Address To The Shade Of Thomson, On Crowning His Bust At Ednam With Bays.

While virgin Spring, by Eden's flood,             Unfolds her tender mantle green,         Or pranks the sod in frolic mood,             Or tunes olian strains between:         While Summer, with a matron grace,             Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade,         Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace             The progress of the spiky blade:         While Autumn, benefactor kind,             By Tweed erects his aged head,         And sees, with self-approving mind,             Each creature on his bounty fed:         While maniac Winter rages o'er             The hills whence classic Yarrow flows,         Rousing the turbid torrent's roar,             Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows:         So long, sweet Poet of the year!             Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won;         While Scotia, with exulting tear,             Proclaims that Thomson was her son.