Winter: A poem. By James Thomson, ...

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- TO The RIGHT HONOURABLE Sir SPENCER COMPTON.

WINTER.

A POEM.

SEE! WINTER comes, to rule the varied Year,

Sullen, and sad; with all his rising Train,

Vapours, and Clouds, and Storms: Be these my Theme,

These, that exalt the Soul to solemn Thought,

And heavenly musing. Welcome kindred Glooms!

Wish'd, wint'ry, Horrors, hail!—With frequent Foot,

Pleas'd, have I, in my cheerful Morn of Life,

When, nurs'd by careless Solitude, I liv'd,

And sung of Nature with unceasing Joy,

Pleas'd, have I wander'd thro' your rough Domains;

Trod the pure, virgin, Snows, my self as pure:

Heard the Winds roar, and the big Torrent burst:

Or seen the deep, fermenting, Tempest brew'd,

In the red, evening, Sky.—Thus pass'd the Time,

Till, thro' the opening Chambers of the South,

Look'd out the joyous Spring, look'd out, and smil'd.

THEE too, Inspirer of the toiling Swain!

Fair AUTUMN, yellow rob'd! I'll sing of thee,

Of thy last, temper'd, Days, and sunny Calms;

When all the golden Hours are on the Wing,

Attending thy Retreat, and round thy Wain,

Slow-rolling, onward to the Southern Sky.

BEHOLD! the well-pois'd Hornet, hovering, hangs,

With quivering Pinions, in the genial Blaze;

Flys off, in airy Circles: then returns,

And hums, and dances to the beating Ray.

Nor shall the Man, that, musing, walks alone,

And, heedless, strays within his radiant Lists,

Go unchastis'd away.—Sometimes, a Fleece

Of Clouds, wide-scattering, with a lucid Veil,

Soft, shadow o'er th' unruffled Face of Heaven;

And, thro' their dewy Sluices, shed the Sun,

With temper'd Influence down. Then is the Time,

For those, whom Wisdom, and whom Nature charm,

To steal themselves from the degenerate Croud,

And soar above this little Scene of Things:

To tread low-thoughted Vice beneath their Feet:

To lay their Passions in a gentle Calm,

And woo lone Quiet, in her silent Walks.

NOW, solitary, and in pensive Guise,

Oft, let me wander o'er the russet Mead,

Or thro' the pining Grove; where scarce is heard

One dying Strain, to chear the Woodman's Toil:

Sad Philomel, perchance, pours forth her Plaint,

Far, thro' the withering Copse. Mean while, the Leaves,

That, late, the Forest clad with lively Green,

Nipt by the drizzly Night, and Sallow-hu'd,

Fall, wavering, thro' the Air; or shower amain,

Urg'd by the Breeze, that sobs amid the Boughs.

Then list'ning Hares forsake the rusling Woods,

And, starting at the frequent Noise, escape

To the rough Stubble, and the rushy Fen.

Then Woodcocks, o'er the fluctuating Main,

That glimmers to the Glimpses of the Moon,

Stretch their long Voyage to the woodland Glade:

Where, wheeling with uncertain Flight, they mock

The nimble Fowler's Aim.—Now Nature droops;

Languish the living Herbs, with pale Decay:

And all the various Family of Flowers

Their sunny Robes resign. The falling Fruits,

Thro' the still Night, forsake the Parent-Bough,

That, in the first, grey, Glances of the Dawn,

Looks wild, and wonders at the wintry Waste.

THE Year, yet pleasing, but declining fast,

Soft, o'er the secret Soul, in gentle Gales,

A Philosophic Melancholly breathes,

And bears the swelling Thought aloft to Heaven.

Then forming Fancy rouses to conceive,

What never mingled with the Vulgar's Dream:

Then wake the tender Pang, the pitying Tear,

The Sigh for suffering Worth, the Wish prefer'd

For Humankind, the Joy to see them bless'd,

And all the Social Off-spring of the Heart!

OH! bear me then to high, embowering, Shades;

To twilight Groves, and visionary Vales;

To weeping Grottos, and to hoary Caves;

Where Angel-Forms are seen, and Voices heard,

Sigh'd in low Whispers, that abstract the Soul,

From outward Sense, far into Worlds remote.

NOW, when the Western Sun withdraws the Day,

And humid Evening, gliding o'er the Sky,

In her chill Progress, checks the straggling Beams,

And robs them of their gather'd, vapoury, Prey,

Where Marshes stagnate, and where Rivers wind,

Cluster the rolling Fogs, and swim along

The dusky-mantled Lawn: then slow descend,

Once more to mingle with their Watry Friends.

The vivid Stars shine out, in radiant Files;

And boundless Ether glows, till the fair Moon

Shows her broad Visage, in the crimson'd East;

Now, stooping, seems to kiss the passing Cloud:

Now, o'er the pure Cerulean, rides sublime.

Wide the pale Deluge floats, with silver Waves,

O'er the sky'd Mountain, to the low-laid Vale;

From the white Rocks, with dim Reflexion, gleams,

And faintly glitters thro' the waving Shades.

ALL Night, abundant Dews, unnoted, fall,

And, at Return of Morning, silver o'er

The Face of Mother-Earth; from every Branch

Depending, tremble the translucent Gems,

And, quivering, seem to fall away, yet cling,

And sparkle in the Sun, whose rising Eye,

With Fogs bedim'd, portends a beauteous Day.

NOW, giddy Youth, whom headlong Passions fire,

Rouse the wild Game, and stain the guiltless Grove,

With Violence, and Death; yet call it Sport,

To scatter Ruin thro' the Realms of Love,

And Peace, that thinks no Ill: But These, the Muse,

Whose Charity, unlimited, extends

As wide as Nature works, disdains to sing,

Returning to her nobler Theme in view—

FOR, see! where Winter comes, himself, confest,

Striding the gloomy Blast. First Rains obscure

Drive thro' the mingling Skies, with Tempest foul;

Beat on the Mountain's Brow, and shake the Woods,

That, sounding, wave below. The dreary Plain

Lies overwhelm'd, and lost. The bellying Clouds

Combine, and deepening into Night, shut up

The Day's fair Face. The Wanderers of Heaven,

Each to his Home, retire; save those that love

To take their Pastime in the troubled Air,

And, skimming, flutter round the dimply Flood.

The Cattle, from th' untasted Fields, return,

And ask, with Meaning low, their wonted Stalls;

Or ruminate in the contiguous Shade:

Thither, the houshold, feathery, People croud,

The crested Cock, with all his female Train,

Pensive, and wet. Mean while, the Cottage-Swain

Hangs o'er th' enlivening Blaze, and, taleful, there,

Recounts his simple Frolic: Much he talks,

And much he laughs, nor recks the Storm that blows

Without, and rattles on his humble Roof.

AT last, the muddy Deluge pours along,

Resistless, roaring; dreadful down it comes

From the chapt Mountain, and the mossy Wild,

Tumbling thro' Rocks abrupt, and sounding far

Then o'er the sanded Valley, floating, spreads,

Calm, sluggish, silent; till again constrain'd,

Betwixt two meeting Hills, it bursts a Way,

Where Rocks, and Woods o'erhang the turbid Stream.

There gathering triple Force, rapid, and deep,

It boils, and wheels, and foams, and thunders thro'.

NATURE! great Parent! whose directing Hand

Rolls round the Seasons of the changeful Year,

How mighty! how majestick are thy Works!

With what a pleasing Dread they swell the Soul,

That sees, astonish'd! and, astonish'd sings!

You too, ye Winds! that now begin to blow,

With boisterous Sweep, I raise my Voice to you.

Where are your Stores, ye viewless Beings! say?

Where your aerial Magazines reserv'd,

Against the Day of Tempest perilous?

In what untravel'd Country of the Air,

Hush'd in still Silence, sleep you, when 'tis calm?

LATE, in the louring Sky, red, fiery, Streaks

Begin to flush about; the reeling Clouds

Stagger with dizzy Aim, as doubting yet

Which Master to obey: while rising, slow,

Sad, in the Leaden-colour'd East, the Moon

Wears a black Circle round her fully'd Orb.

Then issues forth the Storm, with loud Control,

And the thin Fabrick of the pillar'd Air

O'erturns, at once. Prone, on th' uncertain Main,

Descends th' Etherial Force, and plows its Waves,

With dreadful Rist: from the mid-Deep, appears,

Surge after Surge, the rising, wat'ry, War.

Whitening, the angry Billows rowl immense,

And roar their Terrors, thro' the shuddering Soul

Of feeble Man, amidst their Fury caught,

And, dash'd upon his Fate: Then, o'er the Cliff,

Where dwells the Sea-Mew, unconfin'd, they fly,

And, hurrying, swallow up the steril Shore.

THE Mountain growls; and all its sturdy Sons

Stoop to the Bottom of the Rocks they shade:

Lone, on its Midnight-Side, and all aghast,

The dark, way-faring, Stranger, breathless, toils,

And climbs against the Blast—

Low, waves the rooted Forest, vex'd, and sheds

What of its leafy Honours yet remains.

Thus, struggling thro' the dissipated Grove,

The whirling Tempest raves along the Plain;

And, on the Cottage thacht, or lordly Dome,

Keen-fastening, shakes 'em to the solid Base.

Sleep, frighted, flies; the hollow Chimney howls,

The Windows rattle, and the Hinges creak.

THEN, too, they say, thro' all the burthen'd Air,

Long Groans are heard, shrill Sounds, and distant Sighs,

That, murmur'd by the Demon of the Night,

Warn the devoted Wretch of Woe, and Death!

Wild Uproar lords it wide: the Clouds commixt,

With Stars, swift-gliding, sweep along the Sky.

All Nature reels.—But hark! the Almighty speaks:

Instant, the chidden Storm begins to pant,

And dies, at once, into a noiseless Calm.

AS yet, 'tis Midnight's Reign; the weary Clouds,

Slow-meeting, mingle into solid Gloom:

Now, while the drousy World lies lost in Sleep,

Let me associate with the low-brow'd Night,

And Contemplation, her sedate Compeer;

Let me shake off th' intrusive Cares of Day,

And lay the medling Senses all aside.

AND now, ye lying Vanities of Life!

You ever-tempting, ever-cheating Train!

Where are you now? and what is your Amount?

Vexation, Disappointment, and Remorse.

Sad, sickening, Thought! and yet, deluded Man,

A Scene of wild, disjointed, Visions past,

And broken Slumbers, rises, still resolv'd,

With new-flush'd Hopes, to run your giddy Round.

FATHER of Light, and Life! Thou Good Supreme!

O! teach me what is Good! teach me thy self!

Save me from Folly, Vanity and Vice,

From every low Pursuit! and feed my Soul,

With Knowledge, conscious Peace, and Vertue pure,

Sacred, substantial, never-fading Bliss!

LO! from the livid East, or piercing North,

Thick Clouds ascend, in whose capacious Womb,

A vapoury Deluge lies, to Snow congeal'd:

Heavy, they roll their fleecy World along;

And the Sky saddens with th' impending Storm.

Thro' the hush'd Air, the whitening Shower descends,

At first, thin-wavering; till, at last, the Flakes

Fall broad, and wide, and fast, dimming the Day,

With a continual Flow. See! sudden, hoar'd,

The Woods beneath the stainless Burden bow,

Blackning, along the mazy Stream it melts;

Earth's universal Face, deep-hid, and chill,

Is all one, dazzling, Waste. The Labourer-Ox

Stands cover'd o'er with Snow, and then demands

The Fruit of all his Toil. The Fowls of Heaven,

Tam'd by the cruel Season, croud around

The winnowing Store, and claim the little Boon,

That Providence allows. The foodless Wilds

Pour forth their brown Inhabitants; the Hare,

Tho' timorous of Heart, and hard beset

By Death, in various Forms, dark Snares, and Dogs,

And more unpitying Men, the Garden seeks,

Urg'd on by fearless Want. The bleating Kind

Eye the bleak Heavens, and next, the glistening Earth,

With Looks of dumb Despair; then sad, dispers'd,

Dig, for the wither'd Herb, thro' Heaps of Snow.

NOW, Shepherds, to your helpless Charge be kind;

Baffle the raging Year, and fill their Penns

With Food, at will: lodge them below the Blast,

And watch them strict; for from the bellowing East,

In this dire Season, oft the Whirlwind's Wing

Sweeps up the Burthen of whole wintry Plains,

In one fierce Blast, and o'er th' unhappy Flocks,

Lodg'd in the Hollow of two neighbouring Hills,

The billowy Tempest whelms; till, upwards urg'd,

The Valley to a shining Mountain swells,

That curls its Wreaths amid the freezing Sky.

NOW, all amid the Rigours of the Year,

In the wild Depth of Winter, while without

The ceaseless Winds blow keen, be my Retreat

A rural, shelter'd, solitary, Scene;

Where ruddy Fire, and beaming Tapers join

To chase the chearless Gloom: there let me sit,

And hold high Converse with the mighty Dead,

Sages of ancient Time, as Gods rever'd,

As Gods beneficent, who blest Mankind,

With Arts, and Arms, and humaniz'd a World.

Rous'd at th' inspring Thought—I throw aside

The long-liv'd Volume, and, deep-musing, hail

The sacred Shades, that, slowly-rising, pass

Before my wondering Eyes—First, Socrates,

Truth's early Champion, Martyr for his God:

Solon, the next, who built his Commonweal,

On Equity's firm Base: Lycurgus, then,

Severely good, and him of rugged Rome,

Numa, who soften'd her rapacious Sons.

Cimon sweet-soul'd, and Aristides just.

Unconquer'd Cato, virtuous in Extreme;

With that attemper'd [*] Heroe, mild, and firm,

Who wept the Brother, while the Tyrant bled.

Scipio, the humane Warriour, gently brave,

Fair Learning's Friend; who early sought the Shade,

To dwell, with Innocence, and Truth, retir'd.

And, equal to the best, the Theban, He

Who, single, rais'd his Country into Fame.

Thousands behind, the Boast of Greece and Rome,

Whom Vertue owns, the Tribute of a Verse

Demand, but who can count the Stars of Heaven?

Who sing their Influence on this lower World?

But see who yonder comes! nor comes alone,

With sober State, and of majestic Mien,

The Sister-Muses in his Train—'Tis He!

Maro! the best of Poets, and of Men!

Great Homer too appears, of daring Wing!

Parent of Song! and, equal, by his Side,

The British Muse, join'd Hand in Hand, they walk,

Darkling, nor miss their Way to Fame's Ascent.

Society divine! Immortal Minds!

Still visit thus my Nights, for you reserv'd,

And mount my soaring Soul to Deeds like yours.

Silence! thou lonely Power! the Door be thine:

See, on the hallow'd Hour, that none intrude,

Save Lycidas, the Friend, with Sense refin'd,

Learning digested well, exalted Faith,

Unstudy'd Wit, and Humour ever gay.

CLEAR Frost succeeds, and thro' the blew Serene,

For Sight too fine, th' Aetherial Nitre flies,

To bake the Glebe, and bind the slip'ry Flood.

This of the wintry Season is the Prime;

Pure are the Days, and lustrous are the Nights,

Brighten'd with starry Worlds, till then unseen.

Mean while, the Orient, darkly red, breathes forth

An Icy Gale, that, in its mid Career,

Arrests the bickering Stream. The nightly Sky,

And all her glowing Constellations pour

Their rigid Influence down: It freezes on

Till Morn, late-rising, o'er the drooping World,

Lifts her pale Eye, unjoyous: then appears

The various Labour of the silent Night,

The pendant Isicle, the Frost-Work fair,

Where thousand Figures rise, the crusted Snow,

Tho' white, made whiter, by the fining North.

On blithsome Frolics bent, the youthful Swains,

While every Work of Man is laid at Rest,

Rush o'er the watry Plains, and, shuddering, view

The fearful Deeps below: or with the Gun,

And faithful Spaniel, range the ravag'd Fields,

And, adding to the Ruins of the Year,

Distress the Feathery, or the Footed Game.

BUT hark! the nightly Winds, with hollow Voice,

Blow, blustering, from the South—the Frost subdu'd,

Gradual, resolves into a weeping Thaw.

Spotted, the Mountains shine: loose Sleet descends,

And floods the Country round: the Rivers swell,

Impatient for the Day.—Those sullen Seas,

That wash th' ungenial Pole, will rest no more,

Beneath the Shackles of the mighty North;

But, rousing all their Waves, resistless heave,—

And hark!—the length'ning Roar, continuous, runs

Athwart the rifted Main; at once, it bursts,

And piles a thousand Mountains to the Clouds!

Ill fares the Bark, the Wretches' last Resort,

That, lost amid the floating Fragments, moors

Beneath the Shelter of an Icy Isle;

While Night o'erwhelms the Sea, and Horror looks

More horrible. Can human Hearts endure

Th' assembled Mischiefs, that besiege them round:

Unlist'ning Hunger, fainting Weariness,

The Roar of Winds, and Waves, the Crush of Ice,

Now, ceasing, now, renew'd, with louder Rage,

And bellowing round the Main: Nations remote,

Shook from their Midnight-Slumbers, deem they hear

Portentous Thunder, in the troubled Sky.

More to embroil the Deep, Leviathan,

And his unweildy Train, in horrid Sport,

Tempest the loosen'd Brine; while, thro' the Gloom,

Far, from the dire, unhospitable Shore,

The Lyon's Rage, the Wolf's sad Howl is heard,

And all the fell Society of Night.

Yet, Providence, that ever-waking Eye

Looks down, with Pity, on the fruitless Toil

Of Mortals, lost to Hope, and lights them safe,

Thro' all this dreary Labyrinth of Fate.

'TIS done!—Dread WINTER has subdu'd the Year,

And reigns, tremenduous, o'er the desart Plains!

How dead the Vegetable Kingdom lies!

How dumb the Tuneful! Horror wide extends

His solitary Empire.—Now, fond Man!

Behold thy pictur'd Life: pass some few Years,

Thy flow'ring SPRING, thy short-liv'd SUMMER'S

Thy sober AUTUMN, fading ito Age,

And pale, concluding, WINTER shuts thy Scene, Strength,

And shrouds Thee in the Grave—where now, are fled

Those Dreams of Greatness? those unsolid Hopes

Of Happiness? those Longings after Fame?

Those restless Cares? those busy, bustling Days?

Those Nights of secret Guilt? those veering Thoughts,

Flutt'ring 'twixt Good, and Ill, that shar'd thy Life?

All, now, are vanish'd! Vertue, sole, survives,

Immortal, Mankind's never-failing Friend,

His Guide to Happiness on high—and see!

'Tis come, the Glorious Morn! the second Birth

Of Heaven, and Earth!—awakening Nature hears

Th' Almighty Trumpet's Voice, and starts to Life,

Renew'd, unfading. Now, th' Eternal Scheme,

That Dark Perplexity, that Mystic Maze,

Which Sight cou'd never trace, nor Heart conceive,

To Reason's Eye, refin'd, clears up apace.

Angels, and Men, astonish'd, pause—and dread

To travel thro' the Depths of Providence,

Untry'd, unbounded. Ye vain Learned! see,

And, prostrate in the Dust, adore that Power,

And Goodness, oft arraign'd. See now the Cause,

Why conscious Worth, oppress'd, in secret long

Mourn'd, unregarded: Why the Good Man's Share

In Life, was Gall, and Bitterness of Soul:

Why the lone Widow, and her Orphans, pin'd,

In starving Solitude; while Luxury,

In Palaces, lay prompting her low Thought,

To form unreal Wants: why Heaven-born Faith,

And Charity, prime Grace! wore the red Marks

Of Persecution's Scourge: why licens'd Pain,

That cruel Spoiler, that embosom'd Foe,

Imbitter'd all our Bliss. Ye Good Distrest!

Ye Noble Few! that, here, unbending, stand

Beneath Life's Pressures—yet a little while,

And all your Woes are past. Time swiftly fleets,

And wish'd Eternity, approaching, brings

Life undecaying, Love without Allay,

Pure flowing Joy, and Happiness sincere.

The END.

Notes

*
Timoleon.
↵

WINTER. A POEM.

By JAMES THOMSON, A. M.

—Rapidus Sol

Nondum Hyemem contingit Equis. Jam praeterit aestas.

VIRG.

—Glacialis HYEMS canos hirsuta Capillos.

OVID.

LONDON: Printed for J. MILLAN, at Locke's-Head, in Shug-Lane, near the Upper End of the Hay-Market; and Sold by J. ROBERTS, in Warwick-Lane, and N. BLANDFORD, at the London-Gazette, Charing-Cross. MDCCXXVI. (Price One Shilling.)

ERRATA. Page 7. Line 22. for black read bleak. P. 8. l. 1. for Rist r. Rift. P. 11. l. 20. for inspring r. inspiring. P. 15. l. 14. for ito r. into.

TO The RIGHT HONOURABLE Sir SPENCER COMPTON.

SIR,

THE Author of the following POEM begs Leave to inscribe this his first Performance to your Name, and Patronage. Unknown Himself, and only introduced by the Muse, He yet ventures to approach You, with a modest Chearfulness: For, whoever attempts to excel in any Generous Art, tho' he comes alone, and unregarded by the World, may hope for your Notice, and Esteem. Happy! if I can, in any Degree, merit this Good Fortune: as every Ornament, and Grace of Polite Learning is yours, your single Approbation will be my Fame.

I DARE not indulge my Heart, by dwelling on your Public Character; on that exalted Honour, and Integrity which distinguish You, in that August Assembly, where You preside; that unshaken Loyalty to your Sovereign, that disinterested Concern for his People, which shine out, united, in all your Behaviour, and finish the Patriot. I am conscious of my Want of Strength, and Skill for so delicate an Undertaking: And yet, as the Shepherd, in his Cottage, may feel and acknowledge the Influence of the Sun with as lively a Gratitude, as the Great Man, in his Palace, even I may be allowed to publish my Sense of those Blessings, which, from so many powerful Vertues, are derived to the Nation they adorn.

I conclude with saying, that your fine Discernment and Humanity, in your Private Capacity, are so conspicuous, that, if this Address is not received with some Indulgence, it will be a severe Conviction, that what I have written has not the least Share of Merit.

I am, With the profoundest Respect, SIR, Your most devoted, and most faithful, Humble Servant, James Thomson.

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Winter: A poem. By James Thomson, ...

Thomson, James, 1700-1748.

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1106012453

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9781106012456

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— Winter: A poem. By James Thomson, ..., Thomson, James, 1700-1748.. [4],16p. ; 2⁰. London :: printed for J. Millan and sold by J. Roberts and N. Blandford,. 1726.. [Reproduction of original from the British Library.] [Foxon, T211] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT52575.] [Electronic data. Farmington Hills, Mich. : Thomson Gale, 2003. Page image (PNG). Digitized image of the microfilm version produced in Woodbridge, CT by Research Publications, 1982-2002 (later known as Primary Source Microfilm, an imprint of the Gale Group).]

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