sum was produced, and remitted to his sisters. His play of Coriolanus, for which Lord Lyttleton wrote a prologue, was acted with great applause. The celebrated Mr. Quin sustained the character of Coriolanus; and the friendship he bore for the author, and the tears he shed on the stage, were those of real affection and grief for the lamented death of the excellent poet.
The amiable virtues and excellent feelings of Mr. Thomson were equal to his distinguished genius. His friends loved him with sincere attachment. The best and the greatest men of that time honoured him with their friendship. The applause of the public constantly followed the appearance of his works, as the most perfect virtues were manifested in all his writings and in his life.
We shall here extract his remarks on Rome, where he and his friend spent a year.
"Oh! ancient city, where is now thy splendour?
Behold thy palaces with painted front,
They represent the blank and want within,
Concealing often poverty extreme.
Mark! how the temple glares, and, artful dress'd,
Succeeds to draw the superstitious crowd.
Proud want is manifest in gilded grandeur,
Closely allied to misery; in sordid cabin
No clean convenience reigns, no decent comfort;
Even Sleep itself, oppress'd by daily labour,
Lays on the bed impure his heavy head.
Nigh to the gay you see the wretched man ;
Mark the desponding race, idle and sad,
Of occupation void, as void of hope;-
Hope, that glad ray, glanc'd from Eternal goodness,
Which life enlivens, and exalts its powers,
To him unknown who meditates on crimes,
Conscious of want, which forms excuse for vice.
And see where stands God's altar, nursing murder;
To it for shelter dark assassins fly,
And feeble Justice trembles,-weak her power
Where money bribes indulgence.
O Rome! thy melancholy walls are eloquent;
They seem vain pride and grandeur to reproach.
Thy aim was sole and universal greatness,
Thy heart was void of true humility.
Thy ruins are magnificently poor,
And melancholy is in them ascendant.
In former times to public good devoted,
Thy people were pre-eminently great,
Firmly inflexible, just, generous, brave,
In soul heroic, and elate with glory,
Afraid of nothing but unworthy life.
Behold them now, a weak, despairing race,
The slave of slaves, by superstition fed,
Which veils and hides the light of heaven from man,
By which the ills of life are greatly conquer'd,
By faith, and hope, and patience,
Trusting in Him who was divine in wisdom,
The model of perfection to mankind."
A PARAPHRASE ON THE SIXTH CHAPTER OF
ST. MATTHEW.
"When my heart labours with oppressive care,
And o'er my check descends the falling tear,
While all my anxious passions are in strife,
Oh! let me listen to the words of life,
From Him who taught the human heart to rise,
Pre-eminent by virtue, to the skies;
Humility and patience mark'd the road,
By which the soul of man must rise to God.
Comfort, deep-felt, his precepts did impart,
While thus He rais'd from earth the drooping heart :-
Think not, when all your scanty stores afford
Is spread at once upon the sparing board;
Think not, when worn your homely robe appears,
While rain and snow the wintry tempest bears,
What farther aid shall your poor life sustain,
And what shall clothe your feeble frame again.
Behold, and drive away your deep despair,
See the glad tenants of the barren air;
To them no store, no granaries belong,
Nought but the wood, the common, and the song.
Yet your kind Father bends from Heaven His eye
On the least bird that flies along the sky;
To Him they sing when spring renews the plain,
To Him they cry in winter's frozen reign;
He hears the song, and the distressful call,
And by His bounty feeds and clothes them all.
Observe the various vegetable race,
The garden's beauty and its progress trace :
Flowers do not toil nor spin, but careless grow,
Yet see how quick they spring, how bright they glow! What royal vestments can with them compare?
What grandeur is so brilliant or so fair?
O mortal man! from thy affliction rise,
And elevate thy soul to reach the skies."
The deadly winter shuts up nature,
The weary traveller struggles with the storm,
Nor finds the river, hid by drifting snow.
Dismal and dark the prospect all around him;
The thoughts of home rush on the anxious mind,
And call his ardour forth to vain exertion,
By quick impatience urg'd, those thoughts of home
Again excite each effort to advance,
While darkness closes round, filling the mind
With dismal apprehension, and busy shapes
Of cover'd pits, and faithless bogs unknown,
Or the deep precipice smoothed up by snow.
These check his fearful steps; on every nerve
The bitterness of death is felt in anguish.
Wounded in heart, behold the dying man,
His wife, his children, and his friends, unseen!
In vain for him the anxious wife prepares
The fire fair blazing, the food, the vestments,
All the children, all the joy of home.
Alas! for him no more of sacred home,
On every nerve the deadly cold has seized;
The vital spirit of his heart is frozen,
He lies upon the snow, the prey of death,
Stretch'd out, and bleaching in the northern blast!"
As yet 'tis midnight deep; the weary clouds,
Slow meeting, mingle into solid gloom.
Now, while the busy world are lost in sleep,
Let me associate with the serious Night,
And Contemplation, her sedate compeer :
Let me shake off the intrusive cares of day,
And lay the meddling senses all aside.
Where now, ye lying vanities of life,
Ye ever-tempting, ever-cheating train,
Where are ye now? and what is your amount?
Vexation, disappointment, and remorse.
Sad, sickening thought! and yet deluded man,
A scene of crude disjointed visionspast,
And broken slumbers, rises yet resolv'd,
With new-flush'd hopes, to run the giddy round.
Father of light and life, thou good supreme!
O! teach me what is good! Teach me Thyself,
Save me from folly, vanity, and vice,
From every low pursuit; and feed my soul
With knowledge, conscious peace, and virtue pure,
Sacred, substantial, never fading bliss,"
"See, in the spring, reviving sickness lifts her feeble head,
Life flows afresh, see youthful health renews
The whole creation round, contentment walks
The sunny glade, and feels an inward bliss
Spring o'er the mind beyond the power of kings
To purchase: can fierce passions vex the breast,
While every gale is peace, and every grove is melody?
We feel the present Deity, and taste
The joy of God to see a happy world;
Where nothing strikes the eye but sights of bliss,
All various nature pressing on the heart,
An elegant sufficiency, content,
Retirement, rural quiet, friendship, books,
Ease, and alternate labor, useful life,
Progressive virtue, and approving Heaven;
We feel the present Deity, and taste
The joy of God to see a happy world,
For He is ever present, ever felt,
In the wide waste, or in the city full;
And where His presence is there must be joy."
"O! mortal man, who livest here by toil,
Do not complain of this thy hard estate,
That, like an emmet, thou must ever toil,
Is a sad sentence of an ancient date,
And certain there is for it reason great;
For though it make thee sometimes weep and wail,
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