Poems by James Thomson

All Poems Original Poems Translations

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On Beauty

Beauty deserves the homage of the muse:

Shall mine, rebellious, the dear theme refuse?

No; while my breast respires the vital air,

Wholly I am devoted to the fair.

Beauty I'll sing in my sublimest lays,

I burn to give her just immortal praise.

The heavenly maid with transport I'll pursue

To her abode, and all her graces view.

by James Thomson

Epilogue to Agamemnon

Our bard, to modern epilogue a foe,

Thinks such mean mirth but deadens generous woe;

Dispels in idle air the moral sigh,

And wipes the tender tear from Pity's eye:

No more with social warmth the bosom burns;

But all the unfeeling selfish man returns.

Thus he began:—And you approved the strain;

Till the next couplet sunk to light and vain.

by James Thomson

A Pastoral Between Thirsis And Corydon, Upon The Death Of Damon, By Whom Is Meant Mr W Riddell

Thir.

Say, tell me true, what is the doleful cause

That Corydon is not the man he was?

Your cheerful presence used to lighten cares,

And from the plains to banish gloomy fears.

Whene'er unto the circling swains you sung

Our ravish'd souls upon the music hung;

The gazing, listening flocks forgot their meat,

by James Thomson

Care of Birds for their Young

As thus the patient dam assiduous sits,

Not to be tempted from her tender task,

Or by sharp hunger, or by smooth delight,

Tho' the whole loosen'd spring around her blows,

Her sympathising partner takes his stand

High on th' opponent bank, and ceaseless sings

The tedious time away; or else supplies

Her place a moment, while she sudden flits

by James Thomson

An Elegy on Parting

It was a sad, ay 'twas a sad farewell,

I still afresh the pangs of parting feel;

Against my breast my heart impatient beat,

And in deep sighs bemoan'd its cruel fate;

Thus with the object of my love to part,

My life! my joy! 'twould rend a rocky heart.

Where'er I turn myself, where'er I go,

I meet the image of my lovely foe;

by James Thomson

A Pastoral Betwixt David, Thirsis, And The Angel Gabriel, Upon The Birth Of Our Saviour

DAVID.

What means yon apparition in the sky,

Thirsis, that dazzles every shepherd's eye?

I slumbering was when from yon glorious cloud

Came gliding music heavenly, sweet, and loud,

With sacred raptures which my bosom fires,

And with celestial joy my soul inspires;

It soothes the native horrors of the night,

by James Thomson

A Complaint On The Miseries Of Life

I loathe, O Lord, this life below,

And all its fading fleeting joys;

'Tis a short space that's fill'd with woe,

Which all our bliss by far outweighs.

When will the everlasting morn

With dawning light the skies adorn?

Fitly this life's compared to night,

When gloomy darkness shades the sky;

by James Thomson

The Four Seasons : Summer

From brightening fields of ether fair disclosed,

Child of the Sun, refulgent Summer comes,

In pride of youth, and felt through Nature's depth:

He comes attended by the sultry Hours,

And ever fanning breezes, on his way;

While, from his ardent look, the turning Spring

Averts her blushful face; and earth, and skies,

All-smiling, to his hot dominion leaves.

by James Thomson

Scene Between May and June

In lowly dale, fast by a river's side,

With woody hill o'er hill encompass'd round,

A most enchanting wizard did abide,

Than whom a fiend more fell is nowhere found.

It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground;

And there a season atween June and May,

Half prankt with spring, with summer half imbrown'd,

A listless climate made, where, sooth to say,

by James Thomson

On Happiness

Warm'd by the summer sun's meridian ray,

As underneath a spreading oak I lay

Contemplating the mighty load of woe,

In search of bliss that mortals undergo,

Who, while they think they happiness enjoy,

Embrace a curse wrapt in delusive joy,

I reason'd thus: Since the Creator, God,

Who in eternal love makes his abode,

by James Thomson

Noontide Retreat of Summer As a Haunt for Meditation

Shook sudden from the bosom of the sky,

A thousand shapes, or glide athwart the dusk,

Or stalk majestic on. Deep-roused, I feel

A sacred terror, a severe delight,

Creep through my mortal frame; and thus, methinks,

A voice, than human more, th' abstracted ear

Of fancy strikes: - "Be not of us afraid,

Poor kindred man! thy fellow-creatures, we

by James Thomson

A Pastoral Entertainment

While in heroic numbers some relate

The amazing turns of wise eternal fate;

Exploits of heroes in the dusty field,

That to their name immortal honour yield;

Grant me, ye powers, by the limpid spring

The harmless of the plain to sing,

A wreath of flowers cull'd from the

Is all the my humble muse demands.

by James Thomson