Poems (1828) by Thomas Gent Part 6

Him, skill'd alike great Nature's genuine form, Or Fashion's light fact.i.tious traits to trace, The scene confess'd;--with glowing pathos warm, Or gaily sportive in familiar grace.

With what nice art his master-hand he flung O'er each fine chord which thrills the polish'd breast, Let Faukland tell! with woes ideal stung; Let gentle Julia's generous flame attest![1]

Satire, that oft with castigation rude Degrades, while zealous to correct mankind, Refined by him, more generous aims pursued, Reform'd the vice--but left no sting behind.

Yet, though with Wit's imperishable bays Enwreath'd, he held an uncontested throne; Though circling climes, unanimous in praise, Confirm'd the partial suffrage of his own:

In careless mood he sought the Muse's bower; His lyre, like that to great Pelides strong, The soft'ning solace of a vacant boor, Its airy descant indolently rung.

But when, portentous 'mid the storms of war, Glared Public danger; when, with withering din, The spoil-flush'd foe strode furious from afar; And direr dread! Rebellion raged within:

Then SHERIDAN! dilating to the storm, Bright as the pharos, as the watch-tower strong, With all the patriot's inspiration warm, Thy genius pour'd its thundering voice along.

Who heard thee not, in that tremendous hour, When Britain mourn'd her surest anchor lost, And saw her alienated Navies lour, Like the charged tempest, round their parent coast?

With active zeal, which no cold medium knew, Nor party ruled, nor prejudice confined, But, to thy heart's spontaneous impulse true, Thou gay'st thy country ALL thy mighty mind.

What time Iberia, gash'd with many a scar, Braved the fierce Gaul, in fervour uncontroll'd, Though doubts and fears bedimm'd her struggling star, Its bright ascent thy prescient soul foretold.

Late, too, when France, with sophist cunning fraught, Essay'd that field which force had fail'd to gain, And proudly question'd, by success untaught, Britannia's lineal right--her watery reign!

While meaner foes denounced with equal hate Her flag, which wide in Freedom's cause unfurl'd, The saving sign of many a sinking state, Had chased Oppression from th' insulted world.--

Oh! that beyond the light diurnal page, Inscribed on high in monumental gold, That strain might kindle each succeeding age, Which thus thy generous indignation roll'd:

"If e'er, of ancient energy bereaved, Britannia, bent by menace or design, Should stain her naval sceptre, hard-achieved, And yield one claim, one cherish'd right resign:

"Then, hurl'd in ruin from her radiant sphere, Sunk her proud Isle in Ocean's depths profound; May all her glories pa.s.s from Memory's ear, An idle legend--a derided sound!"

Such were his merits whom the Muse deplores, The Wit, the Statesman, Orator, and Bard!

Nor when his frailties jealous truth explores, Shall Candour shrink from her supreme award?

If, all propitious, when his ardent prime Beat high with hope, in conscious powers elate, Ambition woo'd him from her height sublime, And partial Fortune op'd her golden gate;

What hostile influence, glooming o'er his way, Chill'd each fine impulse, each aspiring aim, Effused bleak clouds round Life's declining ray, And left his labours no reward but fame?

'Twas not alone that in the festive bower, Prompt in the social sympathies to melt, Too long he linger'd; that the genial hour His fervid sense too exquisitely felt.

But that in tasks of public duty proved, Onward with faith inflexible he trod; Alike by Fortune's dazzling lure unmoved, Or stern Necessity's relentless rod.

E'en Envy's self shall sanction that applause: And oft, slow pacing yon sepulchral gloom, With fond regret shall Meditation pause, And breathe these accents o'er his honour'd tomb:

Ye Muses! come, with ministry divine.

Protect the shrine where SHERIDAN is laid; Ye Patriot Virtues! here your homage join; a.s.sert his worth, and soothe his hovering shade.

Emblazon'd high in Albion's rolls of fame, A guiding star by which her sons may steer; This proud inscription let his memory claim-- Above himself, he held his Country dear!

[Footnote 1: Rivals.]

ON THE BEAUTIFUL PORTRAIT OF MRS. FOREMAN, AS PANDORA.

In the Somerset-house Exhibition, 1826.--Painted by J.P. Davis.

Oh! had'st thou, Jove! with adamantine locks Fix'd fast the springs of poor Pandora's box, Then had she, bright enchantment! bloom'd for ever In all the charms consenting G.o.ds could give her-- Wit, Wisdom, Beauty, she had every grace Which makes man play the madman for a face!

But chief, bless'd gift! for him ordain'd to ask it, The gem of gems, th' incomparable casket; And, lo! with trembling hands and ardent eyes The bridegroom claims it--and--behold the prize!

First, like a vapour o'er the heavens obscured, From that dark confine, rose the fiends immured, Then groan'd the earth, in fury swell'd the floods, Blasts smote the harvests, lightning fired the woods; Blue spotted Plague rode gibbering on the blast, And nations shriek'd, and perish'd, as he pa.s.s'd.

Amazed, indignant, Epimetheus stood, Vow'd dire revenge, and strung his nerves for blood.

It was not then, that from the coffer's lid Hope's roseate smile his fierce delirium chid; He saw, in that fair wife which heaven had sent But mighty Mischiefs mortal instrument, And swore not Hope, nor Mercy's self should save her, Look'd in her face, smiled, sigh'd, and then--forgave her!

SONNET

TO----,

ON HER RECOVERY FROM ILLNESS.

Fair flower! that fall'n beneath the angry blast, Which marks with wither'd sweets its fearful way, I grieve to see thee on the low earth cast, While beauty's trembling tints fade fast away.

But who is she, that from the mountain's head Comes gaily on, cheering the child of earth?

The walks of woe bloom bright beneath her tread, And Nature smiles with renovated mirth?

'Tis Health! She comes: and, hark! the vallies ring, And, hark! the echoing hills repeat the sound: She sheds the new-blown blossoms of the spring, And all their fragrance floats her footsteps round.

And, hark! she whispers in the zephyr's voice, Lift up thy head, fair floweret, and rejoice!

THE RUNAWAY.

Ah! who is he by Cynthia's gleam Discern'd, the statue of distress; Weeping beside the willow'd stream That laves the woodland wilderness?

Why talks he to the idle air?

Why, listless, at his length reclined, Heaves he the groan of deep despair, Responsive of the midnight wind?

Speak, gentle shepherd! tell me why?

--Sir! he has lost his wife, they say:-- Of what disorder did, she die?

--Lord, sir! of none--she ran away.

TO MARGARET JANE H----,

ON HER BIRTH-DAY, 17 JUNE.

Thou art indeed a lovely flower, And I, just like the fleeting hour, Which few will heed on folly's brink, So rarely deigns the world to think.