Read Ebook: Poems (1828) by Gent Thomas

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Ebook has 448 lines and 25158 words, and 9 pages

POEMS.

Tis sweet in boyhood's visionary mood, When glowing Fancy, innocently gay, Flings forth, like motes, her bright a?rial 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.

MATURE REFLECTIONS.

O Love! divinest dream of youth, Thy day of ecstacy is o'er, My bosom, touch'd by time and truth, Thrills at thy dear deceits no more.

Nor thou, Ambition! e'er again, With splendour dazzling to betray, And aspirations fierce and vain, Shall tempt my steps--away! away!

Alas! by stern Experience cleft, When life's romance is turn'd to sport; If man hath consolation left On this side death--'tis good old port.

THE GRAVE OF DIBDIN.

The youthful Sailor on his midnight watch, Fixing his gaze upon the tranquil moon, Felt his heart soften as the thoughts of home Rush'd on his faithful memory;--then it was In language meet, and in appropriate strains-- Strains which thy lyre had taught him--he pour'd forth The feelings of his soul, and all was calm.

Thy Spirit still presides in that carouse, When to "the Far away" the toast is given, And "absent Wives and Sweethearts" claim their right, With Woman's constancy thy songs are rife; And this pure creed still teaches Man t' endure Privations, danger, and each form of death.

When not a breath responded to the call, And Seamen whistled to the winds in vain; When the loose canvass droop'd in lazy folds, And idle pennants dangled from the mast;-- There, in that trying moment, thou wert found To teach the hardest lesson man can learn-- Passive endurance--and the breeze has sprung, As if obedient to the voice of Song:-- And yet unhonour'd here thy ashes lie!

A nobler lesson learn'd the gallant Tar From his Orphean lyre--to temper right The lion's courage with the attributes That to the gentle and the meek belong; O'er fallen foes to check the eye of fire-- O'er fallen foes to soften heart of oak.

He turn'd the Fatalist's rash eye to Him In whom the issues are of life and death; He taught to whom the battle is--to whom The victory belongs. His cherub, that aloft Kept sleepless watch, was Providence--not Chance.

And yet no honours are decreed for him-- Friend of the Brave, thy memory cannot die! Th'inquiring voice, that eagerly demands Where rest thy ashes?--shall preserve thy fame. Thine immortality thyself hast wrought;-- Familiar as the terms of art, thy verse, Thine own peculiar words are still the mode In which the Seaman aptly would express His honest passions and his manly thoughts; His feelings kindle at thy burning words, Which speak his duty in the battle's front; His parting whisper to the maid he loves Is breathed in eloquence he learned from thee; Thou art his Oracle in every mood-- His trump of victory--his lyre of love!

A SKETCH FROM LIFE.

She sat in beauty, like some form of nymph Or na?ad, on the mossy, purpled bank Of her wild woodland stream, that at her feet Linger'd, and play'd, and dimpled, as in love. Or like those shapes that on the western clouds Spread gold-dropp'd plumes, and sing to harps of pearl, And teach the evening winds their melody: How shall I tell her beauty?--for the eye, Fix'd on the sun, is blinded by its beam. One glance, and then no more, upon that brow Brighter than marble shining through those curls, Richer than hyacinths when they wave their bells In the low breathing of the twilight wind.-- One glance upon that lip, beside whose hue The morning rose would sicken and grow pale, 'Till it was waked again by the soft breath That steals in music from those lips of love. Wert thou a statue I could pine for thee, But in thy living beauty there is awe; The sacredness of modesty enshrines The ruby lip, bright brow, and beaming eye;-- I dare but worship what I must not love.

ON THE PORTRAIT

OF THE SON OF J.G. LAMBTON, ESQ., M.P.

BY SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE, P.R.A.

Beautiful Boy--thy heavenward thoughts Are pictured in thine eyes, Thou hast no taint of mortal birth, Thy communing is not of earth, Thy holy musings rise: Like incense kindled from on high, Ascending to its native sky.

And such a head might once have graced The infant Samuel, when Call'd by the favour of his God, The youthful priest the Temple trod Beloved of Heaven and men! The same devotion on his brow As brightens in thy forehead now.

Or, thou may'st seem to Fancy's eye One borne by arms Divine; One, whom on Earth a Saviour bless'd, And on whose features left impress'd The Contact's holy sign: A light, a halo, and a grace, So pure th' expression of that face.

WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM

OF THE LADY OF COUNSELLOR D. POLLOCK.

Joy to thee, Lady! many years of joy To thee--and thine--that springtide of the heart, The bliss of virtuous love, without alloy. And all that health and gladsome life impart. How gracefully hast thou thy task perform'd, The watchful tender mother, matchless wife; All woman boasts--thou hast indeed adorn'd-- Thine the high merit of an useful life. For ever cheerful, though the Tragic Muse May call thee Sister, both in form and mind; Thou do'st to all those envied charms transfuse, Which shine so highly temper'd and refined. Lady revered--the sunbeam and the rose Are poor in beauty to sweet woman's smiles: 'Tis the bright sunset of life's awful close, The Poet's deathless wreath! a spell all grief beguiles!

THE HELIOTROPE.

There is a flower, whose modest eye Is turn'd with looks of light and love, Who breathes her softest, sweetest sigh. Whene'er the sun is bright above.

Let clouds obscure, or darkness veil, Her fond idolatry is fled, Her sighs no more their sweets exhale. The loving eye is cold--and dead.

Canst thou not trace a moral here, False flatterer of the prosperous hour? Let but an adverse cloud appear, And Thou art faithless, as the Flower!

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 sorrows Friendship for thy hapless doom, Thy beauty faded, and thy hopes all dead. Oh! 'twas that beauty's power which first destroy'd Thy mind's serenity; its charms but led The faithless friend, that thy pure love enjoy'd, To tear the beauteous 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-enraptured, chant thy griefs to rest: Oh! cease that mournful voice, affliction's child, My heart but bleeds to hear thy musings wild.

PROMETHEUS.

What sovereign good shall satiate man's desires, Propell'd by Hope's unconquerable fires? Vain each bright bauble by ambition prized; Unwon, 'tis worshipp'd--but possess'd, despised. Yet all defect with virtue shines allied, His mightiest impulse genius owes to pride. From conquer'd science graced with glorious spoils, He still dares on, demands sublimer toils; And, had not Nature check'd his vent'rous wing, His eye had pierced her at her primal spring.

Thus when, enwrapt, Prometheus strove to trace Inspired perceptions of celestial grace, Th' ideal spirit, fugitive as wind, Art's forceful spells in adamant confined: Curved with nice chisel floats the obsequious line; From stone unconscious, beauty beams divine; On magic poised, 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 bless'd abodes The seal of heaven, the attribute of gods; To give his labour more than man can give, Breathe Jove's own breath, and bid the marble live!

Impregn'd with action, and convoked to breathe, Sighs the still form his ardent hands beneath; Electric lustres flash from either eve, O'er its pale cheeks suffusive flushes fly, And glossy damps its clust'ring curls adorn, Like dew-drops bright'ning on the brows of morn. Through nerves that vibrate in unfolding chains, Foams the warm life-blood, excavating veins; 'Till all infused, and organized the whole, The finish'd fabric hails the breathing soul! Then waked 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 deride the span, And eternize the little life of man!

ROSA'S GRAVE.

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!

Oh! lay me where my Rosa lies, And love shall o'er the moss-grown bed, When dew-drops leave the weeping skies. His tenderest tear of pity shed.

And sacred shall the willow be, That shades the spot where virtue sleeps; And mournful memory weep to see The hallow'd watch affection keeps.

Yes, soul of love! this bleeding heart Scarce beating, soon its griefs shall cease; Soon from his woes the sufferer part, And hail thee at the Throne of Peace

THE SIBYL.

A SKETCH.

So stood the Sibyl: stream'd her hoary hair Wild as the blast, and with a comet's glare Glow'd her red eye-balls 'midst the sunken gloom Of their wild orbs, like death-fires in a tomb. Slow, like the rising storm, in fitful moans, Broke from her breast the deep prophetic tones. Anon, with whirlwind rash, the Spirit came; Then in dire splendour, like imprison'd flame Flashing through rifted domes or towns amazed, Her voice in thunder burst; her arm she raised; Outstretch'd her hands, as with a Fury's force, To grasp, and launch the slow descending curse: Still as she spoke, her stature seem'd to grow; Still she denounced unmitigable woe: Pain, want, and madness, pestilence, and death, Rode forth triumphant at her blasting breath: Their march she marshall'd, taught their ire to fall-- And seem'd herself the emblem of them all!

LOVE.

Love!--what is love? a mere machine, a spring For freaks fantastic, a convenient thing, A point to which each scribbling wight most steer, Or vainly hope for food or favour 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 th' entrancing tones, Which nature subjugates, and truth disowns.

ON A DELIGHTFUL DRAWING IN MY ALBUM,

Welcome, my pretty Neddy--welcome too Thy merry Rider with his apron blue; And thou, poor Dog, most patient thing of all, Begging for morsels that may never fall! Oh! 'tis a faithful group--and it might shame Painters of bold pretence, and greater name-- To see how nature triumphs, and how rare Such matchless proofs of Nature's triumphs are-- The smallest particle of sand may tell With what rich ore Pactolus' tide may swell: And Woodward! this ingenious, chaste design, Proclaims what treasures lie within the mine-- Pupil of Cooper--Nature's favorite son-- Whom, but to name, and to admire, is one!

STANZAS.

Say, why is the stern eye averted with scorn Of the stoic who passes along? And why frowns the maid, else as mild as the morn. On the victim of falsehood and wrong?

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