Poems by Thomas Gent

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Ye Bards in all your thousand dens,
Oh, Youth! could dark futurity reveal
Let this rough fragment lend its mossy seat;
She sat in beauty, like some form of nymph
To thee, O Albion! be the tribute paid
The wisest men are fools in wine,
Stranger! if thou e'er did'st love,
Blue eyes and jet
Sweet Insect! that on two small wings doth fly,
Dearest love! when thy God shall recall thee,
In some lone hamlet it were better far
When stern Misfortune, monitress severe!
I knew a being once, his peaked head
Give me the wreath of friendship true,
Sacred to Pity! is upraised this stone,
O'er the wide heath now moon-tide horrors hung,
Here, in our fairy bowers, we dwell,
Sung by the Children of the City of London School of Instruction and Industry.
Lady! who didst--with angel-look and smile,
Come, gentle sleep! thou soft restorer, come,
Genius of England! wherefore to the earth
Madam! when sorrowing o'er the virtuous dead,
Oh! ye, who pine, in London smoke immured,
Ill-fated hour! oft as thy annual reign
When first the infant bird attempts to fly,
Bring the sad cypress wreath to grace the tomb,
Sons of Renown! ye heirs of matchless fame,
Ill-Fated hour! oft as thy annual reign
Love!--what is love? a mere machine, a spring
How oft have I seen her upon the sea-shore,
O Love! divinest dream of youth,
Who stops the Minister of State,
By my friend, T. WOODWARD, ESQ., of a Group, consisting of a Donkey, a Boy, and a Dog.
Of a favorite Deer-hound, belonging to SIR WALTER SCOTT, by my friend, EDWIN LANDSEER, Esq.
By the trim taper, and the blazing hearth,
Oh! had'st thou, Jove! with adamantine locks
Physician and Naturalist to Lord Amherst, Governor General of India, who died at Cawnpoor, 24th of November, 1826.
Mute, memory stands, at valor's awful shrine,
Swift through the land while Fame transported flies,
Swift through the land while Fame transported flies,
Beautiful Boy--thy heavenward thoughts
Every poor Quidnunc now condemns
Tis sweet in boyhood's visionary mood,
Once more we venture here, to prove our worth,
What sovereign good shall satiate man's desires,
Great epoch in the history of bards!
Love, Cupid, Gallantry, whate'er
It is a mournful pleasure to remember the exquisite taste and delight she evinced in the arrangement of a Bouquet; and how often she wished that, hereafter, she might appear to me as a beautiful flower!
With a Drawing of the Head of an Eminent Artist.
While o'er this pageant of sublunar things
Embalm'd in fame, and sacred from decay,
Oh! never will I leave my love,
When Discord blew her fell alarm
When the rough storm roars round the peasant's cot,
Oh! best belov'd of heaven, on earth bestow'd
Hail! Heavenly Maid, my pensive mind,
Fair flower! that fall'n beneath the angry blast,
Ye fates! who sternly point on sorrow's chart
When the rough storm roars round the peasant's cot,
Meek Maid! that sitting on yon lofty tower,
Light as the breeze that hails the infant morn
Now when dun Night her shadowy veil has spread,
Sweet wreck of loveliness! alas, how soon
Sweet songstress! whom the melancholy Muse
His weary warfare done, his woes forgot,
Of late I saw him on his staff reclined,
Thou bud of early promise, may the rose
Fair flower! that fall'n beneath the angry blast,
Friend of the lonely hour, from thy lov'd strain
O! best-beloved of Heaven, on earth bestow'd,
Hail! holy FAITH, on life's wide ocean toss'd,
How droops the wretch whom adverse fates pursue,
Bless'd be the hour that gave my LYDIA birth,
To thy unhappy courts a lonely guest
Come long-lost blessing! heaven-lov'd seraph, haste,
"Why, there's Peace, Jack, come damme let's push round the grog,
Say, why is the stern eye averted with scorn
Come, thou blessed day of rest!
A parson once--and poorer he
Sweet are the hours when roseate spring
Hail, lovely morn! and thou, all-beauteous sea!
Ah! this wild desolated spot,
Sung by Messrs. PYNE, NELSON, Miss WITHAM, and Master LONGHURST.--Composed by Mr. ROOKE.
Lives there who, with unhallow'd hand, would tear,
There is a flower, whose modest eye
Once more Britannia sheathes her conqu'ring sword,
I dare not look at those dear eyes,
Can it be true, so fragrant and so fair,
Come away, come away, little fly!
Ah! who is he by Cynthia's gleam
Ah! who is he by Cynthia's gleam
A Sketch.
"Murder will out:"--and so will truth sometimes;
Say, dark prow'd visitant! that o'er the brine
Still e'er that shrine defiance rears its head,
0 Nymph! with cheeks of roseate hue,
Come, JENNY, let me sip the dew
O Sue! you certainly have been
In vain, sweet Maid! for me you bring
Come away, come away, little fly!
I dare not spoil this spotless page
Thou art indeed a lovely flower,
Oh! is there not in infant smiles
Fanny! were all the world like thee,
Southey! high placed on the contested throne
Written at the Cottage of T. LEWIS, Esq. Woodbury Downs.
Farewell! loved youth, for still I hold thee dear,
Oh! ye, enthroned in presidential awe,
In vain, sweet Maid! for me you bring
O Sub! you certainly have been,
Tell me, chaste spirit! in yon orb of light,
Dear P----, while Painters, Poets, Sages,
Joy to thee, Lady! many years of joy
Lady unknown! a pilgrim from the shrine
Mute Memory stands at Valour's awful shrine,
Lamented Chief! at thy distinguish'd deeds
By Miss A.M. TURNER, Daughter of the Eminent Engraver.
I love the joyous thoughtless heart,