Address to the Shade of Thomson

While virgin Spring by Eden’s flood,Unfolds her tender mantle green,Or pranks the sod in frolic mood,Or tunes Eolian strains between.

While Summer, with a matron grace,Retreats to Dryburgh’s cooling shade,Yet oft, delighted, stops to traceThe progress of the spiky blade.

While Autumn, benefactor kind,By Tweed erects his aged head,And sees, with self-approving mind,Each creature on his bounty fed.

While maniac Winter rages o’erThe hills whence classic Yarrow flows,Rousing the turbid torrent’s roar,Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows.

So long, sweet Poet of the year!Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won;While Scotia, with exulting tear,Proclaims that Thomson was her son.