Poems by James Thomson

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The Castle Of Indolence

The castle hight of Indolence,

And its false luxury;

Where for a little time, alas!

We lived right jollily.

O mortal man, who livest here by toil,

Do not complain of this thy hard estate;

That like an emmet thou must ever moil,

Is a sad sentence of an ancient date:

James Thomson

To Amanda

Unless with my Amanda bless'd,

In vain I twine the woodbine bower;

Unless to deck her sweeter breast,

In vain I rear the breathing flower.

Awaken'd by the genial year,

In vain the birds around me sing;

In vain the freshening fields appear:—

Without my love there is no Spring.

James Thomson

To Amanda - Come, Dear Amanda, Quit The Town

Come, dear Amanda, quit the town,

And to the rural hamlets fly;

Behold! the wintry storms are gone;

A gentle radiance glads the sky.

The birds awake, the flowers appear,

Earth spreads a verdant couch for thee;

'Tis joy and music all we hear,

'Tis love and beauty all we see.

James Thomson

On The Hoop

The hoop, the darling justly of the fair,

Of every generous swain deserves the care.

It is unmanly to desert the weak,

'Twould urge a stone, if possible, to speak;

To hear stanch hypocrites bawl out and cry,

"This hoop's a whorish garb, fie! ladies, fie!"

O cruel and audacious men, to blast

The fame of ladies more than vestals chaste;

James Thomson

Reflections Suggested By Winter

'Tis done! dread winter spreads its latest glooms,

And reigns tremendous o'er the conquer'd year.

How dead the vegetable kingdom lies!

How dumb the tuneful! Horror wide extends

His desolate domain. Behold, fond man!

See here thy pictured life: pass some few years,

Thy flowering spring, thy summer's ardent strength,

And pale concluding winter comes at last,

James Thomson

The Study and Beauties of the Works of Nature

O Nature! all-sufficient! over all!

Enrich me with the knowledge of Thy works!

Snatch me to heaven; Thy rolling wonders there,

World beyond world, in infinite extent,

Profusely scatter'd o'er the void immense,

Shew me; their motions, periods, and their laws,

Give me to scan; through the disclosing deep

Light my blind way; the mineral strata there;

James Thomson

Rambles In Autumn

But see the fading many-colour'd woods,

Shade deepening over shade, the country round

Imbrown; a crowded umbrage, dusk, and dun,

Of every hue, from wan declining green

To sooty dark. These now the lonesome muse,

Low whispering, lead into their leaf-strewn walks,

And give the season in its latest view.

Meantime, light-shadowing all, a sober calm

James Thomson

The Rainbow

Moist, bright, and green, the landscape laughs around.

Full swell the woods; their every music wakes,

Mix'd in wild concert, with the warbling brooks

Increased, the distant bleatings of the hills,

And hollow lows responsive from the vales,

Whence, blending all, the sweeten'd zephyr springs.

Meantime, refracted from yon eastern cloud,

Bestriding earth, the grand ethereal bow

James Thomson

The Reapers In Autumn

Soon as the morning trembles o'er the sky,

And unperceived, unfolds the spreading day;

Before the ripen'd field the reapers stand,

In fair array.

James Thomson

Waterfall

Smooth to the shelving brink a copious flood

Rolls fair and placid: where collected all,

In one impetuous torrent down the steep

It thundering shoots, and shakes the country round.

At first, an azure sheet, it rushes broad;

Then whitening by degrees, as prone it falls,

And from the loud-resounding rocks below,

Dash'd in a cloud of foam, it sends aloft

James Thomson

Lines On Marle Field

What is the task that to the muse belongs?

What but to deck in her harmonious songs

The beauteous works of nature and of art,

Rural retreats that cheer the heavy heart?

Then Marle Field begin, my muse, and sing;

With Marle Field the hills and vales shall ring.

O! what delight and pleasure 'tis to rove

Through all the walks and alleys of this grove,

James Thomson

Epilogue To Tancred And Sigismunda

Cramm'd to the throat with wholesome moral stuff,

Alas! poor audience! you have had enough.

Was ever hapless heroine of a play

In such a piteous plight as ours to-day?

Was ever woman so by love betray'd?

Match'd with two husbands, and yet—die a maid.

But bless me!—hold—What sounds are these I hear!—

I see the Tragic Muse herself appear.

James Thomson