Poems (1828) by Thomas Gent Part 4

Light as the breeze that hails the infant morn The Milkmaid trips, as o'er her arm she slings Her cleanly pail, some fav'rite lay she sings As sweetly wild and cheerful as the horn.

O! happy girl I may never faithless love, Or fancied splendour, lead thy steps astray; No cares becloud the sunshine of thy day, Nor want e'er urge thee from thy cot to rove.

What though thy station dooms thee to be poor, And by the hard-earn'd morsel thou art fed; Yet sweet content bedecks thy lowly bed, And health and peace sit smiling at thy door: Of these possess'd--thou hast a gracious meed, Which Heaven's high wisdom gives, to make thee rich indeed!

ON THE DEATH OF DR. ABEL,[1]

Physician and Naturalist to Lord Amherst, Governor General of India, who died at Cawnpoor, 24th of November, 1826.

Another awful warning voice of death To human dignity, and human pride; 'Tis sad, to mark how short the longest life-- How brief was thine! Thy day is done, And all its complicated hopes and fears Lie buried, ABEL! in an early grave.

The unavailing tear for thee shall flow, And love and friendship faithful record keep Of all thy varied worth, thy anxious strife For fame and years, now gone for ever!

Yet o'er thy tomb science and learning Bend in mute regret, and truth proclaims Thy just inheritance an honour'd name!

Lamented most by those who knew thee best, Accept this humble, tributary lay, From one, who in thy boyhood and thy prime Had shared thy friendship, and had fondly hoped When last we parted, many years were thine And joys in store--that thy elastic mind Might long have gladden'd life's monotony.

Thine was a princely heart, a joyous soul, The charm of reason, and the sprightly wit Which kept dull letter'd ignorance in awe, Shook the pretender on his tinsel throne, And claim'd the glorious dignity of mind!

Alas! that in thy prime, when time began To make thee nearly all the World could wish, The spoiler Death should unrelenting come (As though in envy of thy wondrous skill) And stop the fountain of a n.o.ble heart.

Rest, anxious spirit! from life's feverish dream, From all its sad realities and cares: Be this thy Epitaph, thy honour'd boast-- Thine was the fame, which thine own mind achieved!

[Footnote 1: Dr. Abel was greatly distinguished in his profession for his love of it, and for the ardour of his pursuits in useful knowledge.

--He published many ingenious Papers on Medical Science and Natural History. His account of the Emba.s.sy to China, under Lord Amherst, has been generally admired. He practised with increasing respect as a Physician, at Brighton, previous to his leaving England for India; and meditated (as the Author of this article knows) one or two works, which, from the activity of his mind, may yet be antic.i.p.ated. Dr. Abel was a native of Bungay, in Suffolk (where his father was a banker), and it is supposed was about 35 years of age when he died. It is worthy of remark, that the present eminent and estimable Dr. Gooch, Librarian to His Majesty, and Dr. Abel, should both have been pupils of Mr. Borrett, Surgeon, of Yarmouth.]

SONNET.

NIGHT.

Now when dun Night her shadowy veil has spread, See want and infamy, as forth they come, Lead their wan daughter from her branded home, To woo the stranger for unhallow'd bread.

Poor outcast! o'er thy sickly-tinted cheek And half-clad form, what havoc want hath made; And the sweet l.u.s.tre of thine eye doth fade, And all thy soul's sad sorrow seems to speak.

O! miserable state! compell'd to wear The wooing smile, as on thy aching breast Some wretch reclines, who feeling ne'er possess'd; Thy poor heart bursting with the stifled tear!

Oh! G.o.d OF MERCY! bid her woes subside, And be to her a friend, who hath no friend beside.

CONSTANCY.

TO----.

Dearest love! when thy G.o.d shall recall thee, Be this record inscribed on thy tomb: Truth, and grat.i.tude, well may applaud thee, And all thy past virtues relume.

It shall tell--to thy s.e.x's proud honour, Of sufferings and trials severe, While still, through protracted affliction, Not a murmur escaped; but the tear

Of resignment to Heaven's high dictates, 'Twas thine, like a martyr, to shed: That heart--all affection for others-- For thyself, uncomplainingly, bled.

Midst the storms, which misfortune had gather'd, What an angel thou wert unto me; In that hour, when all friendship seem'd sever'd, Thou didst bloom like the ever-green tree!

All was gloom; and in vain had I striven, For hope ceased a ray to impart; When thou cam'st, like a meteor from heaven, And gave peace to my desolate heart!

EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.

Give me the wreath of friendship true, Whose flowerets fade not in a breath: From memory gaining many a hue, To bloom beyond the touch of death.

And I will send it to thy home-- Thy home beloved, my faithful friend!

And pray for its perpetual bloom And every bliss that earth can send.

Within its magic wreath I'd place Hearts'-ease and every lovely flower; To win thee by their matchless grace, And cheer and bless the lonely hour.

When at the world's unkind return Of all thy worth, and all thy care, Thou may'st in spite of manhood turn, And shed the sad, the bitter, tear.

Then, midst this holy grief of thine, The thought of some true friend may bless, And cheer the gloom like angel's smile, Or sunbeam in a wilderness.

And could I hope I had a claim On thee in such a rapturous hour?

Oh! that, indeed, I'd own were fame.

The saving ark of friendship's power.

Or that, in future years, thy babes Should o'er this frail memorial bend, (For first affection rarely fades!) And boast that I was once the friend

Whose wit, or worth, possess'd a charm, By Parents loved, and them caress'd.

That spell would every sorrow calm, And bid my anxious spirit rest!

HERE IN OUR FAIRY BOWERS WE DWELL.

A GLEE.

Sung by Messrs. GOULDEN, PYNE, and NELSON.--Composed by Mr. ROOKE.

Here, in our fairy bowers, we dwell, Women our idol, life's best treasure!

Echo enchanted joys to tell, Our feast of laugh, of love, and pleasure.

Say, is not this then bliss divine, Beauty's smiles and rosy wine?

Eternal mirth and sunshine reign, For grief we cannot find the leisure; Night's social G.o.ds have banish'd pain, Morn lights us to increasing pleasure.

Say, is not this then bliss divine, Beauty's smiles and rosy wine?

Here in our fairy bowers, &c.

HENRY AND ELIZA.