ENGLISH POETRY 1579-1830: SPENSER AND THE TRADITION
James De La Cour
, "To Mr. Thomson, on his Seasons" Prospect of Poetry (1734) 59-64.
1726 ca.: Aaron Hill
1727: David Mallet
1729: Edward Young
1729: Richard Savage
1729: Joseph Mitchell
1733: Richard Savage
1734: Rev. James De La Cour
1736: Gibert West
1736: Rev. Moses Browne
1736: Alexander Bayne
1746: William Shenstone
1746: Alexander Carlyle
1748: George Lyttelton
1748: Robert Shiels
1748 ca.: Anonymous
1748 ca.: William Shenstone
1748: Rev. James De La Cour
1749: William Collins
1750: George Lyttelton
1750 ca.: Rev. William Thompson
1751: Moses Mendez
1758: G. G.
1763: Rev. William Thompson
1770: J. S.
1770: W. B.
1773: Rev. William Hayward Roberts
1776: Samuel Johnson
1778: James Beattie
1782: J. Gest of Modbury
1788: Thomas Trotter
1790 ca.: Edmond Malone
1790: Helen Maria Williams
1791: Robert Burns
1791: Mr. William Taylor
1791: Thomas Park
1792: John Corry
1795: Dr. Robert Anderson
1796: Charles Graham
1797: Thomas Park
1798: Alexander Campbell
1800: Mr. Woods
1802: W. G.
1803: Thomas Clio Rickman
1805: Walter Savage Landor
1806: Dr. John Aikin
1807: Robert Southey
1807: Rev. Percival Stockdale
1813: Rev. William Cameron
1814: Leigh Hunt
1814: Thomas Barnes
1814: George Noble
1815: William Wordsworth
1816: George Scott
1818: Rev. Francis Hodgson
1818: A. C. L.
1818: Robert Carruthers
1822: Joseph Robertson
1824: William Hazlitt
1824: Bryan Waller Procter
1825 ca.: Henry Mackenzie
1825: Allan Cunningham
1825: Bryan Waller Procter
1826: Richard Ryan
1829: William Wordsworth
1829: Anna Brownell Jameson
1830: Rev. George Barrell Cheever
1831: John Wilson
1832: John Taylor Esq.
1835 ca.: Charles Crocker
1836: Rev. Thomas Frognall Dibdin
1836: L. L.
1842: Robert Story
1880: George Saintsbury
1882: Epes Sargent
1894: William Minto
Rev. James De La Cour:
1733: Rev. Thomas Parnell
1734: James Thomson
1738: Rev. Joseph Spence
1748: James Thomson
From sunless worlds, where Phoebus seldom smiles,
But with his ev'ning wheels hangs o'er our Isles;
A western muse to worth this tribute pays,
From regions bord'ring on the Hebrides:
For thee the Irish Harp new-strung once more,
Greens our rough rocks, and bleak Hybernian shore:
Thou, Thomson, bid my fingers wake the strings,
And with thy praise the wild wood hollow rings;
The shades of rev'rend Druids hover round,
And bend transported o'er the brazen sound.
So the wing'd Bees that idly rove along,
(Renown'd alike for sweets as those for song;)
If the shrill Brass invite them from the sky,
In dusky clusters round the music fly.
Blest Bard! with what new lustre dost thou rise,
Soft as the season o'er the summer skies;
Thy works a little world new found appear,
And thou the Phoebus of a heaven so fair;
Thee their bright sov'reign all the signs allow,
And Thomson is another name for nature now:
Thou first cou'dst drive the coursers of the day,
Nor thro' the dazling glories lost thy way;
Thy steeds red hoofs still trod th' eternal round,
Nor flung the burning chariot to the ground.
So round Iulus' Temples, blazing bright!
In locks dishevel'd stream'd a length of light;
The Prince unharm'd, beheld the sparkles spread,
Nor shook the shining honours from his head.
Beneath thy touch Description paints anew,
And the skies brighten to a purer blue;
Spring owes thy pencil her peculiar green,
And drown'd in redder roses summer's seen;
While hoary winter whitens into cold,
And Autumn bends beneath her bearded gold.
In various Drap'ry see the rowling year,
And the wild waste in sable spots appear;
O'er the black Heath the Bittern stalks alone,
And to the naked Marshes makes his moan;
Ingulph'd in Bogs behold his muddy beak,
And the brown Partridge feeding in the brake.
But chief the sweetest passion best you sing,
The groves' soft theme, and symphony of spring:
How brindled Lions roar with fierce desire,
And in the waters Phocae feel the fire;
There large Leviathan unwieldy raves,
And burns tho' circled round with all his waves.
But higher still, those wonders must give place,
To the new transports of a beauteous face!
Its force on man — the touch — the glowing glance,
The tempting bosom, and the tender trance!
In those how strongly dost thou paint our care,
And all the darling weakness of the fair;
What thanks must Beauty give in yielding hour,
To warn them from us in the rosy bow'r?
A sudden flash of lightning turns my eye,
To thunder rumbling in the summer sky!
Beneath thy hand the flaming sheet is spread,
O'er heav'n's wide face, and wraps it round with red;
With the broad blaze the kindling lines grow bright,
And all the glowing page is fill'd with light;
Thro' the rough verse the thunder hoarsly roars,
And on red wings the nimble lightning soars:
Here thy Amelia starts, and chill'd with fears,
At ev'ry flash her eye-lid swims in tears;
What heart but beats for so divine a form,
Pale as a lily sinking in the storm?
What maid so cold to take a lover's part,
But pities Celadon with all her heart?
How pretious gems enrich each sparkling line,
Add sun to sun, and from thy fancy shine!
Here rocks of diamond blaze in broken ray,
And sanguine rubies shed a blushing day;
Blue shining Saphyrs a gay heaven unfold,
And Topaz lightens like transparent gold;
Of evening tinct pale Amethists are seen,
And Em'ralds paint their languid beams with green:
While the clear Opal courts the reader's sight;
And rains a show'r of many-colour'd light:
Your sky-dipt pencil adds the proper glow,
Stains each bright stone, and lets their lustre flow,
Tempers the colours shifting from each beam,
And bids them flash in one continued stream.
So have I seen the florid rainbow rise,
In breeded colours o'er the wat'ry skies,
Where drops of light alternate fall away,
And fainting gleams in gradual dyes decay;
But thrown together the broad Arch displays,
One tide of glory! one collected blaze!
Where may those numbers find thee now retir'd,
What lawn or grove is by the muse admir'd;
Dost thou in Stowe's delightful gardens stray,
Or in the glooms of Doddington delay:
There sweet embower'd some fav'rite author read,
Or breath the breezes of thy native Tweed;
On her cool border rest reclin'd a while,
Mindful of Forbes, and thy own Argyle?
O! thou that only in this garb cou'd please,
And bring me over to commend thy lays,
Where rhyme is wanting, but where fancy shines,
And bursts like ripen'd Ore above the mines;
Enjoy thy genius! glory in thy choice!
Whose Roman freedom has Roscommon's voice.