Poems (1828) by Thomas Gent Part 2

Oh! lay me where my Rosa lies, And love shall o'er the moss-grown bed, When dew-drops leave the weeping skies.

His tenderest tear of pity shed.

And sacred shall the willow be, That shades the spot where virtue sleeps; And mournful memory weep to see The hallow'd watch affection keeps.

Yes, soul of love! this bleeding heart Scarce beating, soon its griefs shall cease; Soon from his woes the sufferer part, And hail thee at the Throne of Peace

THE SIBYL.

A SKETCH.

So stood the Sibyl: stream'd her h.o.a.ry hair Wild as the blast, and with a comet's glare Glow'd her red eye-b.a.l.l.s 'midst the sunken gloom Of their wild orbs, like death-fires in a tomb.

Slow, like the rising storm, in fitful moans, Broke from her breast the deep prophetic tones.

Anon, with whirlwind rash, the Spirit came; Then in dire splendour, like imprison'd flame Flashing through rifted domes or towns amazed, Her voice in thunder burst; her arm she raised; Outstretch'd her hands, as with a Fury's force, To grasp, and launch the slow descending curse: Still as she spoke, her stature seem'd to grow; Still she denounced unmitigable woe: Pain, want, and madness, pestilence, and death, Rode forth triumphant at her blasting breath: Their march she marshall'd, taught their ire to fall-- And seem'd herself the emblem of them all!

LOVE.

Love!--what is love? a mere machine, a spring For freaks fantastic, a convenient thing, A point to which each scribbling wight most steer, Or vainly hope for food or favour here; A summer's sigh; a winter's wistful tale: A sound at which th' untutor'd maid turns pale; Her soft eyes languish, and her bosom heaves, And Hope delights as Fancy's dream deceives.

Thus speaks the heart which cold disgust invades, When time instructs, and Hope's enchantment fades; Through life's wide stage, from sages down to kings, The puppets move, as art directs the strings: Imperious beauty bows to sordid gold, Her smiles, whence heaven flows emanent, are sold; And affectation swells th' entrancing tones, Which nature subjugates, and truth disowns.

I love th' ingenuous maiden, practised not To pierce the heart with ambush'd glances, shot From eyelashes, whose shadowy length she knows To a hair's point, their high arch when to close Half o'er the swimming orb, and when to raise, Disclosing all the artificial blaze Of unfelt pa.s.sion, which alone can move Him whom the genuine eloquence of love Affected never, won with wanton wiles, With soulless sighs, and meretricious smiles; By nature unimpress'd, uncharm'd by thee, Sweet G.o.ddess of my heart, Simplicity!

ON A DELIGHTFUL DRAWING IN MY ALb.u.m,

By my friend, T. WOODWARD, ESQ., of a Group, consisting of a Donkey, a Boy, and a Dog.

Welcome, my pretty Neddy--welcome too Thy merry Rider with his ap.r.o.n blue; And thou, poor Dog, most patient thing of all, Begging for morsels that may never fall!

Oh! 'tis a faithful group--and it might shame Painters of bold pretence, and greater name-- To see how nature triumphs, and how rare Such matchless proofs of Nature's triumphs are-- The smallest particle of sand may tell With what rich ore Pactolus' tide may swell: And Woodward! this ingenious, chaste design, Proclaims what treasures lie within the mine-- Pupil of Cooper--Nature's favorite son-- Whom, but to name, and to admire, is one!

STANZAS.

Say, why is the stern eye averted with scorn Of the stoic who pa.s.ses along?

And why frowns the maid, else as mild as the morn.

On the victim of falsehood and wrong?

For the wretch sunk in sorrow, repentance, and shame, The tear of compa.s.sion is won: And alone must she forfeit the wretch's sad claim, Because she's deceived and undone?

Oh! recal the stern look, ere it reaches her heart, To bid its wounds rankle anew; Oh! smile, or embalm with a tear the sad smart, And angels will smile upon you.

Time was, when she knew nor opprobrium nor pain, And youth could its pleasures impart, Till some serpent distill'd through her bosom the stain, As he wound round the strings of her heart.

Poor girl! let thy tears through thy blandishments break, Nor strive to retrace them within; For mine would I mingle with those on thy cheek, Nor think that such sorrow were sin.

When the low-trampled reed, and the pine in its pride, Shall alike feel the hand of decay, May thy G.o.d grant that mercy the world has denied, And wipe all your sorrows away!

SHAKSPEARE.

Respectfully inscribed, with permission, to the Committee (of which His Majesty is the Patron) for the proposed Monuments to SHAKSPEARE at Stratford and in London. Intended to be spoken at one of the Theatres.

While o'er this pageant of sublunar things Oblivion spreads her unrelenting wings, And sweeps adown her dark unebbing tide Man, and his mightiest monuments of pride-- Alone, aloft, immutable, sublime, Star-like, ensphered above the track of time, Great SHAKSPEARE beams with undiminish'd ray.

His bright creations sacred from decay, Like Nature's self, whose living form he drew, Though still the same, still beautiful and new.

He came, untaught in academic bowers, A gift to Glory from the Sylvan powers: But what keen Sage, with all the science fraught, By elder bards or later critics taught, Shall count the cords of his mellifluous sh.e.l.l, Span the vast fabric of his fame, and tell By what strange arts he bade the structure rise-- On what deep site the strong foundation lies?

This, why should scholiasts labour to reveal?

We all can answer it, we all can feel, Ten thousand sympathies, attesting, start-- For SHAKSPEARE'S Temple, _is the human heart!_

Lord of a throne which mortal ne'er shall share-- Despot adored! he rales and revels there.

Who but has found, where'er his track hath been, Through life's oft shifting, multifarious scene, Still at his side the genial Bard attend, His loved companion, counsellor, and friend!

The Thespian Sisters nurtured in the schools Of Greece and Rome, and long coerced by rules, Scarce moved the inmates of their native hearth With tiny pathos and with trivial mirth, Till She, great muse of daring enterprise, Delighted ENGLAND! saw her SHAKSPEARE rise!

Then, first aroused in that appointed hour, The Tragic Muse confess'd th' inspiring power; Sudden before the startled earth she stood, A giant spectre, weeping tears and blood; Guilt shrunk appall'd, Despair embraced his shroud, And Terror shriek'd, and Pity sobb'd aloud;-- Then, first Thalia with dilated ken And quicken'd footstep pierced the walks of men; Then Folly blush'd, Vice fled the general hiss, Delight met Reason with a loving kiss; At Satire's glance Pride smooth'd his low'ring crest, The Graces weaved the dance.--And last and best Came Momus down in Falstaff's form to earth.

To make the world one universe of mirth!

Such Sympathies the glorious Bard endear!

Thus fair he walks in Man's diurnal sphere.

But when, upborne on bright Invention's wings.

He dares the realms of uncreated things, Forms more divine, more dreadful, start to view, Than ever Hades or Olympus knew.

Round the dark cauldron, terrible and fell, The midnight Witches breathe the songs of h.e.l.l; Delighted _Ariel_ wings his fiery way To whirl the storm, the wheeling Orbs to stay; Then bathes in honey-dews, and sleeps in flowers; Meanwhile, young _Oberon_, girt with shadowy powers, Pursues o'er Ocean's verge the pale cold Moon, Or hymns her, riding in her highest noon.

Thus graced, thus glorified, shall SHAKSPEARE crave The Sculptor's skill, the pageant of the grave?

HE needs it not--but Grat.i.tude demands This votive offering at his Country's hands.

Haply, e'er now, from blissful bowers on high, From some Parna.s.sus of the empyreal sky, Pleased, o'er this dome the gentle Spirit bends, Accepts the gift, and hails us as his friends-- Yet smiles, perchance, to think when envious Time O'er Bust and Urn shall bid his ivies climb, When Palaces and Pyramids shall fall-- HIS PAGE SHALL TRIUMPH--still surviving all-- 'Till Earth itself, "like breath upon the wind,"

Shall melt away, "nor leave a rack behind!"

IMPROMPTU, TO ORIANA.

ON ATTENDING WITH HER, AS SPONSORS, AT A CHRISTENING

Lady! who didst--with angel-look and smile, And the sweet l.u.s.tre of those dear, dark eyes, Gracefully bend before the font of Christ, In humble adoration, faith, and prayer!

Oh!--as the infant pledge of friends beloved Received from thy pure lips its future name, Sweetly unconscious look'd the baby-boy!