Poems (1828) by Thomas Gent Part 3

How beautifully helpless--and how mild!

--Methought, a seraph spread her shelt'ring wings Over the solemn scene; and as the sun, In its full splendour, on the altar came, G.o.d's blessing seem'd to sanctify the deed.

TO MY SPANIEL f.a.n.n.y.

f.a.n.n.y! were all the world like thee, How cheerly then this life would glide, Dear emblem of Fidelity!

Long may'st thou grace thy master's side.

Long cheer his hours of solitude, With watchful eye each wish to learn, And anxious speechless grat.i.tude Hail with delight each short sojourn.

When sick at heart, thy welcome home A weary load of grief dispels, Gladdens with hope the hours to come, And yet a mournful lesson tells!

To find _thee_ ever faithful, kind, My guard by night, my friend by day, While those in friendship more refined Have with my fortunes flown away.

Why bounteous nature hast thou given To this poor _Brute_--a boon so kind As constancy--bless'd gift of Heaven!

And MAN--to waver like the wind?

WIDOWED LOVE.[1]

Tell me, chaste spirit! in yon orb of light, Which seems to wearied souls an ark of rest, So calm, so peaceful, so divinely bright-- Solace of broken hearts, the mansion of the bless'd!

Tell me, oh! tell me--shall I meet again The long lost object of my only love!

--This hope but mine, death were release from pain; Angel of mercy! haste, and waft my soul above!

[Footnote 1: Mr. T. Millar has composed sweet music to these lines, and has been peculiarly fortunate in composing and singing some of the exquisite Melodies of T.H. Bayly, Esq. of Bath.]

WRITTEN IN THE ALb.u.m

OF THE LADY OF DR. GEORGE BIRKBECK, M.D.

President of the London Mechanic's Inst.i.tution, and of the Chemical and Meteorological Societies. Founder and Patron of the Glasgow Mechanic's Inst.i.tute, &c. &c. &c.

Lady unknown! a pilgrim from the shrine Of Poesy's fair temple, brings a wreath Which fame and grat.i.tude alike entwine, Around a name that charms the monster Death, And bids him pause!--Amidst despairing life BIRKBECK's the harbinger of hope and health; When sordid affluence was with man at strife, He boldly stripp'd the veil, and show'd the wealth To aged ignorance, and ardent youth, Of cultured minds--the freedom of the soul!

The sun of science, and the light of truth, The bliss of reason--mind without control.

Accept this tribute. Lady! and the praise, As Consort and the soother of his care!

His offspring's pride--his friend's commingled rays, And every other grace that man has deem'd most rare!

THE CHAIN-PIER, BRIGHTON;

A SKETCH.

Hail, lovely morn! and thou, all-beauteous sea!

Sun-sparkling with the diamond's countless rays: Thy look, how tranquil, one eternal calm, Which seems to woo the troubled soul to peace!

Now, all is sunshine, and thy boundless breast Scarce heaves; unruffled, all thy waves subside (Light murmuring, like the baby sighs of rest) Into a gentle ripple on the sh.o.r.e.

All hail, dear Woman! saving-ark of man, His surest solace in this world of woe; How cheering are thy smiles, which, like the breeze Of health, play softly o'er the pallid cheek, And turn its rigid markings to a smile.

England may well be proud of scenes like this; The beaming Beauty which adorns the PIER!

Hung like a fairy fabric o'er the sea, The graceful wonder of this wondrous age; Intrepid Brown,[1] the future page shall tell Thy generous spirit's persevering aim, That wrought so much, so well, thy country's weal; How fit for thee, the gallant seaman's life, His restless nights, and days of ceaseless toil; Framed by thy mighty hand, the giant work Check'd the rude tempest, in its fearful way.

Thy bold inventions gave new life to hope, Steadied the wavering, and confirm'd the brave, And bade the timid smile, amidst the storm!

Spirit of Hogarth! had I but one ray Of that vast sun which warm'd thy varied mind; How would I now describe the motley groups Which crowd, in thoughtless ease, thy moving road.

Mark the young Confidence of yesterday, Offspring of pride, and fortune's blinded fool, (Engender'd like the vermin of an hour) All would-be fashion, elegance, and ease, While, by his side, the weaker vessel smirks, In tawdry finery, with presuming gait, As though the world were made for them alone; Their liveried Lacquey, half-conceal'd in lace, The vulgar wonder of an upstart race.

How heartlessly they pa.s.s that mourner by, The poor lone Widow, with her death-struck load.

In speechless poverty, she courts the air, To give its blessing to her suff'ring babe; Not asking it herself; for life, to her, Has now no charm--her refuge is the grave!

Here comes the moral Almanack of years-- The prim old maid, and, by her side, her Niece, Full of bewitching beauty, health, and love.

See, how the tabby watches Laura's eyes, Lest they should smile upon some pleasing spark, And violate grim prudery's tyrant ties.

With icy finger, she her charge directs, To view the faithful dial of the sun, Whose moral tells how tide and time pa.s.s on.

See, there--the fated victim of mischance; Read, in that hollow eye, and alter'd look, The deep anxiety which gnaws the heart, Incessant struggling 'gainst a tide of care, Which wears his life away;--and there, again, The empty, lucky Fool, who never thought, Nor ever will, yet lives and smiles, and thrives!

Mark ye, that Ready-reckoner's figured face?

Cold calculation in his thoughtful step; The heartless wretch, who never trusts his land, And never is deceived!--And, next him, comes Laughing Good-nature, with ruddy cheeks, And welcome look, determined to be pleased.

He comes to ask--or go with friend to dine; His labour but to dress--to eat, to sleep: He knows no suffering equal to bad wine.

There--the prig-Parson, with indented hat, And formal step--demanding your respect-- Yonder, the lovely insect-chasing Child.

His is, indeed, a life of envious joy; Hope and antic.i.p.ation, on the wing, To him no sad realities e'er bring!

And now, the humble Quaker, plain and proud.

Humility, is this, indeed, thy type?

(I know it is not, for I know the man.) His lovely Daughter bears an angel form And mind, that glorifies her s.e.x's charms; Meekness and charity her life employ-- A seraph sorrowing for a suffering world!

Lo! too, the Matron, with her household G.o.ds, The deities she worships night and day.

Affection has no bounds, nor language words.

To tell a mother's tender ceaseless charge.

Children! can all your future lore repay The nights of watchfulness, and days of care, Which a fond parent gives?-- See, last, sad sight! the hardy British Tar, Cutla.s.s unsheath'd, unlike the truly brave.

Here, watching, night and day--degenerate lot!

To seize a fisherman, or stop a cart, Or "fright the wandering spirits from the sh.o.r.e."

His "brief authority" has just detain'd A boat of c.o.c.kles and a quart of gin!

The smart Lieutenant's epaulette, methinks, Blushes at this degrading, pimping trade.-- For deeds like these--let objects be employ'd, Who never shared their country's high renown!

Adieu! vast Ocean, cradle of the brave, Tablet of England's glory, and her shield!

To thee--and those dear friends who lured me here, With hospitality's enchanting smile, And chased away a little age of woe-- Gratefully--I dedicate these _tuneful lays!_

_July_, 1826.

[Footnote 1: My friend, Captain Samuel Brown, of the Royal Navy, whose inventions and improvements of the iron chain cable, and various others connected with the naval service, deserve the grat.i.tude of his country, independent of the admirable Chain-Pier at Brighton, a Suspension Bridge over the Tweed, Pier at Newhaven, Bridge at Heckham, the iron work for Hammersmith Suspension Bridge, and other successful undertakings.]

SONNET.

MORNING.