The City of Dreadful Night

By James Thomson

James Thomson was a Scottish poet and playwright, known for his masterpiece The Seasons and the lyrics of "Rule, Britannia!".

James Thomson was born in Ednam in Roxburghshire around 11 September 1700 and baptised on 15 September. He was the fourth of nine children of Thomas Thomson and Beatrix Thomson (née Trotter). Beatrix Thomson was born in Fogo, Berwickshire and was a distant relation of the house of Hume. Thomas Thomson was the Presbyterian minister of Ednam until eight weeks after Thomson’s birth, when he was admitted as minister of Southdean, where Thomson spent most of his early years.

Thomson may have attended the parish school of Southdean before going to the grammar school in Jedburgh in 1712. He failed to distinguish himself there. Shiels, his earliest biographer, writes: 'far from appearing to possess a sprightly genius, [Thomson] was considered by his schoolmaster, and those which directed his education, as being really without a common share of parts'. He was, however, encouraged to write poetry by Robert Riccaltoun (1691–1769), a farmer, poet and Presbyterian minister; and Sir William Bennet (d. 1729), a whig laird who was a patron of Allan Ramsay.While some early poems by Thomson survive, he burned most of them on New Year’s Day each year.

Thomson entered the College of Edinburgh in autumn 1715, destined for the Presbyterian ministry. At Edinburgh he studied metaphysics, Logic, Ethics, Greek, Latin and Natural Philosophy. He completed his arts course in 1719 but chose not to graduate, instead entering Divinity Hall to become a minister.[6] In 1716 Thomas Thomson died, with local legend saying that he was killed whilst performing an exorcism. At Edinburgh Thomson became a member of the Grotesque Club, a literary group, and he met his lifelong friend David Mallet. After the successful publication of some of his poems in the ‘’Edinburgh Miscellany’’ Thomson followed Mallet to London in February 1725 in an effort to publish his verse (font: Wikipedia)

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Thomson
• Release date: Dec 23, 2015
• ISBN: 9788892532458

James Thomson

JAMES THOMSON has spent a decade introducing students to the joys of building with earth with House Alive, one of the leading natural building training organizations in North America.

Book preview

The City of Dreadful Night

James Thomson

Per me si va nella citta dolente.

— Dante

Poi di tanto adoprar, di tanti moti

D’ogni celeste, ogni terrena cosa,

Girando senza posa,

Per tornar sempre la donde son mosse;

Uso alcuno, alcun frutto

Indovinar non so.

Sola nel mondo eterna, a cui si volve

Ogni creata cosa,

In te, morte, si posa

Nostra ignuda natura;

Lieta no, ma sicura

Dell’ antico dolor . . .

Pero ch’ esser beato

Nega ai mortali e nega a’ morti il fato.

— Leopardi

Proem

Lo, thus, as prostrate, "In the dust I write

  My heart’s deep languor and my soul’s sad tears."

Yet why evoke the spectres of black night

  To blot the sunshine of exultant years?

Why disinter dead faith from mouldering hidden?

Why break the seals of mute despair unbidden,

  And wail life’s discords into careless ears?

Because a cold rage seizes one at whiles

  To show the bitter old and wrinkled truth

Stripped naked of all vesture that beguiles,

  False dreams, false hopes, false masks and modes of youth;

Because it gives some sense of power and passion

In helpless innocence to try to fashion

  Our woe in living words howe’er uncouth.

Surely I write not for the hopeful young,

  Or those who deem their happiness of worth,

Or such as pasture and grow fat among

  The shows of life and feel nor doubt nor dearth,

Or pious spirits with a God above them

To sanctify and glorify and love them,

  Or sages who foresee a heaven on earth.

For none of these I write, and none of these

  Could read the writing if they deigned to try;

So may they flourish in their due degrees,

  On our sweet earth and in their unplaced sky.

If any cares for the weak words here written,

It must be some one desolate, Fate-smitten,

  Whose faith and hopes are dead, and who would die.

Yes, here and there some weary wanderer

  In that same city of tremendous night,

Will understand the speech and feel a stir

  Of fellowship in all-disastrous fight;

"I suffer mute and lonely, yet another

Uplifts his voice to let me know a brother

  Travels the same wild paths though out of sight."

O sad Fraternity, do I unfold

  Your dolorous mysteries shrouded from of yore?

Nay, be assured; no secret can be told

  To any who divined it not before:

None uninitiate by many a presage

Will comprehend the language of the message,

  Although proclaimed aloud for evermore.

I

The City is of Night; perchance