James Thomson (1)

O fair undress, best dress! it checks no vein,
But every flowing limb in pleasure drowns,
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O fair undress, best dress! it checks no vein,
But every flowing limb in pleasure drowns,
And heightens ease with grace.

Slow let us trace the matchless vale of Thames;
Fair winding up to where the Muses haunt
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Slow let us trace the matchless vale of Thames;
Fair winding up to where the Muses haunt
In Twit'nham bowers, and for their Pope implore.

The glad circle round them yield their souls
To festive mirth, and wit that knows no gall.

The glad circle round them yield their souls
To festive mirth, and wit that knows no gall.

Island of bliss! amid the subject Seas,
That thunder round thy rocky coasts, set up,
At once read more

Island of bliss! amid the subject Seas,
That thunder round thy rocky coasts, set up,
At once the wonder, terror, and delight
Of distant nations; whose remotest shore
Can soon be shaken by thy naval arm;
Not to be shook thyself, but all assaults
Baffling, like thy hoar cliffs the loud sea-wave.

For nothing human foreign was to him.

For nothing human foreign was to him.