over, in his way, what he was to correct and write out next day.

:

The amusements of his leisure hours were civil and natural history, voyages, and the relations of travellers, the most authentic he could procure and had his situation favoured it, he would certainly have excelled in gardening, agriculture, and every rural improvement and exercise. Although he performed on no instruinent, he was passionately fond of music, and would sometimes listen a full hour at his window to the nightingales in Richmond gardens. While abroad, he had been greatly delighted with the regular Italian drama, such as Metastasio writes, as it is there heightened by the charms of the best voices and instruments; and looked upon our theatrical entertainments, as, in one respect, naked and imperfect, when compared with the ancient, or with those of Italy; wishing sometimes that a chorus, at least, and a better recitative, could be introduced.

Nor was his taste less exquisite in the arts of painting, sculpture, and architecture. In his travels, he had seen all the most celebrated monuments of antiquity, and the best productions of modern art; and studied them so minutely; and with so true a judgment, that in some of his des

criptions, in the poem of Liberty, we have the master- pieces there mentioned placed in a stronger light perhaps, than if we saw them with our eyes; at least more justly delineated than in any other account extant: so superior is a natural taste of the grand and beautiful, to the traditional lessons of a common virtuoso. His collection of prints, and some drawings from the antique, are now in the possession of his friend Mr. Gray of Richmond Hill.

As for his more distinguishing qualities of mind and heart, they are better represented in his writings, than they can be by the pen of any biographer. There, his love of mankind, of his country and friends, his devotion to the Supreme Being, founded on the most elevated and just conceptions of his operations and providence, shine out in eyery page. So unbounded was his tenderness of heart, that it took in even the brute creation : judge what it must have been towards 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 ruffled or discomposed, but when he read or heard of some flagrant instance of injustíce, 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 ardor, 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 appearence 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 tasle, 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 inconsi derable æra of the English poetry.

ODE

ON THE

DEATH OF MR. THOMSON.

BY MR. COLLIN S.

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

1

I.

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.

II.

In yon deep bed of whisp'ring reeds
His airy harp (1) shall now be laid,
That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds,
May love thro' life the soothing shade.

III.

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.

(1) The harp of ÆOLUS, of which see a description in the CASTLE OF INDOLENCE.