd, and its dread laugh,
Which scarce the firm philosopher can scorn.
When Britain first, at Heaven's command,
Arose from out the azure main,
This was the charter of the land,
And guardian angels sung this strain:
'Rule, Britannia, rule the waves;
Britons never, never, never shall be slaves.'
A bard here dwelt, more fat than bard becomes
Who void of envy, guile and lust of gain,
On virtue still and nature's pleasing themes
Poured forth his unpremeditated strain.
From seeming evil still educing good.
Their only labour was to kill the time;
And labour dire it is, and weary woe,
They sit, they loll, turn o'er some idle rhyme,
Then, rising sudden, to the glass they go,
Or saunter forth, with tottering steps and slow.
Falsely luxurious, will not man awake?
A lucky chance, that oft decides the fate
Of mighty monarchs.
Welcome, kindred glooms!
Congenial horrors, hail!
I know no subject more elevating, more amazing, more ready to the poetical enthusiasm, the philosophical reflection, and the moral sentiment than the works of nature. Where can we meet such variety, such beauty, such magnificence?
Come, gentle Spring! ethereal mildness, come.
So stands the statue that enchants the world,
So bending tries to veil the matchless boast,
The mingled beauties of exulting Greece.
Ah! what avail the largest gifts of Heaven,
When drooping health and spirits go amiss?
How tasteless then whatever can be given!
Health is the vital principle of bliss,
And exercise, of health.
See, Winter comes to rule the varied year,
Sullen and sad.
The meek-ey'd Morn appears, mother of dews.
Crowned with the sickle, and the wheaten sheaf,
While Autumn, nodding o'er the yellow plain,
Comes jovial on.
They who are pleased themselves must always please.
These as they change, Almighty Father! these
Are but the varied God. The rolling year
Is full of Thee.
A pleasing land of drowsyhed it was,
Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye;
And of gay castles in the clouds that pass,
Forever flushing round a summer sky:
There eke the soft delights that witchingly
Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast,
And the calm pleasures always hover'd nigh;
But whate'er smack'd of noyance or unrest
Was far, far off expell'd from this delicious nest.
Come then, expressive silence, muse His praise.
For loveliness
Needs not the foreign aid of ornament,
But is when unadorned adorned the most.