his own species. He is not indeed known, through his whole life, to have given any person one moment's pain, by his writings or otherwise. He took no part in the poetical squabbles which happened in his time; and was respected and left undisturbed by both sides. He would even refuse to take offence when he justly might; by interrupting any personal story that was brought him, with some jest, or some humorous apology for the offender. Nor was he ever seen ruffied or discomposed, but when he read or heard of some flagrant instance of injustice, oppression, or cruelty: then, indeed, the strongest marks of horror and indignation were visible in his countenance.

These amiable virtues, this divine temper of mind, did not fail of their due reward. His friends loved him with an enthusiastic ardour, and lamented his untimely fate in the manner that is still fresh in every one's memory; the best and greatest men of his time honoured him with their friendship and protection; the applause of the public attended every appearance he made; the actors, of whom the more eminent were his friends and admirers, grudging no pains to do justice to his tragedies. At present indeed, if we except Tancred, they are seldom called for ; the simplicity of his plots, and the models he worked after, not suiting the reigning taste, nor the impatience of an English theatre. They may hereafter come to be in vogue: but we

hazard no comment or conjecture upon them, or upon any part of Mr. Thomson's works; neither need they any defence or apology, after the reception they have had at home, and in the foreign languages into which they have been translated. We shall only say, that, to judge from the imitations of his manner, which have been following him close, from the very first publication of Winter, he seems to have fixed no inconsiderable æra of the English poetry.

O DE

ON THE

DEATH OF MR. THOMSON,

BY MR. COLLINS.

The scene of the following stanzas is supposed to lie on the Thames near Richmond.

IN yonder grave a Druid lies

Where slowly winds the stealing wave!
The year's best sweets shall duteous rise
To deck its poet's sylvan grave!

In yon deep bed of whispering reeds

*

His airy harp shall now be laid,

That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds,

May love through life the soothing shade.

Then maids and youths shall linger here,
And, while its sounds at distance swell,

Shall sadly seem, in Pity's ear,

To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell.

*The harp of Eolus, of which see a description in the Castle of Indolence.

Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore

When Thames in summer wreaths is drest, And oft suspend the dashing oar

To bid his gentle spirit rest!

And oft as Ease and Health retire
To breezy lawn, or forest deep,
The friend shall view yon whitening spire*,
And 'mid the varied landscape weep.

But Thou, who own'st that earthy bed,
Ah! what will every dirge avail?
Or tears, which Love and Pity shed,

That mourn beneath the gliding sail?

Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye
Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimm'ring near!
With him, sweet bard, may Fancy die,
And Joy desert the blooming year.

But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide
No sedge-crown'd sisters now attend,

Now waft me from the green hill's side
Whose cold turf hides the buried friend!

And see the fairy valleys fade,

Dun Night has veil'd the solemn view!

Yet once again, dear parted shade,
Meek Nature's child, again adieu!

* Richmond church.

The genial meads, assign'd to bless

Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom; Their hinds, and shepherd-girls, shall dress With simple hands thy rural tomb.

Long, long, thy stone, and pointed clay,
Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes:
O, vales and wild woods!-shall he say,-
In yonder grave your Druid lies!