Oh, when my friend and I
  In some thick wood have wander’d heedless on,
  Hid from the vulgar eye, and sat us down
  Upon the sloping cowslip-cover’d bank,
  Where the pure limpid stream has slid along
  In grateful errors through the underwood,
  Sweet murmuring; methought the shrill-tongu’d
      thrush
  Mended his song of love, the sooty blackbird
  Mellowed his pipe and soften’d every note,
  The eglantine smell’d sweeter and the rose
  Assum’d a dye more deep, whilst ev’ry flower
  Vied with its fellow plant in luxury
  Of dress.  Oh! then the longest summer’s day
  Seem’d too, too much in haste, still the full heart
  Had not imparted half; half was happiness
  Too exquisite to last—­Of joys departed
  Not to return, how painful the remembrance!

The great painter of Nature among the poets was James Thomson.  He was not original, but followed Pope, who had lighted up the seasons in a dry, dogmatic way in Windsor Forest, and pastoral poems, and after the publication of his Winter the taste of the day carried him on.  His deep and sentimental affection for Nature was mixed up with piety and moralizing.  He said in a letter to his friend Paterson: 

Retirement and Nature are more and more my passion every day; and now, even now, the charming time comes on; Heaven is just on the point, or rather in the very act, of giving earth a green gown.  The voice of the nightingale is heard in our lane.  You must know that I have enlarged my rural domain ... walled, no, no! paled in about as much as my garden consisted of before, so that the walk runs round the hedge, where you may figure me walking any time of day, and sometimes of the night....  May your health continue till you have scraped together enough to return home and live in some snug corner, as happy as the Corycius senex in Virgil’s fourth Georgic, whom I recommend both to you and myself as a perfect model of the truest happy life.

It is a fact that Solitude and Nature became a passion with him.  He would wander about the country for weeks at a time, noting every sight and sound, down to the smallest, and finding beauty and divine goodness in all.  His Seasons were the result.

There is faithful portraiture in these landscapes in verse; some have charm and delicacy, but, for the most part, they are only catalogues of the external world, wholly lacking in links with the inner life.

Scene after scene is described without pause, or only interrupted by sermonizing; it is as monotonous as a gallery of landscape paintings.

The human beings introduced are mere accessories, they do not live, and the undercurrent of all is praise of the Highest.  His predilection is for still life in wood and field, but he does not neglect grander scenery; his muse