upon his own imagination; and thus transfers the same unbroken, unimpaired impression to the imagination of his readers.  The colours with which he paints seem yet wet and breathing, like those of the living statue in the Winter’s Tale.  Nature in his descriptions is seen growing around us, fresh and lusty as in itself.  We feel the effect of the atmosphere, its humidity or clearness, its heat or cold, the glow of summer, the gloom of winter, the tender promise of the spring, the full overshadowing foliage, the declining pomp and deepening tints of autumn.  He transports us to the scorching heat of vertical suns, or plunges us into the chilling horrors and desolation of the frozen zone.  We hear the snow drifting against the broken casement without, and see the fire blazing on the hearth within.  The first scattered drops of a vernal shower patter on the leaves above our heads, or the coming storm resounds through the leafless groves.  In a word, he describes not to the eye alone, but to the other senses, and to the whole man.  He puts his heart into his subject, writes as he feels, and humanises whatever he touches.  He makes all his descriptions teem with life and vivifying soul.  His faults were those of his style—­of the author and the man; but the original genius of the poet, the pith and marrow of his imagination, the fine natural mould in which his feelings were bedded, were too much for him to counteract by neglect, or affectation, or false ornaments.  It is for this reason that he is, perhaps, the most popular of all our poets, treating of a subject that all can understand, and in a way that is interesting to all alike, to the ignorant or the refined, because he gives back the impression which the things themselves make upon us in nature.  “That,” said a man of genius, seeing a little shabby soiled copy of Thomson’s Seasons lying on the window-seat of an obscure country alehouse—­“That is true fame!”

It has been supposed by some, that the Castle of Indolence is Thomson’s best poem; but that is not the case.  He has in it, indeed, poured out the whole soul of indolence, diffuse, relaxed, supine, dissolved into a voluptuous dream; and surrounded himself with a set of objects and companions, in entire unison with the listlessness of his own temper.  Nothing can well go beyond the descriptions of these inmates of the place, and their luxurious pampered way of life—­of him who came among them like “a burnished fly in month of June,” but soon left them on his heedless way; and him,

      “For whom the merry bells had rung, I ween,
      If in this nook of quiet, bells had ever been.”

The in-door quiet and cushioned ease, where “all was one full-swelling bed”; the out-of-door stillness, broken only by “the stock-dove’s plaint amid the forest deep,”

      “That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale”—­