Th'aerial flow of sound was known to him, From whence it first in wavy circles breaks. Nor could the darting beam of speed immense, Escape his swift pursuit, and measuring eye. Ev'n light itself, which every thing displays, Shone undiscover'd, till his brighter mind Untwisted all the shining robe of day; And from the whitening undistinguished blaze, Collecting every separated ray, To the charm'd eye educ'd the gorgeous train Of parent colours. First, the flaming red, Sprung vivid forth, the tawny orange next, And next refulgent yellow; by whose side Fell the kind beams of all-refreshing green. Then the pure blue, that swells autumnal skies, Ætherial play'd; and then of sadder hue, Emerg'd the deepen'd indico, as when The heavy skirted evening droops with frost, While the last gleamings of refracted light, Died in the fainting violet away. These when the clouds distil the rosy shower, Shine out distinct along the watr'y bow; While o'er our heads the dewy vision bends, Delightful melting in the fields beneath. Myriads of mingling dyes from these result, And myriads still remain--Infinite source Of beauty ever-flushing, ever new. About the year 1728 Mr. Thomson wrote a piece called Britannia, the purport of which was to rouse the nation to arms, and excite in the spirit of the people a generous disposition to revenge the injuries done them by the Spaniards: This is far from being one of his best poems. Upon the death of his generous patron, lord chancellor Talbot, for whom the nation joined with Mr. Thomson in the most sincere inward sorrow, he wrote an elegiac poem, which does honour to the author, and to the memory of that great man he meant to celebrate. He enjoyed, during lord Talbot's life, a very profitable place, which that worthy patriot had conferred upon him, in recompence of the care he had taken in forming the mind of his son. Upon his death, his lordship's successor reserved the place for Mr. Thomson, and always expected when he should wait upon him, and by performing some formalities enter into the possession of it. This, however, by an unaccountable indolence he neglected, and at last the place, which he might have enjoyed with so little trouble, was bestowed upon another. Amongst the latest of Mr. Thomson's productions is his Castle of Indolence, a poem of so extraordinary merit, that perhaps we are not extravagant, when we declare, that this single performance discovers more genius and poetical judgment, than all his other works put together. We cannot here complain of want of plan, for it is artfully laid, naturally conducted, and the descriptions rise in a beautiful succession: It is written in imitation of Spenser's stile; and the obsolete words, with the simplicity of diction in some of the lines, which borders on the ludicrous, have been thought necessary to make the imitation more perfect.