The shining moisture swells into her eyes,
  In brighter flow; her wishing bosom heaves,
  With palpitations wild; kind tumults seize
  Her veins; and all her yielding soul is love. 
  From the keen gaze her lover turns away,
  Full of the dear extatic power, and sick
  With sighing languishment.  Ah then, ye fair! 
  Be greatly cautious of your sliding hearts: 
  Dare not th’infectious sigh; the pleading look,
  Down-cast, and low, in meek submission drest,
  But full of guile.  Let not the fervent tongue,
  Prompt to deceive, with adulation smooth,
  Gain on your purpos’d will.  Nor in the bower,
  Where woodbines flaunt, and roses shed a couch,
  While evening draws her crimson curtains round,
  Trust your soft minutes with betraying man.

Summer has many manly and striking beauties, of which the Hymn to the Sun, is one of the sublimest and most masterly efforts of genius we have ever seen.—­There are some hints taken from Cowley’s beautiful Hymn to Light.—­Mr. Thomson has subjoined a Hymn to the Seasons, which is not inferior to the foregoing in poetical merit.

The Four Seasons considered separately, each Season as a distinct poem has been judged defective in point of plan.  There appears no particular design; the parts are not subservient to one another; nor is there any dependance or connection throughout; but this perhaps is a fault almost inseparable from a subject in itself so diversified, as not to admit of such limitation.  He has not indeed been guilty of any incongruity; the scenes described in spring, are all peculiar to that season, and the digressions, which make up a fourth part of the poem, flow naturally.  He has observed the same regard to the appearances of nature in the other seasons; but then what he has described in the beginning of any of the seasons, might as well be placed in the middle, and that in the middle, as naturally towards the close.  So that each season may rather be called an assemblage of poetical ideas, than a poem, as it seems written without a plan.

Mr. Thomson’s poetical diction in the Seasons is very peculiar to him:  His manner of writing is entirely his own:  He has introduced a number of compound words; converted substantives into verbs, and in short has created a kind of new language for himself.  His stile has been blamed for its singularity and stiffness; but with submission to superior judges, we cannot but be of opinion, that though this observation is true, yet is it admirably fitted for description.  The object he paints stands full before the eye, we admire it in all its lustre, and who would not rather enjoy a perfect inspection into a natural curiosity through a microscope capable of discovering all the minute beauties, though its exterior form should not be comely, than perceive an object but faintly, through a microscope ill adapted for the purpose, however its outside may be decorated.  Thomson has a stiffness in his manner, but then his manner is new; and there never yet arose a distinguished genius, who had not an air peculiarly his own.  ’Tis true indeed, the tow’ring sublimity of Mr. Thomson’s stile is ill adapted for the tender passions, which will appear more fully when we consider him as a dramatic writer, a sphere in which he is not so excellent as in other species of poetry.