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James Thomson
1700-1748
 1726-46 | James Thomson, The Seasons [Winter, Spring, Summer & Autumn, First published separately London, 1726-1730; additions through 1746; The collected Seasons first published, London, 1730; Critical Edition (London, 1908); Online at Google Books.
The Seasons
Winter
Now, Shepherds, to your helpless Charge be Kind.
Summer
The Wood-Dove, only, in the Centtr, coos,
Mournfull hoarse; oft ceasing from his Plaint,
Short Interval of weary Woe! again,
The sad Idea of his murder'd Mate,
Struck from his Side by savage Fowler's Guile,
Accross his Fancy comes; and then resounds
A louder Song of Sorrow thro' the Grove.
The huge Elephant: wisest of Brutes!…
Astonish'd at the Madness of Mankind.
Spring
The Contents…Herbs Produced; The Food of Man in the first Ages of the World. Then, the Golden Age. as described by the Poets. The Degeneracy of Mankind from that State. On This, the Deluge, and Effects thereof, particularly in shortening the Life of Man. Hence, A Vegetable Diet recommended. The Cruelty of feeding on Animals.
But who their Virtues can declare? who pierce
With holy Eye into these secret Stores
Of Life, and Health, and Joy? The Food of Man
While yet he liv'd in Innocence, and told
A Length of golden Years, unflesh'd in Blood,
A Stranger to the Savage Arts of Life,
Death, Rapine, Carnage, Surfeit, and Disease,
The Lord, and not the Tyrant of the World.
But You, ye Flocks,
What have ye done? ye peaceful People, what,
To merit Death? You, who have given us Milk
In luscious Streams, and lent us your own Coat
Against the Winter’s Cold: whose Usefulness
In living only lies. And the plain Ox,
That harmless, honest, guileless Animal,
In what has He offended? He, whose Toil
Patient, and ever-ready, cloaths the Fields
With all the Pomp of Harvest; shall He bleed,
And wrestling groan beneath the cruel Hands
Even of the Clowns he feeds?
But let not on thy Hook the tortu'd Worm,
Convulsive, twist in agonizing Folds,
Which by rapacious Hunger swallow'd deep
Gives, as you tear it from the bleeding Breast
Of the week, helpless, uncomplaining Wretch,
Harsh Pain and Horror to the tender Hand.
Mean-time the patient Dam assiduous sits,
Not to be tempted from her tender Task,
Or by sharp Hunger, or by smooth Delight,
Tho' the whole loosen'd Spring around her blows,
Her sympathizing Lover takes his Stand
High on th'opponent Bank, and ceaseless sings
The tedious Time away; or else supplies
Her Place a Moment, while she sudden flits
To pick the scanty Meal. Th'appointed Time
With pious Toil fulfill'd, the callow Young
Warm'd, and expanded into perfect Life,
Their brittle Bondage break, and come to Light,
A helpless Family, demanding Food
With constant Clamour. Oh what Passions then,
What melting Sentiments of kindly Care
Seize the new Parents' Hearts! Away they fly
Affectionate, and undesiring bear
The most delicious Morsel to their Young,
Which equally distributed, again
The Search begins. So pitiful, and poor,
A gentle Pair on Providential Heaven
Cast, as they weeping eye their clamant Train,
Check their own Appetites, and give them all.
Nor is the Courage of the fearful Kind,
Nor is their Cunning less, should some rude Foot
Their Woody Haunts molest; stealthy aside
Into the Centre of a neighbring Bush
They drop, and whirring thence alarm'd, deceive
The rambling School-Boy. Hence around the Head
Of Traveller, the white-wing'd Plover wheels
Her sounding Flight, and then directly on
In long Excursion skims the level Lawn,
To tempt you from her Nest. The Wild-Duck hence
O'er the rough Moss, and o'er the trackless Waste
The Heath-Hen flutters, as if hurt, to lead
The hot, pursuing Spaniel far astray.
Be not the Muse asham'd, here to bemoan
Her Brothers of the Grove, by Tyrant Man
Inhuman caught, and in the narrow Cage
From Liberty confin'd, and boundless Air.
Dull are the pretty Slaves, their Plumage dull,
Ragged, and all its brightning Lustre lost;
Nor is that luscious Wildness in their Notes
That warbles from the Beech. Oh then desist,
Ye Friends of Harmony ! this barbarous Art
Forbear, if Innocence and Music can
Win on your Hearts, or Piety perswade.
But let not chief the Nightingale lament
Her ruin'd Care, to delicately fram'd
To brook the harsh Confinement of the Cage.
Oft when returning with her loaded Bill,
Th' astonish'd Mother finds a vacant Nest,
By the hard Hands of unrelenting Clowns
Rob'd, to the Ground the vain Provision falls;
Her Pinions ruffle, and low-drooping scarce
Can bear the Mourner to the Poplar Shade,
Where all-abandon'd to Despair she sings.
Her Sorrows thro' the Night; and, on the Bough
Sad-sitting, still at every dying Fall
Takes up again her lamentable Strain
Of winding Woe, till wide around the Woods
Sigh at her Song, and with her Wail resound.
Autumn
The Argument…Shooting and hunting, their barbarity. A ludicrous account of fox-hunting.…
These are not subjects for the peaceful muse,
Nor will she stain her spotless theme with such;
Then most delighted, when she smiling sees
The whole mix'd animal creation round
Alive, and happy. Tis not joy to her,
This falsely chearful, barbarous game of death;
this rage of pleasure which the restless youth
Awakes, impatient, with the gleaming morn;
When beasts of prey retire, that all night long,
Urg'd by necessity, had roam'd the dark;
As if their conscious ravage shun'd the light,
Ashm'd. Not so the steady tyrant man,
Who with the thoughtless insolence of power
Inflam'd , beyond the most infuriate rage
Of the worst monster that e'er howl'd the waste,
For sport alone, takes up the cruel tract,
Amid the beamings of the gentle days.
O let not, aim'd from some inhuman eye.
The gun the music of the coming year
Destroy; and harmless, unsuspecting harm,
Lay the weak tribes, a miserable prey !
In mingled murder, fluttering on the ground.
Ah see where robb'd, and murder'd in that pit,
Lies the still heaving hive; at evening snatch'd,
Beneath the cloud of guilt-concealing night,
And whelm'd o'er sulphur: while, undreaming ill,
The happy people, in their waxen cells,
Sat tending public cares, and planning schemes
Of temperance, for winter poor, rejoic'd
To mark, full-flowing round, their copious stores.
Sudden the dark, oppressive steam ascends;
And, us'd to milder scents, the tender race,
By thousands, tumbles from their honey'd domes,
Convulv'd, and agonizing in the dust.
And was it then for this ye roam'd the spring,
Intent from flower to flower? for this ye toil'd
Ceaseless the burning summer-heats away?
For this in autumn search'd the blooming waste,
Not lost one sunny glean? for this sad fate?
O man! tyrannic lord! how long, how long,
Shall prostrate nature groan beneath your rage,
Awaiting renovation? When oblig'd,
Must you destroy? Of their ambrosial food
Can you not borrow? and in just return
1883 | Howard Williams, "James Thomson" in Ethics of Diet (First Edition: London & Manchester, 1883; Online Edition [Transcribed from the Expanded and Revised 2nd Edition] London & Manchester, 1896; Animal Rights History, 2006).
To [James Thomson], the author of the Seasons belongs the especial merit of having been the poet, amoung the moderns, in any very appreciable degree, to protest against the infinite variedly of wrong inflicted upon the subject species, and particularly, against the unnaturalness and inhumanity of the slaughterhouse. The especially humanitarian passages of this truly charming poem are the admiral berefection of the description of the snow-storm (in Winter), the eloquent contrast of the vegetable and flesh diets (in Spring); the graphic pictures of the hunted deer and hare, and of amateur butchery, followed by the instructive scene of the drunken revels of the 'sportsmen' (Autumn); and the reprobation of the selfish custom of caging the winged songsters in (narrow) prisons. The allusion to the hunting and atrocious slaughter of the elephant, pursued and tortured by 'cruel avarice,' or forced to take part in hideous battle,—'astonished at the madness of mankind' (in Summer) exhibits, also, the poet's juster feeling.
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