Poems (1828) by Thomas Gent Part 5

O'er the wide heath now moon-tide horrors hung, And night's dark pencil dimm'd the tints of spring; The boding minstrel now harsh omens sung, And the bat spread his dark nocturnal wing.

At that still hour, pale Cynthia oft had seen The fair Eliza (joyous once and gay), With pensive step, and melancholy mien, O'er the broad plain in love-born anguish stray.

Long had her heart with Henry's been entwined, And love's soft voice had waked the sacred blaze Of Hymen's altar; while, with him combined, His cherub train prepared the torch to raise:

When, lo! his standard raging war uprear'd, And honour call'd her Henry from her charms.

He fought, but ah! torn, mangled, blood-besmear'd, Fell, n.o.bly fell, amid his conquering arms!

In her sad bosom, a tumultuous world Of hopes and fears on his dear mem'ry spread; For fate had not the clouded roll unfurl'd, Nor yet with baleful hemlock crown'd her head.

Reflection, oft to sad remembrance brought The well known spot, where they so oft had stray'd; While fond affection ten-fold ardour caught, And smiling innocence around them play'd.

But these were past! and now the distant bell (For deep and pensive thought had held her there) Toll'd midnight out, with long resounding knell, While dismal echoes quiver'd in the air.

Again 'twas silence--when from out the gloom She saw, with awe-struck eye, a phantom glide: 'Twas Henry's form!--what pencil shall presume To paint her horror!----HENRY AS HE DIED!

Enervate, long she stood--a sculptured dread, Till waking sense dissolved amazement's chain; Then home, with timid haste, distracted fled, And sunk in dreadful agony of pain.

Not the deep sigh, which madden'd Sappho gave, When from Leucate's craggy height she sprung, Could equal that which gave her to the grave, The last sad sound that echo'd from her tongue.

WRITTEN ON THE

DEATH OF GENERAL WASHINGTON.

Lamented Chief! at thy distinguish'd deeds The world shall gaze with wonder and applause, While, on fair History's page, the patriot reads Thy matchless virtue in thy Country's cause.

Yes, it was thine, amid destructive war, To shield it n.o.bly from oppression's chain; By justice arm'd, to brave each threat'ning jar, a.s.sert its freedom, and its rights maintain.

Much honour'd Statesman, Husband, Father, Friend, A generous nation's grateful tears are thine; E'en unborn ages shall thy worth commend, And never-fading laurels deck thy shrine.

Ill.u.s.trious Warrior! on the immortal base, By Freedom rear'd, thy envied name shall stand; And Fame, by Truth inspired, shall fondly trace Thee, Pride and Guardian of thy Native Land!

To----.

In vain, sweet Maid! for me you bring The first-blown blossoms of the spring; My tearful cheek you wipe in vain, And bid its pale rose bloom again.

In vain! unconscious, did I say?

Oh! you alone these tears can stay; Alone, the pale rose can renew, Whose sunshine is a smile from you.

Yet not in friendship's smile it lives; Too cold the gifts that friendship gives: The beam that warms a winter's day, Plays coldly in the lap of May.

You bid my sad heart cease to swell, But will you, if its tale I tell, Nor turn away, nor frown the while, But smile, as you were wont to smile?

Then bring me not the blossoms young, That erst on Flora's forehead hung; But round thy radiant temples twine, The flowers whose flaunting mocks at mine.

Give me--nor pinks, nor pansies gay, Nor violets, fading fast away, Nor myrtle, rue, nor rosemary, But give, oh! give, thyself to me!

MONODY

TO THE MEMORY

OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.

PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION.

The very flattering success which attended the first Edition of this brief but affectionate Sketch, I must attribute to the interest of the subject, rather than the merit of the composition; and I cannot but feel grateful to those Writers who have honoured me by their notice and approbation.

I must not again go to press, without acknowledging how much I am indebted to a kind friend, who happened to be in Norfolk at the time I was printing the first Edition; with whom I had the happiness to pa.s.s many delightful hours, and to whose admirable taste and judgment I owe many valuable suggestions. In mentioning John Kemble with Sheridan, I a.s.sociate two of the brightest stars that have illumined the Literature and Drama of the Country.

T.G.

_Yarmouth, Norfolk_, 1816.

SHERIDAN.

Embalm'd in fame, and sacred from decay, What mighty name, in arms, in arts, or verse, From England claims this consecrated day.

Her n.o.bles crowding round the shadowy hea.r.s.e?

Hark! from yon fane, within whose hallow'd mounds, Her bards, her warriors, and her statesmen, sleep; The solemn, slow, funereal bell resounds, While mournful echoes dread accordance keep.

Spirits revered! beyond that awful bourne.

Who share the dark communion of the tomb, A kindred genius seeks your dread sojourn; Ye heirs of glory! hail a brother home.

Obscured, as SHERIDAN to dust descends, Recedes each ray from Wit's effulgent sphere; Lo! every Muse in silent sorrow bends, Her votive laurels mingling o'er his bier.

But chiefly thou, from whose polluted shrine His filial hand Circean rabble drove; What pangs, Thalia! in this hour are thine; What fervent anguish of maternal love!

How long perverted, had the Comic scene, (The flattering reflex of a sensual age) Shown prurient Folly's rank licentious mien, Refined, embellish'd on the pander stage:

While Vanburgh, Congreve, Farquhar, heaven-endow'd, To scourge bold Vice with Wit's resistless rod, Embraced her chains, stood forth her priests avow'd, And scatter'd flowers in every path she trod:

Inglorious praise! though Judgment's self admired Those wanton strains which Virtue blush'd to hear; While pamper'd Pa.s.sion from the scene retired, With wilder rage to urge his fierce career.

At length, all graced in Fancy's orient hues, His native fires with added culture bright, Rose SHERIDAN! to vindicate the Muse, And gild the drama with meridian light.