Poems (1828)

by Thomas Gent

ADVERTISEMENT.

Some of the Pieces in this volume have been separately published, at different times; the indulgence, I may say favour, with which they were individually received, has encouraged me to collect and re-publish them. I have added many others, which are now first printed. I shall be well satisfied, if they find as favourable a reception as their precursors; and are thought not to have increased the size, without at all increasing the merit, of the book.

I cannot omit this opportunity of thanking those Critics, who have honoured me by reviewing my verses. I owe them my warm acknowledgments for candidly measuring my Poems by their pretensions. They have looked at them as they really were;—as the amusements of the leisure hours of a man whose fortune will not favour his inclination to devote himself to poetry; and conceiving a favourable opinion of them in that character, have kindly expressed it.

London, December, 1827.

During the progress of these pages through the press, it has pleased Providence to inflict upon me the severest calamity that domestic life can sustain. In the private sorrows of the humble candidate for literary fame, I am aware that the world will feel no interest, yet humanity will forgive the weakness that struggles under such a bereavement, and will pardon the tear that falls upon such a tomb. If, indeed, the Being who is lost to her family and society were endowed only with those gifts and graces, which are shared by thousands of her sex, I should have been silent at this moment. To those who knew her,[1] and to know her was to esteem and love, this tribute will be superfluous; but to those who knew her not, I would say, that, superadded to every natural advantage, to the charms of every polite accomplishment, and to a cheerful and sincere piety, she was deeply imbued with the love of literature and of science. In these, her Lectures on the Physiology of the External Senses exhibit a splendid proof of her acquirements in their highest walks, and are an imperishable memorial of her patient and laborious research. They who were present at the delivery of these Lectures will not soon forget the effect of her impressive elocution, chastened as it was by as unaffected modesty as ever adorned and dignified a woman. I speak of that which she performed—that which her capacious mind had meditated I forbear to mention. For the advancement of her sex in pursuits that are intellectual she made many sacrifices, both of her feelings and her time; yet, in all she did, and in all she contemplated, usefulness was her end and aim—but I must not proceed; less than this I could not say—more than this might be deemed ostentatious.

What earthly tongue, and, oh! what human pen
Can tell that scene of suffering, too severe.
'Tis ever present to my sight, oh! when
Will the sound cease its torture on mine ear?

Oh! my lost love, thou patient Being, never!
Thy dying look of love can I forget;
The last fond pressure of thy hand, for ever!
Thrills in my veins, I see thy struggles yet.

Thy sculptured beauty is before me now:
In thy calm dignity, and sweet repose,
Alas! sad memory re-invests thy brow,
With death's stern agony, and pain's last throes.

Desolate heart be still—forgive, oh God!
The cries of feeble nature stricken sore.
Father! assuage the terrors of thy rod.
Teach me to see thy wisdom—and adore!

[Footnote 1: I cannot resist the melancholy gratification of quoting from the Literary Gazette, of August 18, in which the death of Mrs. Gent was announced to the public.—"Science has, since our last, suffered a severe lost by the death of this accomplished lady; she was well known for her high attainments as a Lecturer, and her Course on the Physiology of the External Senses was a perfect model of elegant composition and refined oratory. Mrs. Gent died at the residence of her husband, Thomas Gent, Esq. Doctor's Commons, after a month of severe suffering, which she bore with singular fortitude, and the most pious resignation. There is a fine bust of her, by Behnes; it was in the Exhibition two years since, and, from its intrinsic simplicity and beauty alone, has had many casts made from it."

And one of the most distinguished Poets of the present day, will, I am sure, forgive me if I quote his beautiful words in writing to me on this subject—for his talents she had the highest admiration, and no one was better able than himself to appreciate the excellence of her character.—"As to condolence, I never condole—what condolence could any one offer for the loss of so estimable a being as has been lost to society in your accomplished wife? I had a very great respect and esteem for her, and it would have highly gratified me to have been able to lighten the least of her trials; but what avails writing or visiting on occasions of such real pain. She lived a most amiable being—and for such there is the highest hope in the Highest World. If I had conceived that her illness was at all serious, I should have gone to gather wisdom from her for my own hour—but now, that all her anxieties are past, I can invent no condolence.">[

CONTENTS.

Poems
Mature Reflections
The Grave of Dibdin
A Sketch from Life
On the Portrait of the Son of J.G. Lambton, Esq.
Written in the Album of the Lady of Counsellor D. Pollock
The Heliotrope
Sonnet On seeing a Young Lady I had previously known,
confined in a Madhouse
Prometheus
Rosa's Grave
The Sibyl. A Sketch
Love
On a delightful Drawing in my Album
Stanzas
Shakspeare
Impromptu. To Oriana, on attending with her, as Sponsors,
at a Christening
To my Spaniel Fanny
Widowed Love
Written to the Lady of Dr. George Birkbeck
The Chain-pier, Brighton. A Sketch
Sonnet. Morning.
On the Death of Dr. Abel
Sonnet. Night.
Constancy. To ———
Epistle to a Friend
Here in our Fairy Bowers we Dwell. A Glee
Henry and Eliza
Written on the Death of General Washington
To ———
Monody on the Right Hon. R.B. Sheridan
On the beautiful Portrait of Mrs. Forman, as Pandora
Sonnet. To ———, on her Recovery from Illness
To Margaret Jane H———, on her Birth-day
The Runaway
On Reading the Poem of "Paris."
On the Death of Gen. Sir R. Abercrombie
Retaliation
Lines, written in a Copy of the Poem on the Princess Charlotte
Sonnet
To Robert Soothey, Esq. on reading his "Remains of Henry Kirke White"
The State Secret. An Impromptu
The Morning Call
Sonnet
On the Rupture of the Thames' Tunnel
Anacreontic. "The Wisest Men are Fools in Wine."
Lines, written in Hornsey Wood
To Mary
Black Eyes and Blue
Epigram. Auri Sacra Fames
Sonnet. To Faith
On a Spirited Portrait, by E. Landaeer, Esq.
Sonnet. To Hope
Lines, written on the Sixth of September
Sonnet. To Charity
Hymn
Reflections of a Poet on going to a great Dinner
Sunday
A Night-Storm
On the Death of Nelson
The Blue-eyed Maid
Taking Orders. A Tale, founded on fact
The Gipsy's Home. A Glee
Sonnet. The Beggar
To ———
Song. "The Recal of the Hero."
To Eliza. Written in her Album
Elegy on the Death of A. Goldsmid, Esq.
Sonnet. On the Death of Mrs. Charlotte Smith
Mister Punch. A Hasty Sketch
Content
Epitaph. On Matilda
To ———. An Impromptu
The Steam-Boat
Sonnet To Lydia, on her Birth-day
To Sarah, while Singing
To Thaddeus
Youth and Age
Sent for the Album of the Rev. G——- C——-
Written under an elegant Drawing of a Dead Canary Bird
Lines suggested by the Death of the Princess Charlotte
The Presumptuous Fly
The Heroes of Waterloo
The Night-blowing Cereus
1827; or, the Poet's Last Poem
To the Reviewers

POEMS.

Tis sweet in boyhood's visionary mood,
When glowing Fancy, innocently gay,
Flings forth, like motes, her bright aërial brood,
To dance and shine in Hope's prolific ray;
'Tis sweet, unweeting how the flight of years
May darkling roll in trials and in tears,
To dress the future in what garb we list,
And shape the thousand joys that never may exist.
But he, sad wight! of all that feverish train,
Fool'd by those phantoms of the wizard brain,
Most wildly dotes, whom young ambition stings
To trust his weight upon poetic wings;
He, downward looking in his airy ride,
Beholds Elysium bloom on every side;
Unearthly bliss each thrilling nerve attunes,
And thus the dreamer with himself communes.
Yes! Earth shall witness, 'ere my star be set,
That partial nature mark'd me for her pet;
That Phoebus doom'd me, kind indulgent sire!
To mount his car, and set the world on fire.
Fame's steep ascent by easy flights to win,
With a neat pocket volume I'll begin;
And dirge, and sonnet, ode, and epigram,
Shall show mankind how versatile I am.
The buskin'd Muse shall next my pen descry:
The boxes from their inmost rows shall sigh;
The pit shall weep, the galleries deplore
Such moving woes as ne'er were heard before:
Enough—I'll leave them in their soft hysterics,
Mount, in a brighter blaze, and dazzle with Homerics.

Then, while my name runs ringing through Reviews,
And maids, wives, widows, smitten with my Muse,
Assail me with Platonic billet-doux.
From this suburban attic I'll dismount,
With Coutts or Barclays open an account;
Ranged in my mirror, cards, with burnish'd ends,
Shall show the whole nobility my friends;
That happy host with whom I choose to dine,
Shall make set-parties, give his-choicest wine;
And age and infancy shall gape to see
The lucky bard, and whisper "That is he!"

Poor youth! he print—and wakes, to sleep no more—
The world goes on, indifferent, as before;
And the first notice of his metric skill
Comes in the likeness of—his printer's bill;
To pen soft notes no fair enthusiast stirs,
Except his laundress—and who values her's?
None but herself: for though the bard may burn
Her note, she still expects one in return.
The luckless maiden, all unblest shall sigh;
His pocket tome hath drawn his pockets dry.
His tragedy expires in peals of laughter;
And that soul-thrilling wish—to live hereafter—
Gives way to one as hopeless quite, I fear,
And far more needful—how to live while here.
Where are ye now, divine illusions all;
Cheques, dinners, wines, admirers great and small!
Changed to two followers, terrible to see,
Who dog his walks, and whisper "That is he!"

Rhymesters attend! nor scorn & friendly hint,
Restrain your cacoëths fierce to print.
But hark, my printer's devil's at the door,
My leisure cannot yield one moment more:
Nor matters it, advice can ne'er restrain
Madman or poet from his bent:—'tis vain
To strive to point out colours to the blind,
Or set men seeking what they will not find.