Poems on Several Occasions In Two Volumes. By Mr. Joseph Mitchell |
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TO Mr. THOMSON, The Author of WINTER. |
 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
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TO Mr. THOMSON, The Author of WINTER.
When, from the Schools of famous Painters brought,
A Picture, at prodigious Price, is bought,
And hung in some great Virtuoso's Hall,
The Talk, the Wonder, and the Praise of All!
Crowds flock to see it, and transported stand
In silent Rev'rence of the Master's Hand:
The Sight receives new Pleasure, as they gaze,
And ev'ry Image swells the Soul's Amaze;
Ravish'd Reflection naked Nature views,
And fixes all the Traces it pursues.
A Picture, at prodigious Price, is bought,
And hung in some great Virtuoso's Hall,
The Talk, the Wonder, and the Praise of All!
Crowds flock to see it, and transported stand
In silent Rev'rence of the Master's Hand:
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And ev'ry Image swells the Soul's Amaze;
Ravish'd Reflection naked Nature views,
And fixes all the Traces it pursues.
Nor is the Reader's Satisfaction less,
From just Descriptions, in Poetic Dress:
They dwell with Pleasure on the conscious Mind,
And animate the dullest of Mankind.
From just Descriptions, in Poetic Dress:
They dwell with Pleasure on the conscious Mind,
And animate the dullest of Mankind.
What Praise, my Friend, belongs not then to Thee?
How venerable ought thy Muse to be?
A Muse! that sets thy Objects full in View,
And leads our Thoughts to wise Reflections too.
How venerable ought thy Muse to be?
A Muse! that sets thy Objects full in View,
And leads our Thoughts to wise Reflections too.
Who reads this Work calls Winter back again,
And views its bleak, uncomfortable, Reign;
Its dreary Scenes, and Forces strong and fierce,
All realiz'd in thy descriptive Verse!
Sees how th' Almighty his Artillery forms!
And opes his cloudy Magazine of Storms!
How broad and thick descend the Sheets of Snow,
And whiten Hills, and Woods, and Vales below!
How Streams dissolve the Fleeces, as they fall,
The circling Seas alone absorbing all!
How Winds are still'd, and Skies are lull'd asleep!
How they embroil the Air, and hurricane the Deep!
And views its bleak, uncomfortable, Reign;
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All realiz'd in thy descriptive Verse!
Sees how th' Almighty his Artillery forms!
And opes his cloudy Magazine of Storms!
How broad and thick descend the Sheets of Snow,
And whiten Hills, and Woods, and Vales below!
How Streams dissolve the Fleeces, as they fall,
The circling Seas alone absorbing all!
How Winds are still'd, and Skies are lull'd asleep!
How they embroil the Air, and hurricane the Deep!
Methinks, alone in my Musæum pent,
I, by thy Verse, the Season represent!
Here, Hail thick batt'ring! There, rais'd Rivers roll!
Now, civil Wars rage loud from Pole to Pole!
Again, 'tis calm! now, Earth, disguis'd, is seen
One snowy Waste! the Sea, an icy Green!
The Streams, unbound, and broke in Cakes, again
Tumble, tremendous to the troubled Main!
And, now, the Ships, late chain'd in solid Waves,
Defying Storms, each boistrous Billow braves:
By Hurricanes, they're dash'd against the Shore,
Or, whelm'd, by dreadful Surges, rise no more!
Sudden, a lovely Dress adorns the Year—
The Hills and Plains new-spangled Glories wear!
Gay Pearls and Rubies deck the prickly Thorn!
And Fens and Marshes shine with glassy Corn!
The Groves, glaz'd over, glitter in the Sun!
The timorous Hares from rattling Stubble run!
The frighted Birds the brittle Branches fly!
And crackling Shrubs the hungry Herds supply!
The Stag, in Ice, its crystal'd Front admires!
And Clowns crowd close around carouzing Fires!
Social, and just, and innocent they sit,
And Honesty atones for want of Wit;
While the lewd Letcher wallows, like the Swine,
And Drunkards drown their sober Sense in Wine.
But, now, the Winds thro' hazy Skies, in haste
Break horrible, and shake the dazzling Waste;
Sudden, impetuous, pours the treasur'd Rain,
Melts down the hoary Hills, and mires the delug'd Plain.
The Traveller, wet and weary on the Road,
Drags his stiff Limbs, and seeks a dry Abode.
I, by thy Verse, the Season represent!
Here, Hail thick batt'ring! There, rais'd Rivers roll!
Now, civil Wars rage loud from Pole to Pole!
Again, 'tis calm! now, Earth, disguis'd, is seen
One snowy Waste! the Sea, an icy Green!
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Tumble, tremendous to the troubled Main!
And, now, the Ships, late chain'd in solid Waves,
Defying Storms, each boistrous Billow braves:
By Hurricanes, they're dash'd against the Shore,
Or, whelm'd, by dreadful Surges, rise no more!
Sudden, a lovely Dress adorns the Year—
The Hills and Plains new-spangled Glories wear!
Gay Pearls and Rubies deck the prickly Thorn!
And Fens and Marshes shine with glassy Corn!
The Groves, glaz'd over, glitter in the Sun!
The timorous Hares from rattling Stubble run!
The frighted Birds the brittle Branches fly!
And crackling Shrubs the hungry Herds supply!
The Stag, in Ice, its crystal'd Front admires!
And Clowns crowd close around carouzing Fires!
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And Honesty atones for want of Wit;
While the lewd Letcher wallows, like the Swine,
And Drunkards drown their sober Sense in Wine.
But, now, the Winds thro' hazy Skies, in haste
Break horrible, and shake the dazzling Waste;
Sudden, impetuous, pours the treasur'd Rain,
Melts down the hoary Hills, and mires the delug'd Plain.
The Traveller, wet and weary on the Road,
Drags his stiff Limbs, and seeks a dry Abode.
Prodigious Pow'r of Poetry to warm
Or chill, the Blood! compose it, or alarm!
To set the World and Nature's Works in Light!
And moralize their various Scenes aright!
Or chill, the Blood! compose it, or alarm!
To set the World and Nature's Works in Light!
And moralize their various Scenes aright!
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Thomson, if, with such Energy and Ease,
Thou sing'st, proceed—thou can'st not fail to please.
Nor stoop to Rhime—a Muse, so strong and bold,
By servile Fetters, scorns to be controul'd.
I greet thy Genius well, invite Thee forth,
And first present to publick View thy Worth.
I prophesy'd of Thee; nor blush to own
The Joy I feel, in making Thomson known.
Thy first Attempts, to me, a Promise made:
That Promise is, by this Performance, paid.
If such Perfection crowns thy Muse so soon,
What Virtues will not glorify her Noon?
Thou sing'st, proceed—thou can'st not fail to please.
Nor stoop to Rhime—a Muse, so strong and bold,
By servile Fetters, scorns to be controul'd.
I greet thy Genius well, invite Thee forth,
And first present to publick View thy Worth.
I prophesy'd of Thee; nor blush to own
The Joy I feel, in making Thomson known.
Thy first Attempts, to me, a Promise made:
That Promise is, by this Performance, paid.
If such Perfection crowns thy Muse so soon,
What Virtues will not glorify her Noon?
| Poems on Several Occasions | |