Poems (1828) by Thomas Gent Part 11

Oft have the genii of the h.o.a.ry blade Around thy walls their h.e.l.l-born demons led; Yet hast thou triumph'd o'er each monster's car, And braved the ills of pestilential war: Oft hast thou seen the circling seasons roll In fond succession round thy native pole; Defied the h.o.a.ry matron of the ring, And seen her sicken in the lap of Spring.

But, ah! no more thy time-clad head shall rise To dare the tempest, while it shakes the skies; Nor one small wreck invade the fair concave, Nor shout above its crumbling basis, Save!

When rising zephyr from thy ruin brings A world of atoms on its fairy wings."

Din horrible! as though the rebel train Had sprung from chaos, fought, and fall'n again, Raves the high bolt: how yon old structure fell; How every cranny trembled with the yell Of frighted owls, whose secret haunts forlorn Were from their kindred vaults and windings torn; Of bold Antiquity's rough pencil born.

Thrice Fancy leads the dismal echo round, And paints the spectre gliding o'er the ground.

From ev'ry turret, ev'ry vanquish'd tower, In heaps confused the broken fragments pour; And, as they plunge toward the pebbly grave, Like wizard wand, draw circles in the wave.

Meand'ring stream! thy liquid jaws extend, Anoint with Lethe now thy fallen friend.

Again the heralds of the thunder fly, In forky squadrons, from the trembling sky!

Again the thunder its harsh menace swells, And light-wing'd echoes hail the humbled cells!

Weep, weep, ye clouds! with heav'n-bespangled tears; And, ah! if pity rules your sacred spheres, Invoke the thunder to withstay its rage, Disarm its fury, and its wrath a.s.suage.

But now, Aurora, from the Ocean's verge, Trims her gray lamp, to light the mournful dirge.

She comes, to light the ruinated heap: But lights, to wake the pensive soul to weep!

ON THE DEATH OF NELSON.

Swift through the land while Fame transported flies, And shouts triumphant shake th' illumined skies; Britannia, bending o'er her dauntless prows, With laurels thickening round her blazon'd brows, In joy dejected, sees her triumph cross'd, Exults in Victory won, but mourns the Victor lost.

Immortal NELSON! still with fond amaze Thy glorious deed each British eye surveys, Beholds thee still, on conquer'd floods afar: Fate's flaming shaft! the thunderbolt of war!

Hurl'd from thy hands, Britannia's vengeance roars, And b.l.o.o.d.y billows stain the hostile sh.o.r.es: Thy sacred ire Confed'rate Kingdoms braves, And 'whelms their Navies in Sepulchral waves!

--Graced with each attribute which Heaven supplies To G.o.dlike Chiefs: humane, intrepid, wise: His Nation's Bulwark, and all Nature's pride, The Hero lived, and as he lived--he died: Transcendant destiny! how bless'd the brave, Whose fall his Country's tears attend, shower'd on his trophied grave!

THE BLUE-EYED MAID.

Sweet are the hours when roseate spring With health and joy salutes the day.

When zephyr, borne on wanton wing, Soft whispering, wakes the blushing May.

Sweet are the hours, yet not so sweet As when my blue-eyed Maid I meet, And hear her soul-entrancing tale, Sequester'd in the shadowy vale.

The mellow horn's long-echoing notes Startle the morn, commingling strong; At eve, the harp's wild music floats.

And ravish'd Silence drinks the song.

Yet sweeter is the song of love, When EMMA'S voice enchants the grove, While listening sylphs repeat the tale, Sequester'd in the silent vale.

TAKING ORDERS.

A TALE, FOUNDED ON FACT.

A parson once--and poorer he Than ever parson ought to be; Yet not so proud as _some_ from College, Who fancy they alone have knowledge; Who only learn to dress and drink, And, strange to say, still seem to think That no real talent's to be found Except within their cla.s.sic ground; Yet prove that Cam's nor Oxon's plains Can't furnish empty skulls with brains.

But for my tale--Our churchman came, And, in religion's honour'd name, Sought Cam's delightful cla.s.sic borders, To be prefer'd to Holy Orders.

Chance led him to the Trav'llers' Inn, Where living's cheap, and often whim Enlivens many a weary soul, And helps, in the o'erflowing bowl, In spite of fogs, and threatening weather, To drown both grief and gloom together:-- (Oh, Wit! thou'rt like a little blue, Soft cloud, in summer breaking through A frowning one, and lighting it Till darkness fadeth bit by bit; And Whim to thee is near allied, And follows closely at thy side; So oft, oh, Wit! I'm told that she By some folks is mista'en for thee; Yet I may say unto my eyes, Just whereabouts the difference lies; One's diamond quite, and, to my taste, The other is but _Dovey's Paste.)_-- He there a ready welcome found From one who travell'd England round: "Sir, your obedient--quite alone?

I'm truly happy you are come: Pray, sir, be seated;--business dull;-- Or else this room had now been full; Orders and cash are strangers here, And every thing looks dev'lish queer; Bad times these, sir, sad lack of wealth; Must hope for better;--Sir, your health!"

Then added, with inquiring face, "_Come to take Orders in this place_?"

"Yes, sir, I am," replied the priest: "With that intent I came at least."

"Ha! ha! I knew it very well; We business-men can others tell: Often before I've seen your face, Though memory can't recal the place-- Ah! now I have it; head of mine!

_You travel in the b.u.t.ton line_?"

"Begging your pardon, sir, I fear Some error has arisen here; You have mista'en my trade divine, But, sir, the worldly loss is mine-- _I travel in a much worse line_."

THE GIPSY'S HOME.

A GLEE.

Sung by Messrs. PYNE, NELSON, Miss WITHAM, and Master LONGHURST.--Composed by Mr. ROOKE.

We, who the wide world make our home; The barren heath our cheerful bed; Careless o'er mount and moor we roam, And never tears of sorrow shed.

But merrily, O! Merrily, O!

Through this world of care we go.

Love, that a palace left in tears, Flew to our houseless feast of mirth: For here, unfetter'd, beauty cheers, The heaven alone that's found on earth!

Then merrily, O! Merrily, O!

Through this world of care we go.

SONNET.

THE BEGGAR.

Of late I saw him on his staff reclined, Bow'd down beneath a weary weight of woes, Without a roof to shelter from the wind His head, all h.o.a.r with many a winter's snows.

All trembling he approach'd, he strove to speak; The voice of misery scarce my ear a.s.sail'd; A flood of sorrow swept his furrow'd cheek, Remembrance check'd him, and his utt'rance fail'd.

For he had known full many a better day; And when the poor man at his threshold bent, He drove him not with aching heart away, But freely shared what Providence had sent.

How hard for him, the stranger's boon to crave, And live to want the mite his bounty gave!

TO ------.

Come, JENNY, let me sip the dew That on those coral lips doth play, One kiss would every care subdue, And bid my weary soul be gay.

For surely thou wert form'd by love To bless the suff'rer's parting sigh; In pity then my griefs remove, And on that bosom let me die!

SONG.

THE RECAL OF THE HERO.