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NATURE NOTES. 
THOMSON. 
MONO the elegies sung by poets upon their brother 
poets, only the few immortal poems of IMilton, Shelley, 
Tennyson, Arnold, and some others, are more perfect 
than the verses of Collins upon Thomson, and upon 
his grave by the Thames at Richmond. 
“ Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore, 
When Thames in summer wreaths is drest, 
And oft suspend the dashing oar, 
To bid his gentle spirit rest ! ” 
Among “ breezy lawn or forest deep,” the poet’s lover shall 
“ view yon whitening spire,” with tears ; gliding down the 
stream, he will “ mourn beneath the gliding sail.” May he, 
who “ shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering near,” lose all joy 
in nature. 
“ But thou, lone stream, whose sullen tide 
No sedge-crowned sisters now attend. 
Now waft me from the green hill’s side. 
Whose cold turf hides the buried friend. 
“ And see ! the faery valleys fade ; 
Dun night has veiled the solemn view 
Yet once again, dear parted shade. 
Meets nature’s child, again adieu ! ” 
But long may the poet’s tomb be adorned by the “ hinds and 
shepherd girls ” of his loved meads ; long may it move the 
English wayfarer. 
“ O ! vales and wild woods, shall he say. 
In yonder grave your Druid lies ! ” 
Time has not fulfilled the pious prophecy of Collins ; the 
resting place of Thomson has met with merel}^ an irreverent and 
a forgetful neglect. But the Richmond Branch of the Selborne 
Society has determined to remove this reproach, and with 
public assistance to raise a worthy memorial to the poet, who 
did so much to make poetry out of nature, and to make others 
feel the poetry in nature. 
The fame of Thomson was once prodigious : we all know 
how Coleridge, taking up a well-worn copy of the Seasons in a 
village inn, exclaimed, “ This is fame ! ” But now, thanks to 
that contempt, bred less of familiarity than of ignorance, into 
which the poets of the last centur}^ have fallen, Thomson is out 
of favour, and thought “ artificial.” In these days we are all 
“ artistic,” and we do not dream that to future generations our 
art will seem but artifice. “Thomson’s Seasons read six times,” 
said that singular artist, Smetham, “ will drive out the overplus 
of Tennyson-ity.” Now Smetham was an ardent enthusiast for 
Tennyson, but he remembered how infinitely various are the 
forms and fashions of good art. Let us take a few lines from 
the Seasons, and see if there be no “ natural magic ” in them, 
fresh and beautiful even now : — 
