One prospect lost, another still we gain, Ev'n mean self-love becomes, by force divine, ROBERT BLAIR. Born 1699-Died 1747. BLAIR's father was one of the ministers of Edinburgh, and chaplain to King Charles I. The poet, after the usual preparatory studies, was ordained the minister of Athelstaneford, in the county of East Lothian, and resided there till his death. He is said to have been assiduous and zealous in the performance of his pastoral duties, and distinguished for his fervid eloquence. Among his friends, by whom he was warmly beloved, he numbered Colonel Gardiner, Dr. Watts, and Dr. Doddridge. "The eighteenth century," says Campbell, "has produced few specimens of blank verse of so powerful and simple a character as that of the Grave. It is a popular poem, not merely because it is religous, but because its language and imagery are free, natural, and picturesque. Blair may be a homely and even a gloomy poet in the eye of fastidious criticism; but there is a masculine and pronounced character even in his gloom and homeliness, that keeps it most distinctly apart from either dulness or vulgarity. His style pleases us like the powerful expression of a countenance without regular beauty." THE GRAVE. SEE yonder hallow'd fane;-the pious work Till now I never heard a sound so dreary: Doors creak, and windows clap, and night's foul bird, Black-plaster'd, and hung round with shreds of 'scutcheons Laden with heavier airs, from the low vaults, The mansions of the dead.-Rous'd from their slumbers, In grim array the grisly spectres rise, Grin horribly, and obstinately sullen, Pass and repass, hush'd as the foot of night. Again the screech-owl shrieks: ungracious sound! Quite round the pile, a row of reverend elms, (Coeval near with that) all ragged show, Long lash'd by the rude winds. Some rift half down That scarce two crows could lodge in the same tree. Wild shrieks have issued from the hollow tombs: Dead men have come again, and walk'd about; And the great bell has toll'd, unrung, untouch'd. (Such tales their cheer, at wake or gossiping, When it draws near the witching time of night.} Oft in the lone church-yard at night I've seen, And lightly tripping o'er the long flat stones, That walks at dead of night, or takes his stand. FRIENDSHIP. INVIDIOUS grave !-how dost thou rend in sunder I owe thee much. Thou hast deserv'd from me Oft have I prov'd the labours of thy love, Sweet murmuring; methought the shrill-tongued thrush Of dress.-Oh! then the longest summer's day Too exquisite to last. Of joys departed, Not to return, how painful the remembrance! DEATH, THE CHRISTIAN'S PATH TO ETERNal blessedneESS. It was Christ's royal will, That where he is, there should his followers be; Death only lies between.-A gloomy path! Conducts us to our home, and lands us safe, High in his faith and hopes, look how he reaches Of the fast coming harvest.-Then, oh, then! * *** * * * "Tis but a night, a long and moonless night, JAMES THOMSON. Born 1700-Died 1748. THOMSON was the son of a minister in Scotland. He was partly educated at the University of Edinburgh, and upon the death of his father, was persuaded by his friends to enter on a course of theological studies. As a previous exercise, one of the Psalms was given him for explanation, and his language is said to have been so splendid, that he was reproved for employing a diction, which none of his future audience would be able to understand. This reproof, united with the dislike which he felt to the profession of divinity, determined him to abandon it, and to seek his fortune in London. Thither he went in 1725, with his poem of Winter, which was published the following year, and after a short neglect, admired and applauded. Summer appeared in 1727, Spring in 1728, and Autumn in 1730. After this, he travelled on the European continent with the son of the Lord Chancellor of England, and on his return, employed himself in the composition of his various tragedies and his poem on Liberty. In 1746, he published the Castle of Indolence, a poem, which is perhaps the most finished of all his produc tions. Thomson is said to have been naturally amiable and benevolent, and perfectly free from all literary jealousies; reserved in mingled company, but cheerful and social with his particular friends, and beloved by them all in a degree quite uncommon and singular. It is no where recorded that he was religious, though some of his poetical compositions might be supposed to have emanated from a mind impressed with a deep reverence for the Deity, as well as an ardent admiration of his works. The moral character of his poetry is exalted and excellent; though the declaration of Lord Lyttleton, that his works contained "No line which, dying, he could wish to blot," would not, perhaps, have proceeded from the poet's own lips at that last solemn hour. In his boyhood he used regularly to burn all his verses, as fast as he composed them-a conduct, which proved the strength of his judgment, and probably contributed to his succeeding eminence. It would be well for the world were it oftener imitated. Thomson is superior in nature and originality to all the descriptive poets except Cowper. He looked upon nature with a view at once comprehensive and minute. Like a skilful limner of the human countenance, he seized upon some of the expressive features in each Season, and the portraiture of these communicated individuality and verisimilitude to the whole picture. His subject had before been comparatively untouched, and his own delineation of it is rather sparing than full. He displays not only beauty and accuracy, but great sublimity in his description of the torrid and frigid zones; and his sketch of the traveller lost in the snows, is full of pathos. "His diction," Dr. Johnson observes, "is in the highest degree florid and luxuriant, such as may be said to be to his images and thoughts both their lustre and their shade; such as invest them with splendour, through which perhaps they are not always easily discerned. It is too exuberant, and sometimes may be charged with filling the ear more than the mind." The Castle of Indolence is the finest effort of his genius. In that poem he seems to have imbibed the very spirit of Spenser. His style preserves all its richness and copiousness, without the florid splendour, which marks it in The Seasons, and his versification combines a softness and melody of flow, with a harmony which holds the mind in enchantment. His imagery is remarkable for its luxuriance and adaptation to his subject. SHOWERS IN SPRING. THE north-east spends his rage; he now shut up |