I have sent you a little Poem, which, for its beauty and elegance, well deserves the notice of the Public. It was wrote in a blank leaf before Thomson's Seasons, as a compliment to that ingenious Author, by his great admirer and name sake, the Reverend Mr. William Thompson, some-time Fellow of Queen's-College, in Oxford. As it never has appeared in print that I know of, by giving it a place in your entertaining MAGAZINE, you will greatly oblige all your Readers of true taste, as well as your friend and servant, J. R.
Hail, NATURE'S Poet! whom she taught alone
To sing her Works in numbers like her own:
Sweet as the thrush that warbles in the dale,
And soft as Philomela's tender tale.
SHE lent her pencil too, of wond'rous power
To catch the rainbow, and to paint the flower
Of many-mingling hues; and, smiling, said
(But first with laurel crown'd her favourite's head)
"These beauteous children, tho' so fair they shine,
Fade in my SEASONS, let them live in thine."
And live they shall, the charm of ev'ry eye,
'Till NATURE sickens, and the SEASONS die!