The Further Poems: “Life a dream in Death's eternal sleep.”

By James Thomson

James Thomson was born in Port Glasgow, Scotland on November 23rd 1834. He was raised in Holloway, London in the Royal Caledonian Asylum an orphanage after his father was incapacitated by a stroke. He was educated at the Caledonian Asylum and then the Royal Military Academy before serving in Ireland. In his late 20s Thomson left the military and returned to London, where he worked as a clerk. For the remainder of his life James submitted stories, essays and poems to various publications, including the National Reformer, which published the sombre yet remarkable ‘City Of Dreadful Night’ which remains his most famous work. Its origins lie in his battles with insomnia, alcoholism and chronic depression which plagued Thomson's final decade. He died in London at the age of 47. His pseudonym, Bysshe Vanolis, derives from the names of the poets Percy Bysshe Shelley and Novalis and distinguishes him from the earlier Scottish poet James Thomson. Here we publish another collection of his works that further enhance his reputation as one of Scotland’s finest poets.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Copyright Group
• Release date: Jan 23, 2014
• ISBN: 9781783948857

Book preview

The Further Poems Of James Thomson

James Thomson was born in Port Glasgow, Scotland on November 23rd 1834.  He was raised in Holloway, London in the Royal Caledonian Asylum an orphanage after his father was incapacitated by a stroke.  He was educated at the Caledonian Asylum and then the Royal Military Academy before serving in Ireland.  In his late 20s Thomson left the military and returned to London, where he worked as a clerk. For the remainder of his life James submitted stories, essays and poems to various publications, including the National Reformer, which published the sombre yet remarkable ‘City Of Dreadful Night’ which remains his most famous work. Its origins lie in his battles with insomnia, alcoholism and chronic depression which plagued Thomson's final decade.  He died in London at the age of 47.  His pseudonym, Bysshe Vanolis, derives from the names of the poets Percy Bysshe Shelley and Novalis. It distinguishes him from the earlier Scottish poet James Thomson.  Here we publish another collection of his works that further enhance his reputation as one of Scotland’s finest poets.

Index Of Contents

Art

Gifts

The Vine

William Blake

In the Train

The Naked Goddess

Sunday (Lilah, Alice, Hypatia)

On George Herbert’s Poems

Virtue And Vice

To A Painiste

To Our Ladies Of Death

The Three That Shall Be One

Two Sonnets

Two Lovers

Sunday At Hampstead

Suggested By Matthew Arnold’s Stanzas From The Grande Chartreuse

Philosophy

Night

Once In A Saintly Passion

A Song Of Sighing

Mater Tenebrarum

Day

Four Points In A Life

In A Christian Churchyard

Life’s Hebe

The Approach To St Paul’s

E. B. B.

Art

I

What precious thing are you making fast

In all these silken lines?

And where and to whom will it go at last?

Such subtle knots and twines!

I am tying up all my love in this,

With all its hopes and fears,

With all its anguish and all its bliss,

And its hours as heavy as years.

I am going to send it afar, afar,

To I know not where above;

To that sphere beyond the highest star

Where dwells the soul of my Love.

But in vain, in vain, would I make it fast

With countless subtle twines;

For ever its fire breaks out at last,

And shrivels all the lines.

II

If you have a carrier-dove

That can fly over land and sea;

And a message for your Love,

Lady, I love but thee!

And this dove will never stir

But straight from her to you,

And straight from you to her;

As you know and she knows too.

Will you first ensure, O sage,

Your dove that never tires

With your message in a cage,

Though a cage of golden wires?

Or will you fling your dove:

"Fly, darling, without rest,

Over land and sea to my Love,

And fold your wings in her breast"?

III

Singing is sweet; but be sure of this,

Lips only sing when they cannot kiss.

Did he ever suspire a tender lay

While her presence took his breath away?

Had his fingers been able to toy with her hair

Would they have then written the verses fair?

Had she let his arm steal round her waist

Would the lovely portrait yet be traced?

Since he could not embrace it flushed and warm

He has carved in stone the perfect form.

Who gives the fine report of the feast?

He who got none and enjoyed it least.

Were the wine really slipping down his throat

Would his song of the wine advance a note?

Will you puff out the music that sways the whirl,

Or dance and make love with a pretty girl?

Who shall the great battle-story write?

Not the hero down in the thick of the fight.

Statues and pictures and verse may be grand,

But they are not the Life for which they stand.

Gifts

Give a man a horse he can ride,

Give a man a boat he can sail;

And his rank and wealth, his strength and health,

On sea nor shore shall fail.