sioned. On the death of the Duchess of Marlborough, it was found that she had left a thousand pounds to Glover, the author of 'Leonidas,' and Mallet, jointly, on condition that they should draw up, from the family papers, a life of the great duke. A stipulation in the will, that the work, before publication, should be submitted to the Earl of Chesterfield, so offended Glover that he would have nothing to do with it. Mallet, however, consented to undertake the task, received the money, and for years pretended to be busy about it; but at his death it was found that the first line had not been written. In his latter days he held the lucrative situation of Keeper of the Book of Entries for the Port of London. His death occurred on the twenty-first of April, 1765. Besides the works already mentioned, Mallet was the author of two other poems, Amyntor and Theodora, and The Excursion, the latter of which was written in the style of Thomson's 'Seasons.' The defects of Thomson's style are servilely copied; some of his epithets and expressions are also borrowed; but there is no approach to his redeeming graces and beauties. He also wrote some theatrical pieces, which, though partially successful on their representation, are now totally forgotten. His fame, as an author, rests exclusively on the ballad of William and Margaret; and it there worthily rests; for in the opinion of all critics, it is one of the finest compositions of the kind in the language. Sir Walter Scott conceived that Mallet had imitated an old Scottish tale to be found in Allen Ramsay's 'Tea-Table Miscellany,' beginning There came a ghost to Margaret's door. The resemblance is striking; though Mallet confessed only to a single stanza. The whole ballad is so very fine that we shall not withhold any part of it. WILLIAM AND MARGARET. 'Twas at the silent solemn hour, Her face was like an April morn So shall the fairest face appear When youth and years are flown: Her bloom was like the springing flower, That sips the silver dew; The rose was budded in her cheek, Just opening to the view. But love had, like the canker worm, The rose grew pale, and left her cheek- Awake! she cried, thy true love calls, Come from her midnight grave: This is the dark and dreary hour Bethink thee, William, of thy fault, Thy pledge and broken oath! Why did you promise love to me, Why did you swear my eyes were bright How could you say my face was fair, Why did you say my lip was sweet, That face, alas! no more is fair, Those lips no longer red: Dark are my eyes, now closed in death, And every charm is fled. The hungry worm my sister is; This winding sheet I wear: And cold and weary lasts our night Till that last morn appear. But hark! the cock has warned me hence; A long and last adieu! Come see, false man, how low she lies, Who died for love of you. The lark sung loud; the morning smiled With beams of rosy red: Pale William quaked in every limb, And raving left his bed. He hied him to the fatal place Where Margaret's body lay; And stretched him on the green-grass turf That wrapt her breathless clay. And thrice he called on Margaret's name, Then laid his cheek to her cold grave, And word spake never more! JAMES THOMSON, the author of The Seasons, was born at Ednam, neai Kelso, in the shire of Roxburgh, on the eleventh of September, 1700. His father, who was, at the time of the future poet's birth, minister of the parish of Ednam, removed a few years afterwards to that of Southdean, in the same county, a primitive and retired district, situated ainong the lower slopes of the Cheviots. Here the young poet passed his boyish years, and prepared for college; and in the eighteenth year of his age, he was sent to the university of Edinburgh. The death of Thomson's father, during his second year at the university, threw him mainly upon his own resources; and after having, for a short time, studied divinity with a view to entering the church, he abandoned that design, and repaired to London, to push his fortune among the wits of that metropolis. His college associate, Mallet, soon pro cured for him the situation of tutor to the son of Lord Binning; and Thomson, having previously written many of the descriptive scenes of his 'Winter,' took occasion to show them to his friend. Mallet at once advised him to connect them into one regular poem. This was readily done, and 'Winter' was published in March, 1726, the poet having received, for his copyright, only three guineas. A second, and even a third edition was called for during the same year; and in 1727, appeared his Summer.' The success which attended those publications, induced Thomson to issue, in 1728, proposals for publishing, by subscription, the 'Four Seasons.' The number of subscribers, at a guinea a copy, was three hundred and eightyseven; but many of his friends took two or three copies each. The tragedy of Sophonisba was next produced, and was very favorably received; and in 1731, the poet accompanied as tutor, or travelling companion, the son of Sir Charles Talbot, afterwards lord chancellor of England, to the continent. They visited France, Switzerland, and Italy; and it is easy to conceive with what pleasure Thomson must have sojourned among scenes which he had often viewed in imagination. In November of the same year he was at Rome, and no doubt gratified the wish expressed in one of his letters, 'to see the fields where Virgil gathered his immortal honey, and tread the same ground where men have thought and acted so greatly.' On his return to England the next year he published his poem of Liberty, and obtained the sinecure situation of Secretary of Briefs in the Court of Chancery, which he held till Lord Talbot's death. The succeeding chancellor bestowed the situation on another, Thomson not having, it is said, from characteristic indolence, solicited a continuance of the office. By the loss of the situation of Secretary of Briefs, Thomson was roused from his indolence, and turning his attention once more to the stage, produced the tragedy of Agamemnon, which was, however, but coldly received Edward and Eleonora followed; and the poet having, about this time, re ceived an annual pension of a hundred pounds, bestowed upon him by the Prince of Wales, and the farther appointment of Surveyor General of the Leeward Islands, at a salary of three hundred pounds per annum, began to feel that his circumstances were easy and independent. He now settled at Kewlane, near Richmond, and his residence soon became the scene of social enjoyment and lettered ease. Retirement and the scenes of nature became more and more his passion every day; and he therefore did little in a literary way after he took possession of his suburban retreat, farther than to finish the 'Castle of Indolence,' on which he had been long engaged, and compose a tragedy on the subject of Coriolanus. The poem was published in May, 1748, and the tragedy was brought upon the stage by the author's executors after his death. In the summer following, he took a cold while on his return from London, a fever succeeded, and after a short illness his death occurred, on the twenty-seventh of August, 1748, leaving as deep lamenting for his loss as ever attended the departure of a poet. Though the author of a number of works, yet the fame of Thomson is entirely identified with 'The Seasons.' So true and beautiful are the descriptions in the poem, and so entirely do they harmonize with those fresh feelings and glowing impulses which all would wish to cherish, that a love of nature seems to be synonymous with a love of Thomson. It is difficult to conceive a person of education, imbued with an admiration of rural and woodland scenery, without a strong affection and regard for that delightful poet who has painted their charms with so much fidelity and enthusiasm. The same features of blandness and benevolence, of simplicity of design, and beauty of form and color, which we recognize as distinguishing traits of the natural landscape, are seen in the pages of Thomson, conveyed by his artless mind as faithfully as the lights and shades on the face of creation. No exposure of defects in his poetic style has, therefore, ever affected his popularity. In the Seasons we have a poetical subject poetically treated-filled to overflowing with the richest materials of poetry, and the emanations of benevolence. In the Castle of Indolence we have the concentration or essence of those materials applied to a subject less poetical, but still affording room for luxuriant fancy, the most exquisite art, and still greater melody of numbers. The warmth of our admiration of this interesting poet would induce us, should we indulge it, to linger longer with him; but we can only add, in illustration of the remarks already made, a few detached passages from the 'Seasons,' and an extract from the Castle of Indolence': SHOWERS IN SPRING. The north-east spends his rage; he now, shut up Warms the wide air, and o'er the void of heaven Breathes the big clouds with vernal showers distent. At first, a dusky wreath they seem to rise, The wish of nature. Gradual sinks the breeze Is heard to quiver through the closing woods, The promised sweetness. Man superior walks The clouds consign their treasures to the fields, SUMMER EVENING. Low walks the sun, and broadens by degrees, In all their pomp attend his setting throne. |