"Hail, Nature's Poet, whom she taught alone To sing her works in numbers like her own. Sweet as the thrush that warbles in the dale, And soft as Philomela's tender tale; She lent her pencil, too, of wondrous power, To catch the rainbow, and to form the flower Of many mingling hues; and, smiling, said-- But first with laurels crowned her favorite's head-- These beauteous children, though so fair they shine, Fade in my _Seasons_, let them live in _Thine_. And live they shall; the charm of every eye, Till Nature sickens, and the Seasons die." *...*...*...* F. B. "Within this pleasing retirement, Allured by the music of the nightingale, Which warbled in soft unison to the melody of his soul, In unaffected cheerfulness, And general though simple elegance, Lived James Thomson. Sensitively alive to the beauties of Nature, He painted their images as they rose in review, And poured the whole profusion of them Into his inimitable Seasons. Warmed with intense devotion To the Sovereign of the Universe, Its flame glowed through all his compositions. Animated with unbounded benevolence, With the tenderest social sensibility, He never gave one moment's pain To any of his fellow-creatures, Save only by his death, which happened At this place on the 27th day of August, 1748." *...*...*...* "Here Thomson dwelt. He, curious bard, examined every drop That glistens on the thorn; each leaf surveyed That Autumn from the rustling forest shakes, And marked its shape; and traced in the rude wind Its eddying motion. Nature in his hand A pencil, dipped in her own colors, placed, With which he ever faithful copies drew, Each feature in proportion just." On a brass tablet in the top of the table in the alcove is inscribed, "This table was the property of James Thomson, and always stood in this seat." * * * * * Such is the state of the former residence of James Thomson at Richmond. Here, no doubt, he was visited by many of his literary cotemporaries, though it does not appear that he ever was by Pope, who was so near a neighbor. Old poets grow exclusive. As Wordsworth nowadays says he reads no new poets--he leaves them to their cotemporaries--it is enough for him to stick to his old loves; so, in the correspondence of Pope, you find no further mention of Thomson than that "Thomson and some other young men have published lately some creditable things;" and Gray, writing to one of his friends, says, "Thomson has just published a poem called 'The Castle of Indolence,' which contains some good stanzas."