Poetic Sketches by Thomas Gent
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Thomas Gent >> Poetic Sketches
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.
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, dear shade! could'st give one slice of mutton.
Yet hold--ten minutes more, and I am blest;
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 valor always fights the best;
And tho' he may of over-eating burst,
His life is happy, and his death is blest.
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 real 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 one dread dessert--to pay the bill.
I'm off--methinks I smell the long-lost savor;
Hail, platter sound! to poet, music sweet:
Now grant me, Jove, if not too great a favor,
Once in my life, as much as I can eat!
_SONNET_.
ON SEEING A YOUNG LADY,
I HAD PREVIOUSLY KNOWN, CONFINED IN A MADHOUSE.
Sweet wreck of loveliness! alas, how soon
The sad brief summer of thy joys hath fled;
How sorrow's friendship for thy hapless doom,
Thy beauty faded, and thy hopes all dead.
Oh! 'twas that beauty's pow'r which first destroy'd
Thy mind's serenity; its charms but led
The faithless friend, that thy pure love enjoy'd,
To tear the blooming blossom from its bed.
How reason shudders at thy frenzied air!
To see thee smile, with fancy's dreams possess'd;
Or shrink, the frozen image of despair,
Or love-enraptur'd, chaunt thy griefs to rest,
Oh! cease that mournful voice, poor suff'ring child!
My heart but bleeds to hear thy musings wild.
TO THADDEUS.[*]
Farewel! lov'd youth, for still I hold thee dear,
Though thou hast left me friendless and alone;
Still, still thy name recalls the heartfelt tear,
That hastes Matilda to her wish'd-for home.
Why leave the wretch thy perfidy hath made.
To journey cheerless through the world's wide waste?
Say, why so soon does all thy kindness fade.
And doom me, thus, affliction's cup to taste?
Ungen'rous deed! to fly the faithful maid
Who, for thy arms, abandoned every friend;
Oh! cruel thought, that virtue, thus betray'd,
Should feel a pang that death alone can end.
Yet, I'll not chide thee--and when hence you roam,
Should my sad fate one tear of pity move,
Ah! then return; this bosom's still thy home,
And all thy failings I'll repay with love.
Believe me, dear, at midnight or at morn,
In vain exhausted nature strives to rest,
Thy absence plants my pillow with a thorn,
And bids me hope no more, on earth, for rest.
But, if unkindly you refuse to hear,
And from despair thy poor Matilda save;
Ah! don't deny one tributary tear,
To glisten sweetly o'er my early grave.
MATILDA.
[Footnote *: The above lines were written at the request
of a Lady, and meant to describe the feelings of one,
"who loved not wisely, but too well."]
_SONNET_.
TO A LYRE.
Friend of the lonely hour, from thy lov'd strain
The magic pow'r of pleasure have I known:
Awhile I lose remembrance of my pain,
And seem to taste of joys that long had flown.
When o'er my suffering soul reflection casts
The gloom of sorrow's sable-shadowing veil,
Recalling sad misfortunes chilling blasts--
How sweet to thee to tell the mournful tale!
And tho' denied to me the strings to move
Like heavenly-gifted bards, to whom belong
The power to melt the yielding soul to love,
Or wake to war, with energetic song.
Yet thou, my Lyre, canst cheer the gloomy hour,
When sullen grief asserts her tyrant pow'r.
ADDRESS TO ALBION.
To thee, O Albion! be the tribute paid
Which sympathy demands, the patriot tear;
While echo'd forth to thy remotest shade,
Rebellion's menace sounds in every ear.
Though Gallia's vaunts should fill the trembling skies,
'Till nature's undiscover'd regions start
At the rude clamor;--yet, shouldst thou despise,
While thy brave subjects own a common heart.
But lo! fresh streaming from the Hibernian[*] height
Her own red torrent wild-eyed faction pours;
While, 'mid her falling ranks, ignobly great,
Loud vengeance raves, and desperation scours.
Denouncing murderous strife, the rebel train
Wave their red ensigns of inhuman hate
O'er every hamlet, every peaceful plain;
Rejecting reason, and despising fate.
Oh! that again our raptur'd eyes could see
Their ripening crops bloom yellow o'er the land;
Their happy shepherds, like their pasture, free--
No more a factious race, a ruffian band.
That albion, once again with concord blest,
May still support that great, that glorious name,
Which ardent glows in every patriot's breast,
And crowns her hoary cliffs with matchless fame.
Then, then, might foreign foes, around our shores,
Pour the big tempest of their arms in vain;
Then, might they learn that freedom still is ours,
That Britons still control the subject main.
Oh! all ye kindred pow'rs, awake, arise!
On boundless glory's giant pinions soar;
Let Gallia tremble! while the sounding skies
Proclaim us free--'till time shall be no more!
[Footnote*: This piece was written when Ireland was
in a most distracted state.]
_SONNET_.
ON THE DEATH OF
TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE.
His weary warfare done, his woes forgot,
Freedom! thy son, oppress'd so long, is free:
He seeks the realms where tyranny is not,
And those shall hail him who have died for thee!
Immortal TELL! receive a soul like thine,
Who scorn'd obedience to usurp'd command:
Who rose a giant from a sphere indign,
To tear the rod from proud oppression's hand.
Alas! no victor-wreaths enzon'd his brow,
But freedom long his hapless fate shall mourn;
Her holy tears shall nurse the laurel bough,
Whose green leaves grace his consecrated urn.
Nurs'd by these tears, that bough shall rise sublime,
And bloom triumphant 'mid the wrecks of time!
EPITAPH
ON MATILDA.
SACRED to pity! is uprais'd this stone,
The humble tribute of a friend unknown;
To grant the beauteous wreck its hallow'd claim,
And add to misery's scroll another name.
Poor, lost Matilda! now in silence laid
Within the early grave thy sorrows made,
Sleep on!--his heart still holds thy image dear,
Who view'd, thro' life, thy errors with a tear;
Who ne'er, with stoic apathy, repress'd
The heart-felt sigh for loveliness distress'd.
That sigh for thee shall ne'er forget to heave;
'Tis all he now can give, or thou receive.
When last I saw thee in thy envied bloom,
That promis'd health and joy for years to come,
Methought the lily, nature proudly gave,
Would never wither in th'untimely grave.
Ah, sad reverse! too soon the fated hour
Saw the dire tempest 'whelm th'expanding flow'r?
Then from thy tongue its music ceas'd to flow;
Thine eye forgot to gleam with aught but woe;
Peace fled thy breast; invincible despair
Usurp'd her seat, and struck his daggers there.
Did not the unpitying world thy sorrows fly?
And ah, what then was left thee--but to die!
Yet not a friend beheld thy parting breath,
Or mingled solace with the pangs of death:
No priest proclaim'd the erring hour forgiv'n,
Or sooth'd thy spirit to its native heav'n:
But Heaven, more bounteous, bade the pilgrim come,
And hovering angels hail'd their sister home.
I, where the marble swells not, to rehearse
Thy hapless fate; inscribe my simple verse.
Thy tale, dear shade, my heart essays to tell;
Accept its offering, while it heaves--farewel!
_SONNET_.
TO PEACE.
Come long-lost blessing! heaven-lov'd seraph, haste,
On pity's wings upborne, a world's wide woes
Invoke thy smiles extatic, long effac'd,
Beneath the tear which all corrosive flows;
While reason shudders, let ambition weep,
When wounding truth records what it has done:
Records the hosts consign'd to death's cold sleep,
Conspicuous 'mid the pomp of conflicts won!
Shall not the fiend relent, while groaning age
Pours its deep sorrows o'er its offspring slain;
While sire-robb'd infants mourn the deathful rage,
In many a penury enfeebled strain?
Sweet maid, return! behold affliction's tear,
And in my theme accept a nation's prayer.
LOVE.
Love! what is love? a mere machine, a spring
For freaks fantastic, a convenient thing,
A point to which each scribbling wight must steer,
Or vainly hope for food or favor here,
A summer's sigh, a winter's wistful tale,
A sound at which th'untutor'd maid turns pale,
Her soft eyes languish and her bosom heaves,
And hope delights as fancy's dream deceives.
Thus speaks the heart, which cold disgust invades,
When time instructs and hope's enchantment fades;
Through life's wide stage, from sages down to kings,
The puppets move, as art directs the strings;
Imperious beauty bows to sordid gold,
Her smiles, whence heaven flows emanent, are sold;
And affectation swells the entrancing tones,
Which nature subjugates, and truth disowns.
I love th'ingenuous maiden, practis'd not
To pierce the heart with ambush'd glances, shot
From eyelashes, whose shadowy length she knows
To a hair's point, their high arch when to close
Half o'er the swimming orb, and when to raise,
Disclosing all the artificial blaze
Of unfelt passion, which alone can move
Him, whom the genuine eloquence of love
Affected never, won with wanton wiles,
With soulless sighs and meretricious smiles,
By nature unimpress'd, uncharm'd by thee.
Sweet goddess of my heart, Simplicity!
_SONNET_.
IN THE MANNER OF THE MODERNS.
Meek Maid! that sitting on yon lofty tower,
View'st the calm floods that wildly beat below,
Be off!--yon sunbeam veils a heavy shower,
Which sets my heart with joy a aching, oh!
For why, O maid, with locks of jetty flax,
Should grief convulse my heart with joyful knocks?
It is but reasonable you should ax,
Because it soundeth like a paradox.
Hear, then, bright virgin! if the rain comes down,
'Twill wet the roads, and spoil my morning ride;
But it will also spoil thy bran-new gown,
And therefore cure thee of thy cursed pride.
Moral--this sonnet, if well understood,
Shows the same thing may bring both harm and good.
LINES,
DELIVERED AFTER THE REPRESENTATION OF A PLAY AT
A YOUNG LADIES' BOARDING SCHOOL.
When first the infant bird attempts to fly,
And cautious spreads its pinions to the sky,
Each happy breeze the timid trav'ller cheers,
Assists its efforts, and allays its fears;
Return'd--how pleas'd it views the shelt'ring nest
From which it rose, with doubt and fear oppress'd.
Like this, is ours; this night we ventur'd out
On juv'nile wing, appall'd by many a doubt,
Cheer'd by your sanction, every peril o'er,
With joy we hail this welcome, friendly shore:
Our little band, ambitious now to raise
A pleasing off'ring for your wreath of praise
On them bestow'd, depute me here to tell
The lively feelings that their bosoms swell;
For your indulgent and parental part,
They feel the triumph of a grateful heart:
That, each revolving year shall truly prove,
How much they honor, how sincere they love;
And for your fostering care will make return
By filial duty, and desire to learn.
ON THE DEATH OF
GENERAL SIR RALPH ABERCROMBIE.
Mute, memory stands, at valor'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 compassion due,
Alone is thine--o'er thy ador'd remains
Each virtue weeps, for all once liv'd in you.
Yes, on thy deeds exulting I could dwell,
To speak the merits of thy honor'd name;
But, ah! what need my humble muse to tell,
When rapture's self has echo'd 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!
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 for 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!
_SONNET_.
TO MELANCHOLY.
To thy unhappy courts a lonely guest
I come, corroding Melancholy, where,
Sequester'd from the world, this woe-worn breast
May yet indulge a solitary tear!
For what should cheer the wretch's struggling heart;
What lead him thro' misfortunes gloomy shades;
When retrospection wings her keenest dart,
And hope's dim land in misery's ocean fades?
Adieu, for ever! visionary joys,
Delusive shadows of a short-liv'd hour;
The rod of woe invincible, destroys
The light, the fairy fabric of your pow'r!
How short of bliss the sublunary reign,
How long the clouded days of misery and pain!
PROMETHEUS.
What sov'reign good shall satiate man's desires,
Propell'd by hope's unconquerable fires?
Vain, each bright bauble by ambition priz'd;
Unwon, 'tis worshipp'd--but possess'd, despis'd:
Yet, all defect with virtue shines allied,
_His_ mightiest impulse, Genius owes to pride;
From conquer'd science grac'd with glorious spoils,
He still dares on, demands sublimer toils,
And, had not nature check'd his vent'rous wing,
His eye had pierc'd her at her primal spring.
Thus, when enwrapt, Prometheus strove to trace
Inspir'd perceptions of celestial grace,
Th' ideal spirit, fugitive as wind,
Art's forceful spells in adamant confin'd;
Curv'd with nice chisel, floats the obsequious line,
From stone unconscious, beauty beams divine,
On magic pois'd, th' exulting structure swims,
And spurns attraction with elastic limbs.
While ravish'd fancy vivifies the form,
While judgment toils to analyze its charm,
While admiration spreads her speaking hands,
The lofty artist undelighted stands;
He longs to ravish, from the blest abodes,
The seal of heaven, the attribute of gods,
To give his labor's more than man can give,
Breathe Jove's own breath, and bid the marble live!
Won from her woof, embellishing the skies,
Descending Pallas soothes her votry's sighs;
Where, 'mid the twilight of o'er-arching groves,
By waking visions led, th' enthusiast roves,
Like summer suns, by showery clouds conceal'd,
With sudden blaze the goddess shines reveal'd;
Behold, she cries, in thy distinguish'd cause,
I challenge Jove's inexorable laws!
With life's stol'n essence let the awaken'd stone
A superhuman generation own:
Defrauded nature shall admire the deed,
And time recoil at thy immortal meed.
Impregn'd with action, and convok'd to breathe,
Sighs the still form his ardent hands beneath;
Electric lustres flash from either eye,
O'er its pale cheeks suffusing flushes fly,
And glossy damps its clust'ring curls adorn,
Like dew-drops brightening on the brows of morn;
Thro' nerves that vibrates in unfolding chains
Foams the warm life-blood, excavating veins,
'Till all infus'd, and organiz'd the whole,
The finish'd fabric hails the breathing soul!
Then, wak'd tumultuous in th' alarmed breast,
Contending passions claim th' etherial guest,
And still, as each alternate empire proves,
She hopes, she fears, she envies, and she loves,
Owns all sensations that divide the span,
And eternize the little life of man.