Poems (1828) by Thomas Gent
T >>
Thomas Gent >> Poems (1828)
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 | 4 |
5 |
6
Nor think, ye Fair! our Hornsey has denied
The elegant repasts where you preside:
Here, may the heart rejoice, expanding free
In all the social luxury of Tea!
Whose essence pure inspires such charming chat,
With nods, and winks, and whispers, and _all that_;
Here, then, while 'wrapt inspired, like Horace old,
We chant convivial hymns to Bacchus bold;
Or heave the incense of unconscious sighs,
To catch the grace that beams from beauty's eyes;
Or, in the winding wilds, sequester'd deep,
Th' unwilling Muse invoking, fall asleep;
Or cursing her, and her ungranted smiles,
Chase butterflies along the echoing aisles:
Howe'er employ'd, _here_ be the town forgot,
Where fogs, and smoke, and jostling crowds, _are not_.
TO MARY.
WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT.
Oh! is there not in infant smiles
A witching power, a cheering ray,
A charm, that every care beguiles,
And bids the weary soul be gay?
There surely is--for thou hast been,
Child of my heart, my peaceful dove,
Gladdening life's sad and chequer'd scene,
An emblem of the peace above.
Now all is calm, and dark, and still,
And bright the beam the moonlight throws
On ocean wave, and gentle rill,
And on thy slumbering cheek of rose.
And may no care disturb that breast,
Nor sorrow dim that brow serene;
And may thy latest years be bless'd
As thy sweet infancy has been.
BLACK EYES AND BLUE.
FROM THE ITALIAN.
Blue eyes and jet
Fell out one morn,
Azure cried in a pet,
"Away, dark scorn!--
"We are brilliant and blue
"As the waves of the sea--
"And as cold and untrue
"And as changeable ye.
"We are born of the sky,
"Of a summer night,
"When the first stars lie
"In a bed of blue light;
"From the cloudy zone
"Round the setting sun,
"Like an angel's throne,
"Are our glories won."
"Pretty ladies, hold,"
Cupid said to the eyes--
For beauties that scold
"Are seldom wise;
"'Tis not colour I seek
"Love's fires to impart--
"Give me eyes that can speak
"From the depths of the heart."
EPIGRAM.
AURI SACRA FAMES.
I knew a being once, his peaked head
With a few lank and greasy hairs was spread;
His visage blue, in length was like your own
Seen in the convex of a table-spoon.
His mouth, or rather gash athwart his face,
To stop at either ear had just the grace,
A hideous rift: his teeth were all canine,
And just like Death's (in Milton) was his grin.
One shilling, and one fourteen-penny leg,
(This shorter was than that, and not so big),
He had; and they, when meeting at his knees,
An angle formed of ninety-eight degrees.
Nature, in scheming how his back to vary,
A hint had taken from the dromedary:
His eyes an inward, screwing vision threw,
Striving each other through his nose to view.
His intellect was just one ray above
The idiot Cymon's ere he fell in love.
At school they Taraxippus[1] called the wight;
The Misses, when they met him, shriek'd with fright.
But, spite of all that Nature had denied,
When sudden Fortune made the cub her pride,
And gave him twenty thousand pounds a-year,
_Then_, from the pretty Misses you might hear,
"_His face was not the finest, and, indeed,
He was a little, they must own, in-kneed;
His shoulders, certainly, were rather high,
But, then, he had a most expressive eye;
Nor were their hearts by outward charms inclined:
Give them the higher beauties of the mind_!"
[Footnote 1: Greek: Taraxippus, a Grecian Deity; the god of the Hippodrome,
literally, in English, _horse-frightener_.]
SONNET.
TO FAITH.
Hail! holy FAITH, on life's wide ocean toss'd,
I see thee sit calm in thy beaten bark;
As NOAH sat, throned in his high-borne ark,
Secure and fearless while a world was lost!
In vain contending storms thy head enzone,
Thy bosom shrinks not from the bolt that falls:
The dreadful shaft plays harmless, nor appals
Thy stedfast eye, fix'd on Jehovah's throne!
E'en though thou saw'st the mighty fabric nod,
Of system'd worlds, thou hear'st a sacred charm,
Graved on thy heart, to shelter thee from harm.
And thus it speaks:--"Thou art my trust, O GOD!
And thou canst bid the jarring-powers be still,
Each ponderous orb, subservient to thy will!"
ON A SPIRITED PORTRAIT IN MY ALBUM,
Of a favorite Deer-hound, belonging to SIR WALTER SCOTT, by
my friend, EDWIN LANDSEER, Esq.
Who in this sketchey wonder does not trace
The fire, the spirit, and the living grace,
That mark the hand of genius and of taste?
Who does not recognize in such a head
Truth, vigilance, fidelity, inbred,
Sagacity that's human, and a waste
Of those high qualities, and virtues rare,
Which poor humanity has not to spare?
Then, faithful Hound! thy happy lot is cast
In pleasant places--and thy life has pass'd
In the dear service of a Master--whom
The world's concurrent voice has yielded now
The meed of highest praise--and on whose brow
Th' imperishable wreath of fame shall bloom;
Nor is this fate less happy than the rest,
That _he_ should paint thee, _who can paint thee best!_
SONNET.
TO HOPE.
How droops the wretch whom adverse fates pursue,
While sad experience, from his aching sight
Sweeps the fair prospects of unproved delight,
Which flattering friends and flattering fancies drew.
When want assails his solitary shed,
When dire distraction's horrent eye-ball glares,
Seen 'midst the myriad of tumultuous cares,
That shower their shafts on his devoted head.
Then, ere despair usurp his vanquish'd heart,
Is there a power, whose influence benign
Can bid his head in pillow'd peace recline,
And from his breast withdraw the barbed dart?
There is--sweet Hope! misfortune rests on thee--
Unswerving anchor of humanity!
LINES
WRITTEN ON THE SIXTH OF SEPTEMBER.
Ill-fated hour! oft as thy annual reign
Leads on th' autumnal tide, my pinion'd joys
Fade with the glories of the fading year;
"Remembrance wakes, with all her busy train,"
And bids affection heave the heart-drawn sigh
O'er the cold tomb, rich with the spoils of death,
And wet with many a tributary tear!
Eight times has each successive season sway'd
The fruitful sceptre of our milder clime
Since my loved----died! but why, ah! why
Should melancholy cloud my early years?
Religion spurns earth's visionary scene,
Philosophy revolts at misery's chain:
Just Heaven recall'd its own; the pilgrim call'd
From human woes: from sorrow's rankling worm--
Shall frailty then prevail?
Oh! be it mine
To curb the sigh which bursts o'er Heaven's decree;
To tread the path of rectitude--that when
Life's dying ray shall glimmer in the frame,
That latest breath I may in peace resign,
"Firm in the faith of seeing thee and God."
SONNET.
TO CHARITY.
O! best-beloved of Heaven, on earth bestow'd,
To raise the pilgrim sunk with ghastly fears,
To cool his burning wounds, to wipe his tears,
And strew with amaranths his thorny road.
Alas! how long has Superstition hurl'd
Thine altars down, thine attributes reviled,
The hearts of men with witchcrafts foul beguiled.
And spread his empire o'er the vassal world?
But truth returns! she spreads resistless day;
And mark, the monster's cloud-wrapt fabric falls--
He shrinks--he trembles 'mid his inmost halls,
And all his damn'd illusions melt away!
The charm dissolved--immortal, fair, and free,
Thy holy fanes shall rise, celestial Charity!
HYMN.
Sung by the Children of the City of London School of Instruction
and Industry.
CHORUS.
Sacred, and heart-deep be the sound
Which speaks the Great Redeemer's praise,
His mercies every where abound,
Let all their grateful voices raise.
BOYS.
The friendless child, to manhood grown,
Will ne'er forget your parent care;
You've made each youthful heart your own,
Oh! then accept our humble prayer.
GIRLS.
For ever be that bounty praised,
Which every comfort doth impart;
In tears of joy the song is raised
From minstrels of the glowing heart.
CHORUS.
Glory to Thee, all-bounteous Power!
In notes of thankfulness be given;
Sure solace in affliction's hour!
Our hope on Earth, our bliss in Heaven.
Hallelujah! Amen.
REFLECTIONS OF A POET,
ON GOING TO A GREAT DINNER.
Great epoch in the history of bards!
Important day to those who woo the nine;
Better than fame are visitation-cards,
And heaven on earth at a great house to dine.
O cruel memory! do not conjure up
The ghost of Sally Dab, the famous cook;
Who gave me solid food, the cheering cup,
And on her virtues begg'd I'd write a book.
For her dear sake I braved the letter'd fates,
And all her loose thoughts in one volume cramm'd;
"The Accomplish'd Cook, in verse, with twenty plates:"
Which (O! ungrateful deed!) the critics d----d.
D--n them, I say, the tasteless envious elves;
Malicious fancy makes them so expert,
They write 'bout dinners, who ne'er dine themselves,
And boast of linen, who ne'er had a shirt.
Rest, goddess, from all broils! I bless thy name,
Dear kitchen-nymph, as ever eyes did glut on!
I'd give thee all I have, my slice of fame,
If thou, fat shade! could'st give one slice of mutton.
Yet hold--ten minutes more, and I am bless'd;
Fly quick, ye seconds; quick, ye moments, fly:
Soon shall I put my hunger to the test,
And all the host of miseries defy.
Thrice is he arm'd, who hath his dinner first,
For well-fed valour always fights the best;
And though he may of over-eating burst,
His life is happy, and his death is just.
To-day I dine--not on my usual fare;
Not near the sacred mount with skinny nine;
Not in the park upon a dish of air:
But on true eatables, and rosy wine.
Delightful task! to cram the hungry maw,
To teach the empty stomach how to fill,
To pour red port adown the parched craw;
Without that dread dessert--to pay the bill.
I'm off--methinks I smell the long-lost savour;
Hail, platter-sound! to poet music sweet:
Now grant me, Jove, if not too great a favour,
Once in my life as much as I can eat!
SUNDAY.
Come, thou blessed day of rest!
Soother of the tortured breast,
Wearied souls release from toil,
Life's eternal sad turmoil;
How I love thy tuneful bells
Which a welcome story tells!
Bids the wanderer rest and pray
On this peaceful holy-day.
All creation seems to pause--
Man, uncatechized by laws,
Looks to God with grateful eyes,
In such blessed sympathies,
All his rebel nature dies!
See the monster crime hath made,
Resting from his restless trade,
Unfit to live, afraid to die,
Hear his deep unconscious sigh,
See his former horrid mien,
Changed to the bright, serene,
View him on his BIBLE rest,
Care no longer gnaws his breast;
Heaven, in mercy, let him live,
Religion, such the peace you give!
A NIGHT-STORM.
Let this rough fragment lend its mossy seat;
Let Contemplation hail this lone retreat:
Come, meek-eyed goddess, through the midnight gloom,
Born of the silent awe which robes the tomb!
This gothic front, this antiquated pile,
The bleak wind howling through each mazy aisle;
Its high gray towers, faint peeping through the shade,
Shall hail thy presence, consecrated maid!
Whether beneath some vaulted abbey's dome,
Where ev'ry footstep sounds in every tomb;
Where Superstition, from the marble stone,
Gives every sound, a pilgrim-spirit's groan:
Pensive thou readest by the moon's full glare
The sculptured children of Affection's tear;
Or in the church-yard lone thou sitt'st to weep
O'er some sad wreck, beneath the tufty heap--
Perchance some victim to Seduction's spell,
Who yielded, wept, and then neglected fell!
But hither come, on yon swoln arch to gaze,
And view the vivid flash eruptive blare;
Light those high walls with transitory gleam,
Illume the air, and sparkle in the stream.
Ah! look, where yonder tempest-shaken cloud,
Awful and black as the chaosian shroud,
Breaks, like the waves which lash the sandy shore,
And speaks its mission in a feeble row.
Thus Meditation hears: "Aspiring height!
Of old, the splendid mansions of the great;
Thy fate (tremendous) lours upon the blast,
And waits to write on thy remains:--'tis past!
Oft have the genii of the hoary blade
Around thy walls their hell-born demons led;
Yet hast thou triumph'd o'er each monster's car,
And braved the ills of pestilential war:
Oft hast thou seen the circling seasons roll
In fond succession round thy native pole;
Defied the hoary matron of the ring,
And seen her sicken in the lap of Spring.
But, ah! no more thy time-clad head shall rise
To dare the tempest, while it shakes the skies;
Nor one small wreck invade the fair concave,
Nor shout above its crumbling basis, Save!
When rising zephyr from thy ruin brings
A world of atoms on its fairy wings."
Din horrible! as though the rebel train
Had sprung from chaos, fought, and fall'n again,
Raves the high bolt: how yon old structure fell;
How every cranny trembled with the yell
Of frighted owls, whose secret haunts forlorn
Were from their kindred vaults and windings torn;
Of bold Antiquity's rough pencil born.
Thrice Fancy leads the dismal echo round,
And paints the spectre gliding o'er the ground.
From ev'ry turret, ev'ry vanquish'd tower,
In heaps confused the broken fragments pour;
And, as they plunge toward the pebbly grave,
Like wizard wand, draw circles in the wave.
Meand'ring stream! thy liquid jaws extend,
Anoint with Lethe now thy fallen friend.
Again the heralds of the thunder fly,
In forky squadrons, from the trembling sky!
Again the thunder its harsh menace swells,
And light-wing'd echoes hail the humbled cells!
Weep, weep, ye clouds! with heav'n-bespangled tears;
And, ah! if pity rules your sacred spheres,
Invoke the thunder to withstay its rage,
Disarm its fury, and its wrath assuage.
But now, Aurora, from the Ocean's verge,
Trims her gray lamp, to light the mournful dirge.
She comes, to light the ruinated heap:
But lights, to wake the pensive soul to weep!
ON THE DEATH OF NELSON.
Swift through the land while Fame transported flies,
And shouts triumphant shake th' illumined skies;
Britannia, bending o'er her dauntless prows,
With laurels thickening round her blazon'd brows,
In joy dejected, sees her triumph cross'd,
Exults in Victory won, but mourns the Victor lost.
Immortal NELSON! still with fond amaze
Thy glorious deed each British eye surveys,
Beholds thee still, on conquer'd floods afar:
Fate's flaming shaft! the thunderbolt of war!
Hurl'd from thy hands, Britannia's vengeance roars,
And bloody billows stain the hostile shores:
Thy sacred ire Confed'rate Kingdoms braves,
And 'whelms their Navies in Sepulchral waves!
--Graced with each attribute which Heaven supplies
To Godlike Chiefs: humane, intrepid, wise:
His Nation's Bulwark, and all Nature's pride,
The Hero lived, and as he lived--he died:
Transcendant destiny! how bless'd the brave,
Whose fall his Country's tears attend, shower'd on his trophied grave!
THE BLUE-EYED MAID.
Sweet are the hours when roseate spring
With health and joy salutes the day.
When zephyr, borne on wanton wing,
Soft whispering, wakes the blushing May.
Sweet are the hours, yet not so sweet
As when my blue-eyed Maid I meet,
And hear her soul-entrancing tale,
Sequester'd in the shadowy vale.
The mellow horn's long-echoing notes
Startle the morn, commingling strong;
At eve, the harp's wild music floats.
And ravish'd Silence drinks the song.
Yet sweeter is the song of love,
When EMMA'S voice enchants the grove,
While listening sylphs repeat the tale,
Sequester'd in the silent vale.
TAKING ORDERS.
A TALE, FOUNDED ON FACT.
A parson once--and poorer he
Than ever parson ought to be;
Yet not so proud as _some_ from College,
Who fancy they alone have knowledge;
Who only learn to dress and drink,
And, strange to say, still seem to think
That no real talent's to be found
Except within their classic ground;
Yet prove that Cam's nor Oxon's plains
Can't furnish empty skulls with brains.
But for my tale--Our churchman came,
And, in religion's honour'd name,
Sought Cam's delightful classic borders,
To be prefer'd to Holy Orders.
Chance led him to the Trav'llers' Inn,
Where living's cheap, and often whim
Enlivens many a weary soul,
And helps, in the o'erflowing bowl,
In spite of fogs, and threatening weather,
To drown both grief and gloom together:--
(Oh, Wit! thou'rt like a little blue,
Soft cloud, in summer breaking through
A frowning one, and lighting it
Till darkness fadeth bit by bit;
And Whim to thee is near allied,
And follows closely at thy side;
So oft, oh, Wit! I'm told that she
By some folks is mista'en for thee;
Yet I may say unto my eyes,
Just whereabouts the difference lies;
One's diamond quite, and, to my taste,
The other is but _Dovey's Paste.)_--
He there a ready welcome found
From one who travell'd England round:
"Sir, your obedient--quite alone?
I'm truly happy you are come:
Pray, sir, be seated;--business dull;--
Or else this room had now been full;
Orders and cash are strangers here,
And every thing looks dev'lish queer;
Bad times these, sir, sad lack of wealth;
Must hope for better;--Sir, your health!"
Then added, with inquiring face,
"_Come to take Orders in this place_?"
"Yes, sir, I am," replied the priest:
"With that intent I came at least."
"Ha! ha! I knew it very well;
We business-men can others tell:
Often before I've seen your face,
Though memory can't recal the place--
Ah! now I have it; head of mine!
_You travel in the button line_?"
"Begging your pardon, sir, I fear
Some error has arisen here;
You have mista'en my trade divine,
But, sir, the worldly loss is mine--
_I travel in a much worse line_."
THE GIPSY'S HOME.
A GLEE.
Sung by Messrs. PYNE, NELSON, Miss WITHAM, and Master
LONGHURST.--Composed by Mr. ROOKE.
We, who the wide world make our home;
The barren heath our cheerful bed;
Careless o'er mount and moor we roam,
And never tears of sorrow shed.
But merrily, O! Merrily, O!
Through this world of care we go.
Love, that a palace left in tears,
Flew to our houseless feast of mirth:
For here, unfetter'd, beauty cheers,
The heaven alone that's found on earth!
Then merrily, O! Merrily, O!
Through this world of care we go.
SONNET.
THE BEGGAR.
Of late I saw him on his staff reclined,
Bow'd down beneath a weary weight of woes,
Without a roof to shelter from the wind
His head, all hoar with many a winter's snows.
All trembling he approach'd, he strove to speak;
The voice of misery scarce my ear assail'd;
A flood of sorrow swept his furrow'd cheek,
Remembrance check'd him, and his utt'rance fail'd.
For he had known full many a better day;
And when the poor man at his threshold bent,
He drove him not with aching heart away,
But freely shared what Providence had sent.
How hard for him, the stranger's boon to crave,
And live to want the mite his bounty gave!
TO ------.
Come, JENNY, let me sip the dew
That on those coral lips doth play,
One kiss would every care subdue,
And bid my weary soul be gay.
For surely thou wert form'd by love
To bless the suff'rer's parting sigh;
In pity then my griefs remove,
And on that bosom let me die!
SONG.
THE RECAL OF THE HERO.
When Discord blew her fell alarm
On Gallia's blood-stain'd ground,
When Usurpation's giant arm
Enslaved the nations round:
The thunders of avenging Heaven
To NELSON'S chosen hand were given!
By NELSON'S chosen hand were hurl'd,
To rescue the devoted world!
The tyrant power, his vengeance dread
To Egypt's shores pursued;
At Trafalgar its hydra-head
For ever sunk subdued.
The freedom of mankind was won!
The hero's glorious task was done!
When Heaven, Oppression's ensigns furl'd,
Recall'd him from the rescued world.
TO ELIZA.
WRITTEN IN HER ALBUM.
I dare not spoil this spotless page
With any feeble verse of mine;
The Poet's fire has lost its rage,
Around his lyre no myrtles twine.
The voice of fame cannot recal
Those fairy days of past delight,
When pleasure seem'd to welcome all,
And morning hail'd a welcome night.
E'en love has lost its soothing power,
Its spells no more can chain my soul;
I must not venture in the bower,
Where Wit and Verse and Wine controul.
And yet, I fear, in thoughtless mirth
I once did say, Eliza, dear!
That I would tell the world thy worth,
And write the living record here.
Come Love, and Truth, and Friendship, come,
Enwreath'd in Virtue's snowy arms,
With magic rhymes the page illume,
And fancy sketch her varied charms--
Which o'er the cares of home has thrown
A thousand blessings, deep engraved,
For every heart she makes her own,
And every friend is free-enslaved.
No Inspiration o'er my pen
Glows with the lightning's vivid spell;
My soul is sad--forgive me then,
My heart's too full the tale to tell!
Yet, if the humblest poet's theme
Be welcome in Eliza's name;
Then, angel, give the cheering gleam,
For thy approving smile is fame!
ELEGY
On THE DEATH OF
ABRAHAM GOLDSMID, ESQ.
When stern Misfortune, monitress severe!
Dissolves Prosperity's enchanting dreams,
And, chased from Man's probationary sphere,
Fair Hope withdraws her vivifying beams.
If then, untaught to bend at Heaven's high will,
The desp'rate mortal dares the dread unknown,
To future fate appeals from present ill,
And stands, uncall'd, before th' Eternal throne!
Shall justice there _immutably_ decide?
Dread thought! which Reason trembles to explore,
She feels, be mercy granted or denied,
'Tis her's in dumb submission to adore.
Yet, could the self-doom'd victim be forgiven
His final error, for his merits past;
Could virtuous life, propitiating Heaven
With former deeds, extenuate the last:
Then GOLDSMID! Mercy, to thy humble shrine,
Angel of heaven beloved, should wing her flight,
Should in her bosom bid thy head recline,
And waft thee onward to the realms of light.
And, oh! could human intercession plead,
Breathed ardent to'ards that undiscover'd shore,
What hearts unnumber'd for thy fate that bleed,
Would warm oblations for thy pardon pour.
Misfortune's various tribes thy worth should tell,
Whose acts to no peculiar sect confined;
Impartial, with expansive bounty fell,
Like heaven's refreshing dews on all mankind.
Where stern Disease his rankling arrows sped,
While Want, with hard inexorable band,
Strew'd keener thorns on Pain's afflictive bed,
And urged the flight of life's diminish'd sand.
By hostile stars oppress'd, where Talent toil'd,
Encountering fate with perseverance vain;
The Merchant's hopes, when War's dire arm despoil'd,
Or tempests 'whelm'd in the remorseless main.
GOLDSMID! thy hand benign assuagement spread,
Sustain'd pale sickness, drooping o'er the tomb;
Raised modest Merit from his lowly shed,
And gave Misfortune's blasted hopes to bloom.
Yet wealth, too oft perverted from its end,
Suspends the noblest functions of the soul;
Where, chill'd as Apathy's cold frosts, extends,
Compassion's sacred stream forgets to roll.
And oft, where seeming Pity moves the mind,
From self's mean source the liberal current flows;
While Ostentation, insolently kind,
Wounds while he soothes, insults while he bestows.
But thy free bounty, undebased by pride,
Prompt to anticipate the meek request,
Unask'd the wants of modest Worth supplied,
And spared the pang that shook the suppliant's breast.
Yet say! on Fortune's orb, which o'er thy head
Blazed forth erewhile pre-eminently bright,
When dark Adversity her eclipse spread,
And veil'd its splendours in petrific night!
Did those, thy benefits had placed on high,
Who revell'd still in wealth's meridian ray;
Did those impatient to thy succour fly,
Anxious the debt of gratitude to pay?
Or, thy fall'n fortunes coldly whispering round,
Scowl'd they aloof in that disastrous hour?
On keen Misfortune's agonizing wound
Did foul Ingratitude her poisons pour?
If thy distress such aggravation knew,
Thy first reverse could such perdition wait;
Well might Despair thy generous heart subdue,
And Desperation close the scene of fate.
Yet while Distraction urged her purpose dire,
Rose not, at Nature's interposed command,
The sacred claims of Brother, Husband, Sire,
To win the weapon from thy lifted hand?
Ah, yes! and ere that agony was o'er,
Ere yet thy soul its last resolve embraced,
What pangs could equal those thy breast that tore,
Thy breast with Nature's tenderest feelings graced?
Those only which, at thy accomplish'd fate,
That home display'd, thy smiles were wont to bless;
That dreadful scene what language can relate,
What words describe that exquisite distress.
The Muse recedes--in Grief's domestic scene
Th' intrusive gaze prophanes the tears that flow:
Drop, Pity! there thy hallowed veil between;
Guard, Silence! there the sacredness of woe.
Nor let the sectarist, whose faith austere
Pretends alone to point th' eternal road;
Proud of his creed, pronounce with voice severe,
All else excluded from the blest abode.
If error thine, not GOLDSMID! thine the fault,
Since first thy infant years instruction drew;
From youth's gradations up to manhood taught
That faith to reverence which thy fathers knew.
In Retribution's last tremendous hour,
When its pale captives, long in dust declined,
The grave shall yield, and time shall death devour,
When He who saved, shall come to judge mankind.
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 | 4 |
5 |
6