James Thomson poems

James Thomson(11 September 1700 - 27 August 1748 / Ednam in Roxburghshire, Scotland)
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Evening In Autumn

- by James Thomson 141

The western sun withdrawn the shorten'd day,
And humid evening, gliding o'er the sky
In her chill progress, to the ground condensed
The vapours throws. Where creeping waters ooze,
Where marshes stagnate, and where rivers wind,
Cluster the rolling fogs, and swim along
The dusky-mantled lawn. Meanwhile the moon,
Full-orb'd, and breaking through the scatter'd clouds,
Shews her broad visage in the crimson east.
Turn'd to the sun direct, her spotted disk,
Where mountains rise, umbrageous dales descend,
And caverns deep, as optic tube descries,
A smaller earth, gives us his blaze again,
Void of its flame, and sheds a softer day.
Now through the passing cloud she seems to stoop,
Now up the pure cerulean rides sublime.
Wide the pale deluge floats, and streaming mild
O'er the skied mountain to the shadowy vale,
While rocks and floods reflect the quivering gleam,
The whole air whitens with a boundless tide
Of silver radiance, trembling round the world.

An Elegy Upon James Therburn, In Chatto

- by James Thomson 104

Now, Chatto, you're a dreary place,
Pale sorrow broods on ilka face;
Therburn has run his race.
And now, and now, ah me, alas!
The carl lies dead.

Having his paternoster said,
He took a dram and went to bed;
He fell asleep, and death was glad
That he had catched him;
For Therburn was e'en ill bested,
That none did watch him.

For had the carl but been aware,
That meagre death, who none does spare,
T'attempt sic things should ever dare,
As stop his pipe;
He might have come to flee or scare;
The greedy gripe.

How he'd had but a gill or twae,
Death would nae got the victory sae,
Nor put poor Therburn o'er the brae,
Into the grave;

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . [1]

The fumbling fellow, some folks say,
Should be jobbed on baith night and day;
She had without'en better play,
Remained still,
Barren for ever and for aye,
Do what he will.

Therefore they say he got some help
In getting of the little whelp;
But passing that, it makes me yelp,
But what remead?
Death lent him sic a cursed skelp,
That now he's dead.

Therburn, for evermore farewell,
And be thy grave both dry and deep;
And rest thy carcase soft and well,
Free from . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . no night . . . . . .
Disturb . . . . . . . . . . . .

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