Poems (1828) by Thomas Gent Part 7

Yet, ere I go, child of my heart-- One faithful offering I'll impart To thee--thy parents' sole delight: To me--an angel, pure as light.

Sent on this earth to cheer and bless, Like sunbeam in a wilderness, With fascination's form and face, And all the charms that please and grace.

A guileless heart, a lovely mind, A temper ardent, yet refined, And in the early dawn of youth, Taught to love honour, faith, and truth.

Ah! these--when all the transient joys Of idle life, when all its toys Shall fade like mist before the sun, Yet, ere thy little day is done, Shall give that calm, that true delight, Which gilds the darkling hues of night, The sunset of a well spent day, A glorious immortality!

ON READING THE POEM OF "PARIS."

BY THE REV GEORGE CROLY, A.M.

Author of "The Angel of the World," "Sebastian," &c.

By the trim taper, and the blazing hearth, (While loud without the blast of winter sung), Now thrill'd with awe, and now relax'd with mirth, Paris, I've roam'd thy varied haunts among, Loitering where Fashion's insect myriads spread Their painted wings, and sport their little day; Anon, by beckoning recollection led To the dark shadow of the stern ABBAYE, Pale Fancy heard the petrifying shriek Of midnight Murder from its turrets bleak, And to her horrent eye came pa.s.sing on Phantoms of those dark times, elapsed and gone, When Rapine yell'd o'er his defenceless prey, As unchain'd Anarchy her tocsin rung, And France! in dust and blood thy throne and altars lay!

Oh! thou, thus skill'd with absolute controul, Where'er thou wilt to lead th' admiring soul, Gifted alike with Fancy's train to sport, And tread light measures in her elfin court; Or pierce the height where Grandeur sits alone, Girt by the tempest, on his mountain throne: Whate'er the theme which wakes thy vocal sh.e.l.l, Well-pleased I follow where its concords swell; In regal halls, where pleasure wings the night With pomp and music, revelry and light, Or where, unwept by Love's deploring eyes, In the lone Morgue, the self-doom'd victim lies-- Then, midst the twilight of yon Chapel dim, To mark Religion's reverend Martyr, him Who kneels entranced in agony of prayer, His fellow victims torpid with despair, Thrill'd by his piercing tones, his beaming eye Glows, as he glows, nor longer dread to die!

Now, borne to Belgium's plain on bolder wings, Where England's warriors fix'd the fate of Kings: At once the Patriot and the Poet glows, And full the mingling inspiration flows:-- Resume the lyre: not thine in myrtle bowers To trifle light with Life's uncounted hours-- To crown thy toils, propitious Fame from far Entwines her n.o.blest wreath, illumes her loftiest star!

WRITTEN ON THE DEATH OF

GENERAL SIR RALPH ABERCROMBIE.

Mute Memory stands at Valour's awful shrine, In tears Britannia mourns her hero dead; A world's regret, brave ABERCROMBIE's thine, For nature sorrow'd as thy spirit fled!

For, not the tear that matchless courage claims, To honest zeal, and soft compa.s.sion due, Alone is thine--o'er thy adored remains Each virtue weeps, for all once lived in you.

Yes, on thy deeds exulting I could dwell, To speak the merits of thy honour'd name; But, ah! what need my humble muse to tell, When Rapture's self has echoed forth thy fame?

Yet, still thy name its energies shall deal, When wild storms gather round thy country's sun; Her glowing youth shall grasp the gleamy steel, Rank'd round the glorious wreaths which thou hast won!

WRITTEN IN THE ALb.u.m OF I---- H---- P----, ESQ.

Dear P----, while Painters, Poets, Sages, Inscribe this volume's votive pages With partial friendship: why invite The tribute of a luckless wight Unknown--by wisdom or by wit Indulged with no certificate?

Perchance, as in a diadem Glittering with many a radiant gem, Some mean metallic foil is placed Judicious, by the hand of taste; You seek, amidst the sons of fame, To set an undistinguish'd name?

If so--that name is freely lent, A pebble to your gems--T. GENT.

RETALIATION.

Love, Cupid, Gallantry, whate'er We call that elf, seen every where, Half frolicsome, half _ennuyeuse_, Had chanced a country walk to choose; When sudden, sweet and bright as May, Young Beauty tripp'd across his way.--

"Upon my word," exclaims the boy, "A lucky hit! this pretty toy To pa.s.s an hour, with vapours haunted, Is quite the thing I wish'd and wanted; I do not so far condescend As serious mischief to intend, But just to show my powers of pleasing In flattery, _badinage_, and teasing; But should she, for young girls, poor things!

Are tender as yon insect's wings-- Should she mistake me, and grow fond, Why, I'll grow serious--and abscond."

First, not abruptly to confound her, With glance and smile he hovers round her: Next, like a Bond-street or Pall-mall beau, Begins to press her gentle elbow; Then plays at once, familiar walking, His whole artillery of talking:-- Like a young fawn the blushing maid Trips on, half pleased and half afraid-- And while she palpitates and listens, Still fluttering where the sunbeam glistens, He shows her all his pretty things, His bow and quiver, dart, and wings; Now, proud in power, he sees her eyes Dilate with beautiful surprise; But most, though fraught with perturbation.

His weapons claim her admiration, And with an archness most bewitching (Her naive simplicity enriching), She wonders where a maid might buy than, And begs to be allow'd to try them.

With secret scorn, but smiling bland, He yields them to her curious hand, When, instant, tw.a.n.g! the arrow flew, So just her aim, it pierced him through, Right through his heart, the luckless lad!

(A heart, to do him right, he had); All p.r.o.ne he lies, in throbbing anguish, Through many an hour to pine and languish, And what made all his pangs more bitter, Off flew the damsel in a t.i.tter.

Prudence, conceal'd behind a tree, Cries out, "you've always laughed at me-- Henceforth you'll recollect, young sir!

'Tis not so safe to laugh at her."

LINES

WRITTEN IN A COPY OF THE POEM ON PRINCESS CHARLOTTE.

Presented to Mrs. D---- T----.

Madam! when sorrowing o'er the virtuous dead, The gentlest solace of the tears we shed, Is, to surviving excellence to turn, And honour there those merits that we mourn.

The Muse, whose hand fair Brunswick's ashes strew With votive flowers, would weave a wreath for You; But living worth forbids th' applausive lay.

Therefore, repressing all respect, would say, She proffers silently her simple strain; If you approve--she has not toil'd in vain!

SONNET.

When the rough storm roars round the peasant's cot, And bursting thunders roll their awful din; While shrieks the frighted night-bird o'er the spot, Oh! what serenity remains within!

For there contentment, health, and peace, abide, And pillow'd age, with calm eye fix'd above; Labour's bold son, his blithe and blooming bride, And lisping innocence, and filial love.

To such a scene let proud Ambition turn, Whose aching breast conceals its secret woe; Then shall his fireful spirit melt, and mourn The mild enjoyments it can never know; Then shall he feel the littleness of state, And sigh that fortune e'er had made him great.

TO ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ.

ON READING HIS

"REMAINS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE."

Southey! high placed on the contested throne Of modern verse, a Muse, herself unknown, Sues that her tears may consecrate the strains Pour'd o'er the urn enrich'd with WHITE'S Remains!

While touch'd to transport, Taste's responding tone Makes the rapt poet's ecstasies thine own; Ah! think that he, whose hand supremely skill'd, The heart's fine chords with deep vibration thrill'd, In stagnant silence and petrific gloom, Unconscious sleeps, the tenant of the tomb!

Extinct that spirit, whose strong-bidding drew From Fancy's confines Wonder's wild-eyed crew, Which bade Despair's terrific phantoms pa.s.s Like Macbeth's monarchs in the mystic gla.s.s.

Before the youthful bard's impa.s.sion'd eye, Like him, led on, to triumph and to die; Like him, by mighty magic compa.s.s'd round, And seeking sceptres on enchanted ground.

Such spells invest, such blear illusion waits The trav'ller bound for Fame's receding gates, Delusive splendours gild the proud abode, But lurking demons haunt th' alluring road; There gaunt-eyed Want a.s.serts her iron reign, There, as in vengeance of the world's disdain, This half-flesh'd hag midst Wit's bright blossoms stalks, And, breathing winter, withers where she walks; Though there, long outlaw'd, desp'rate with disgrace, Invidious Dulness wields the critic mace, And sworn in hate, exerts his ruffian might Where'er young genius meditates his flight.

Erewhile, when WHITE, by this fell fiend oppress'd, Felt Hope's fine fervours languish in his breast, When shrunk with scorn, and trembling to aspire, He dropp'd desponding his insulted lyre.