TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE COUNTESS OF HERTFORD.

MADAM, I have always observed that, in addresses of this nature, the general taste of the world demands ingenious turns of wit, and disguised artful periods, instead of an open sincerity of sentiment flowing in a plain expression. From what secret impatience of the justest praise, when bestowed on others, this often proceeds, rather than a pretended delicacy, is beyond my purpose here to inquire. But as nothing is more foreign to the disposition of a soul sincerely pleased with the contemplation of what is beautiful, and excellent, than wit and turn; I have too much respect for your ladyship's character, either to touch it in that gay, trifling manner, or venture on a particular detail of those truly amiable qualities of which it is composed. A mind exalted, pure, and elegant, a heart overflowing with humanity, and the whole train of virtues thence derived, that give a pleasing spirit to con

The prose dedications were afterwards suppressed, and poetical addresses substituted, as in the text.

A

versation, an engaging simplicity to the manners, and form the life to harmony, are rather to be felt, and silently admired, than expressed. I have attempted, in the following poem, to paint some of the most tender beauties and delicate appearances of Nature; how much in vain, your ladyship's taste will, I am afraid, but too soon discover: yet would it still be a much easier task to find expression for all that variety of colour, form, and fragrance, which enrich the Season I describe, than to speak the many nameless graces and native riches of a mind capable so much at once to relish solitude, and adorn society. To whom then could these sheets be more properly inscribed than to you, madam, whose influence in the world can give them the protection they want, while your fine imagination, and intimate acquaintance with rural nature, will recommend them with the greatest advantage to your favourable notice? Happy! if I have hit any of those images, and correspondent sentiments, your calm evening walks, in the most delightful retirement, have oft inspired. I could add, too, that as this poem grew up under your encouragement, it has therefore a natural claim to your patronage. Should you read it with approbation, its music shall not droop; and should it have the good fortune to deserve your smiles, its roses shall not wither. But where the subject is so tempting, lest I begin my poem before the Dedication is ended, I here break short, and beg leave to subscribe myself, with the highest respect, madam, your most obedient, humble servant, JAMES THOMSON.

ARGUMENT.-The subject proposed-Inscribed to the Countess

of Hertford-The Season is described as it affects the various parts of Nature, ascending from the lower to the higher; and mixed with digressions arising from the subject-Its influence on inanimate matter, on vegetables, on brute animals, and last on man; concluding with a dissuasive from the wild and irregular passion of love opposed to that of a pure and happy kind.

COME, gentle Spring, ethereal mildness, come;
And from the bosom of yon dropping cloud,
While music wakes around, veiled in a shower

Of shadowing roses, on our plains descend.
O Hertford,1 fitted or to shine in courts
With unaffected grace, or walk the plain
With innocence and meditation joined
In soft assemblage, listen to my song,
Which thy own Season paints; when Nature all
Is blooming and benevolent, like thee.
And see where surly Winter passes off,
Far to the north, and calls his ruffian blasts:
His blasts obey, and quit the howling hill,
The shattered forest, and the ravished vale;
While softer gales succeed, at whose kind touch,
Dissolving snows in livid torrents lost,
The mountains lift their green heads to the sky.
As yet the trembling year is unconfirmed,
And Winter oft at eve resumes the breeze,
Chills the pale morn, and bids his driving sleets
Deform the day delightless; so that scarce
The bittern knows his time with bill ingulphed
To shake the sounding marsh; or from the shore
The plovers when to scatter o'er the heath,
And sing their wild notes to the listening waste.

At last from Aries rolls the bounteous sun,

And the bright Bull receives him.

Then no more

The expansive atmosphere is cramped with cold;

But, full of life and vivifying soul,

Lifts the light clouds sublime, and spreads them thin,
Fleecy, and white, o'er all surrounding heaven.

1 Afterwards Duchess of Somerset. She died in 1754.

Forth fly the tepid airs; and unconfined, Unbinding earth, the moving softness strays. Joyous, the impatient husbandman perceives Relenting Nature, and his lusty steers

Drives from their stalls to where the well-used plough Lies in the furrow, loosened from the frost.

There, unrefusing, to the harnessed yoke

They lend their shoulder, and begin their toil,
Cheered by the simple song and soaring lark.
Meanwhile, incumbent o'er the shining share
The master leans, removes the obstructing clay,
Winds the whole work, and sidelong lays the glebe.
White, through the neighbouring fields the sower
stalks,

With measured step; and, liberal, throws the grain
Into the faithful bosom of the ground:

The harrow follows harsh, and shuts the scene.

Be gracious, Heaven! for now laborious man Has done his part. Ye fostering breezes, blow! Ye softening dews, ye tender showers, descend! And temper all, thou world-reviving sun, Into the perfect year! Nor ye who live In luxury and ease, in pomp and pride, Think these lost themes unworthy of your ear: Such themes as these the rural Maro sung To wide-imperial Rome, in the full height Of elegance and taste, by Greece refined. In ancient times, the sacred plough employed The kings and awful fathers of mankind : And some, with whom compared your insect tribes

Are but the beings of a summer's day,

Have held the scale of empire, ruled the storm Of mighty war, then with victorious hand, Disdaining little delicacies, seized

The plough, and greatly independent scorned. All the vile stores corruption can bestow.

Ye generous Britons, venerate the plough! And o'er your hills and long withdrawing vales Let Autumn spread his treasures to the sun, Luxuriant and unbounded! As the sea, Far through his azure turbulent domain, Your empire owns, and from a thousand shores Wafts all the pomp of life into your ports, So with superior boon may your rich soil, Exuberant, Nature's better blessings pour O'er every land, the naked nations clothe, And be the exhaustless granary of a world!

Nor only through the lenient air this change, Delicious, breathes: the penetrative sun, His force deep-darting to the dark retreat Of vegetation, sets the steaming power At large, to wander o'er the verdant earth, In various hues; but chiefly thee, gay green! Thou smiling Nature's universal robe ! United light and shade! where the sight dwells With growing strength, and ever-new delight.

From the moist meadow to the withered hill, Led by the breeze, the vivid verdure runs ; And swells, and deepens, to the cherished eye. The hawthorn whitens; and the juicy groves