sent not in his name, but only intimated to the servant that an old acquaintance desired to see Mr. Thomson.  Mr. Thomson came forward to receive him, and looking stedfastly at him (for they had not seen one another for many years) said, Troth Sir, I cannot say I ken your countenance well—­Let me therefore crave your name.  Which the gentleman no sooner mentioned but the tears gushed from Mr. Thomson’s eyes.  He could only reply, good God! are you the son of my dear friend, my old benefactor; and then rushing to his arms, he tenderly embraced him; rejoicing at so unexpected a meeting.

It is a true observation, that whenever gratitude is absent from a heart, it is generally capable of the most consummate baseness; and on the other hand, where that generous virtue has a powerful prevalence in the soul, the heart of such a man is fraught with all those other endearing and tender qualities, which constitute goodness.  Such was the heart of this amiable poet, whose life was as inoffensive as his page was moral:  For of all our poets he is the farthest removed from whatever has the appearance of indecency; and, as Sir George Lyttleton happily expresses it, in the prologue to Mr. Thomson’s Coriolanus,

  —­His chaste muse employ’d her heav’n-taught lyre
  None but the noblest passions to inspire,
  Not one immoral, one corrupted thought,
  One line, which dying he could wish to blot.

FOOTNOTES: 

[1]
  See winter comes to rule the varied year,
  Sullen and sad, with all his rising train! 
  Vapours, and storms, and clouds; be these my theme;
  These that exalt the soul to solemn thought,
  And heav’nly musing; welcome kindred glooms. 
  Congenial horrors hail!—­with frequent foot
  Oft have I in my pleasing calm of life,
  When nurs’d by careless solitude I liv’d,
  Oft have I wander’d thro’ your rough domain;
  Trod the pure virgin snows; my self as pure;
  Heard the winds blow, or the big torrents burst,
  Or seen the deep fermenting tempest brew’d
  In the red evening sky.  Thus pass’d the time,
  ’Till from the lucid chambers of the south
  Look’d out the joyous spring, look’d out and smil’d.

[2] Mr. Mallet was his quondam schoolfellow (but much his junior) they
    contracted an early intimacy, which improved with their years, nor
    was it ever once disturbed by any casual mistake, envy, or jealousy
    on either side:  a proof that two writers of merit may agree, in
    spite of the common observation to the contrary.

[3] The Winter was first wrote in detached pieces, or occasional
    descriptions; it was by the advice of Mr. Mallet they were collected
    and made into one connected piece.  This was finished the first of
    all the seasons, and was the first poem he published.  By the farther
    advice, and at the earnest request, of Mr. Mallet, he wrote the
    other three seasons.