SELECTIONS FROM THE POEMS OF THOMSON, COLLINS, AND AKENSIDE.

SHOWERS IN SPRING.

(James Thomson.)

[Born, 1700; died, 1748. Chief works: The Seasons,' 'Castle of Indolence,' and some tragedies.]

pre-lu'-sive, introductory

um-bra'-geous, shady

as-suage, to soften, to ease

mit'-i-gate, to lessen, to make more easy

di-ur-nal, daily

THE north-east spends his

re-dund'-ant, more than necessary

de'-vi-ous, going astray, or out of the usual path

per-en'-ni-al, durable, continuing through

year's

or-i-ent (n.), the east

em-pyr-e-al, refined, beyond aërial mat

ter

in'-fin-ite, boundless, endless

rage; he now, shut up

Within his iron cave, the effusive south

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,
Scarce staining either, but by swift degrees,
In heaps on heaps the doubled vapour sails
Along the loaded sky, and mingling deep,
Sits on the horizon round, a settled gloom;
Not such as wintry storms on mortals shed,
Oppressing life; but lovely, gentle, kind,
And full of every hope, of every joy,
The wish of nature. Gradual sinks the breeze
Into a perfect calm, that not a breath

Is heard to quiver through the closing woods,
Or rustling turn the many-twinkling leaves
Of aspen tall. The uncurling floods, diffused
In glossy breadth, seem, through delusive lapse,
Forgetful of their course. 'Tis silence all,
And pleasing expectation. Herds and flocks
Drop the dry sprig, and, mute-imploring, eye
The falling verdure. Hushed in short suspense,
The plumy people streak their wings with oil,
To throw the lucid moisture trickling off,
And wait the approaching sign, to strike at once
Into the general choir. Even mountains, vales,
And forest, seem impatient to demand
The promised sweetness. Man superior walks
Amid the glad creation, musing praise,
And looking lively gratitude. At last,

The clouds consign their treasures to the fields,
And, softly shaking on the dimpled pool
Prelusive drops, let all their moisture flow
In large effusion o'er the freshened world.
The stealing shower is scarce to patter heard,
By such as wander through the forest-walks,
Beneath the umbrageous multitude of leaves.

The Seasons.

HASSAN, OR THE CAMEL DRIVER.

(William Collins.)

[Born, 1720: died, 1756. Works: Oriental Eclogues' and 'Odes.'

IN silent horror, o'er the boundless waste, The driver Hassan with his camels past; One cruse of water on his back he bore, And his light scrip contained a scanty store; A fan of painted feathers in his hand, To guard his shaded face from scorching sand. The sultry sun had gained the middle sky, And not a tree and not an herb was nigh; The beasts with pain their dusty way pursue, Shrill roared the winds, and dreary was the view! With desperate sorrow wild, the affrighted man Thus sighed, thrice struck his beast, and thus began: 'Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day, When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way.' Ah! little thought I of the blasting_wind, The thirst or pinching hunger that I find! Bethink thee, Hassan! where shall thirst assuage, When fails this cruse, his unrelenting rage? Soon shall this scrip its precious load resign, Then what but tears and hunger shall be thine ? Ye mute companions of my toils, that bear In all my griefs a more than equal share! Here, where no springs in murmurs break away, Or moss-crowned fountains mitigate the day, In vain ye hope the green delight to know, Which plains more blest, or verdant vales bestow; Here rocks alone and tasteless sands are found, And faint and sickly winds for ever howl around. 'Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day, When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!'

Curs'd be the gold and silver which persuade Weak men to follow far fatiguing trade! The lily peace outshines the silver store, And life is dearer than the golden ore; Yet money tempts us o'er the desert brown, To every distant mart and wealthy town. Full oft we tempt the land, and oft the sea; And are we only yet repaid by thee! Ah! why was ruin so attractive made, Or why fond man so easily betrayed? Why heed we not, while mad we haste along, The gentle voice of peace, or pleasure's song? Or wherefore think the flowery mountain's side, The fountain's murmurs, and the valley's pride; Why think we these less pleasing to behold Than dreary deserts, if they lead to gold? 'Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day, When first from Shiraz' walls I bent my way!' Oh cease my fears! All frantic as I go, When thought creates unnumbered scenes of woe, What if the lion in his rage I meet! Oft in the dust I view his printed feet; And fearful oft, when Day's declining light Yields her pale empire to the mourner Night; By hunger roused he scours the groaning plain, Gaunt wolves and sullen tigers in his train; Before them Death, with shrieks directs their way, Fills the wild yell and leads them to their prey. 'Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day, When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!' At that dead hour the silent asp shall creep, If aught of rest I find, upon my sleep; Or some swoln serpent twist his scales around And wake to anguish with a burning wound. Thrice happy they, the wise contented poor, From lust of wealth and dread of death secure! They tempt no deserts, and no griefs they find; Peace rules the day where reason rules the mind. 'Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day, When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!' O hapless youth! for she thy love hath won, The tender Zara! will be most undone. Big swelled my heart, and owned the powerful maid, When fast she dropped her tears, as thus she said: "Farewell the youth whom sighs could not detain, Whom Zara's breaking heart implored in vain! Yet as thou go'st, may every blast arise

Weak and unfelt as those rejected sighs;
Safe o'er the wild no perils may'st thou see,
No griefs endure, nor weep, false youth! like me."
'O! let me safely to the fair return,

Say, with a kiss, she must not, shall not mourn;
O! let me teach my heart to lose its fears,
Recalled by Wisdom's voice, and Zara's tears.'
He said, and called on Heaven to bless the day
When back to Schiraz' walls he bent his way.

Eclogue II. (Oriental Eclogues.')

ASPIRATIONS AFTER THE INFINITE.

(Mark Akenside.)

[Born, 1721; died, 1770. Chief poem: The Pleasures of the Imagination.']
SAY, why was man so eminently raised
Amid the vast creation; why ordained
Through life and death to dart his piercing eye,
With thoughts beyond the limits of his frame;
But that the Omnipotent might send him forth
In sight of mortal and immortal powers,
As on a boundless theatre, to run
The great career of justice; to exalt
His generous aim to all diviner deeds;

To chase each partial purpose from his breast;
And through the mist of passion and of sense,
And through the tossing tide of chance and pain,
To hold his course unfaltering, while the voice
Of Truth and Virtue, up the steep ascent
Of Nature, calls him to his high reward,

The applauding smile of Heaven? Else wherefore burns
In mortal bosoms this unquenched hope,

That breathes from day to day sublimer things,

And mocks possession ? wherefore darts the mind
With such resistless ardour to embrace

Majestic forms; impatient to be free,
Spurning the gross control of wilful might;
Proud of the strong contention of her toils;
Proud to be daring? who but rather turns
To Heaven's broad fire his unconstrained view,
Than to the glimmering of a waxen flame?
Who that, from Alpine heights, his labouring eye

Shoots round the wide horizon, to survey

Nilus or Ganges rolling his bright wave

Through mountains, plains, through empires black with shade, And continents of sand, will turn his gaze

To mark the windings of a scanty rill

That murmurs at his feet? The high-born soul
Disdains to rest her heaven-aspiring wing
Beneath its native quarry. Tired of earth
And this diurnal scene, she springs aloft
Through fields of air, pursues the flying storm,
Rides on the vollied lightning through the heavens ;
Or, yoked with whirlwinds, and the northern blast,
Sweeps the long tract of day. Then high she soars
The blue profound, and hovering round the sun,
Beholds him pouring the redundant stream
Of light; beholds his unrelenting sway,
Bend the reluctant planets to absolve

The fated rounds of Time. Thence far effused,
She darts her swiftness up the long career
Of devious comets; through its burning signe
Exulting measures the perennial wheel
Of Nature, and looks back on all the stars,
Whose blended light, as with a milky zone,
Invest the orient. Now, amazed she views
The empyreal waste, where happy spirits hold,
Beyond this concave heaven, their calm abode;
And fields of radiance, whose unfading light
Has travelled the profound six thousand years,
Nor yet arrives in sight of mortal things.
Even on the barriers of the world, untired,
She meditates the eternal depth below;
Till half recoiling, down the headlong steep
She plunges; soon o'erwhelmed and swallowed up
In that immense of being. There her hopes
Rest at the fated goal. For from the birth
Of mortal man, the Sovereign Maker said,
That not in humble nor in brief delight,
Not in the fading echoes of Renown,

Power's purple robes, nor Pleasure's flowery lap,
The soul should find enjoyment; but from these
Turning disdainful from an equal good,

Through all the ascent of things enlarge her view,
Till every bound at length should disappear,

And infinite perfection close the scene.

The Pleasures of the Imagination.