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the best only; not without linking them in such a manner as the stanzas luckily enabled us to do, with no violation to a syllable, except the occasional loss of connection with a rhyme. Alteration was out of the question; every word retained is the poet's, and no other is admitted.
Thomson, who was once seen eating a peach off a tree with his hands in his waistcoat pockets, was fourteen or fifteen years writing the Castle of Indolence ;
;-a fitting period! We are not to suppose he did nothing between whiles. He was both very indolent and very industrious, for his mind was always at work on his enjoyments, as the world has good reason to know in possessing his Seasons. And he wrote tragedies besides, not so good, but full of humane and generous sentiments, with passages worth picking out. He had the luck to be made easy in his circumstances by men in power before it was too late for him to enjoy what he made others enjoy; so he lived at Richmond, singing like one of the birds whom he so justly describes as singing the better, the better they are fed; that is to say, if the genius of singing be in them; for this implies the necessity of giving vent to it.
"Whåt you observe concerning the pursuit of poetry,” says he, in a letter to a friend,“ so far engaged in it as I am, is certainly just. Besides, let him quit it who can, and 'erit mihi magnus Apollo,' or something as great. A true genius, like light, must be beaming forth, as a false one is an incurable disease. One would not, however, climb Parnassus, any more than your mortal hills, to fix forever on the barren top. No; it is some little dear retirement in the vale below that gives the right relish to the prospect, which, without that, is nothing but enchantment; and though pleasing for some time, at last leaves us in a desert. The great fat doctor of Bath* told me that poets should be kept poor, the more to animate their genius. This is like the cruel custom of putting a bird's eye out that it may sing the sweeter; but, surely, they sing'sweetest amid the luxuriant woods, while the full spring blossoms around them.”
Beautifully said is this, and well reasoned too. It is a final answer to all the grudgers of a poet's comfort. Singing, it is true, might and does console him under any circumstances; but why should we
* Supposed to be Dr. Cheyne, who got fat and melancholy with good living, whereas Thomson got fat and merry; for Cheyne was an owl, not a singing bird.
wish him to be consoled, when he can be made happy ? as happy as he would make ourselves ?
Thomson is a greater poet than the style of the Seasons would lead us to suppose. He was too modest to approach Nature in the garb of his natural simplicity, so he put on a sort of court suit of classicality, stuffed out with " taffeta phrases” and “silken terms precise." But the true genius is underneath. Perhaps there was something in it of a heavy temperament, and of the “indolence" to which it inclined him. He had a warm heart in a gross body. The Castle of Indolence has been thought his best poem, because the style was imitated from that of Spenser. It certainly contains as good poetry as any he wrote; and the tone of Spenser is charmingly imitated, with an arch but delighted reverence.
The castle hight of Indolence,
And its false luxury ;
We liv'd right jollily.
MORTAL man, who livest here by toil,
Do not complain of this thy hard estate;
Withouten that would come a heavier bale,
In lowly dale, fast by a river's side,
Half prankt with spring, with summer half embrown'd,
A listless climate made; where, sooth to say,
Was naught around but images of rest,
That, as they bicker'd through the sunny glade, Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made.
Join'd to the prattle of the purling rills,
And still a coil the grasshopper did keep;
Full in the passage of the vale, above,
And where this valley winded out, below,
But whate'er smack'd of noyance and unrest
The landskip such, inspiring perfect ease,
While solitude and perfect silence reign'd,
almost was constrain'd.
A vast assembly moving to and fro,
The doors that knew no shrill alarming bell,
And couches stretch'd around in seemly band,
And endless pillows rise to prop the head;
And everywhere huge cover'd tables stood,
You need but wish, and, instantly obey'd,
The rooms with costly tapestry were hung,
And taught charm’d Echo to resound their smart,
Each sound, too, here to languishment inclin'd,
Entangled deep in its enchanting snares,