Poetic Sketches Part 1

Poetic Sketches.

by Thomas Gent.

TO THE REVIEWERS.

Oh, ye! enthron'd in presidential awe, To give the song-smit generation law; Who wield Apollo's delegated rod, And shake Parna.s.sus with your sovereign nod; A pensive Pilgrim, worn with base turmoils, Plebian cares, and mercenary toils, Implores your pity, while with footsteps rude, He dares within the mountain's pale intrude; For, oh! enchantment through its empire dwells, And rules the spirit with Lethean spells; By hands unseen aerial harps are hung, And Spring, like Hebe, ever fair and young, On her broad bosom rears the laughing loves, And breathes bland incense through the warbling groves; Spontaneous, bids unfading blossoms blow.

And nectar'd streams mellifluously flow.

There, while the Muses, wanton, unconfin'd, And wreaths resplendent round their temples bind, 'Tis yours, to strew their steps with votive flowers; To watch them slumbering midst the blissful bowers; To guard the shades that hide their sacred charms; And s.h.i.+eld their beauties from unhallow'd arms!

Oh! may their suppliant steal a pa.s.sing kiss?

Alas! he pants not for superior bliss; Thrice-bless'd, his virgin modesty shall be To s.n.a.t.c.h an evanescent ecstacy!

The fierce extremes of superhuman love, For his frail sense too exquisite might prove; He turns, all blus.h.i.+ng, from th'Aonian shade To humbler raptures, with a mortal maid.

I know 'tis yours, when unscholastic wights Unloose their fancies in presumptuous flights, Awak'd to vengeance, on such flights to frown.

Clip the wing'd horse, and roll his rider down.

But, if empower'd to strike th'immortal lyre.

The ardent vot'ry glows with genuine fire, 'Tis yours, while care recoils, and envy flies Subdued by his resistless energies, 'Tis yours to bid Pierian fountains flow, And toast his name in Wit's seraglio; To bind his brows with amaranthine bays, And bless, with beef and beer, his mundane days!

Alas! nor beef, nor beer, nor bays are mine, If by your looks, my doom I may divine, Ye frown so dreadful, and ye swell so big Your fateful arms, the goosequill and the wig: The wig, with wisdom's somb'rous seal impress'd, Mysterious terrors, grim portents, invest; And shame and honor on the goosequill perch, Like doves and ravens on a country church.

As some raw 'Squire, by rustic nymphs admir'd, Of vulgar charms, and easy conquests tir'd, Resolves new scenes and n.o.bler flights to dare, Nor "waste his sweetness in the desert air", To town repairs, some fam'd a.s.sembly seeks, With red importance bl.u.s.t'ring in his cheeks; But when, electric on th'astonish'd wight Burst the full floods of music and of light, While levell'd mirrors multiply the rows Of radiant beauties, and accomplish'd beaus, At once confounded into sober sense, He feels his pristine insignificance; And blinking, blund'ring, from the general _quiz_ Retreats, "to ponder on the thing he is."

By pride inflated, and by praise allur'd, Small Authors thus strut forth, and thus get cur'd; But, Critics, hear! an angel pleads for _me_, That tongueless, ten-tongued cherub, _Modesty_.

Sirs! if you d.a.m.n me, you'll resemble those That flay'd the Travell'r, who had lost his clothes; Are there not foes enough to _do_ my books?

Relentless trunk-makers, and pastry-cooks?

Acknowledge not those barbarous allies, The wooden box-men, and the men of pies: For heav'n's sake, let it ne'er be understood That you, great Censors! coalesce with _wood_; Nor let your actions contradict your looks, That tell the world you ne'er colleague with _cooks_.

But, if the blithe muse will indulge a smile, Why scowls thy brow, O Bookseller! the while?

Thy sunk eyes glisten through eclipsing fears, Fill'd, like Ca.s.sandra's, with prophetic tears: With such a visage, withering, woe-begone, Shrinks the pale poet from the d.a.m.ning dun.

Come, let us teach each others tears to flow, Like fasting bards, in fellows.h.i.+p of woe, When the coy muse puts on coquettish airs, Nor deigns one line to their voracious prayers; Thy spirit, groaning like th'enc.u.mber'd block Which bears my works, deplores them as _dead stock_, Doom'd by these undiscriminating times To endless sleep, with Della Cruscan rhymes; Yes, Critics, whisper thee, litigious wretches!

Oblivion's hand shall _finish_ all my _Sketches_.

But see, _my_ soul such bug-bears has repell'd With magnanimity unparallel'd!

Take up the volumes, every care dismiss, And smile, gruff Gorgon! while I tell thee this: Not one shall lie neglected on the shelf, All shall be sold--I'll buy them in myself.

POETIC SKETCHES

ON THE DEATH OF LORD NELSON.

Swift through the land while Fame transported flies, And shouts triumphant shake the illumin'd skies; Britannia, bending o'er her dauntless prows, With laurels thickening round her blazon'd brows, In joy dejected, sees her triumph crost, Exults in Victory won, but mourns the Victor lost.

Immortal Nelson! still with fond amaze, Thy glorious deeds 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 b.l.o.o.d.y billows stain the hostile sh.o.r.es; Thy sacred ire Confed'rate Kingdoms braves And 'whelms their Navies in Sepulchral waves!

--Graced with each attribute which Heaven supplies To G.o.dlike Chiefs: humane, intrepid, wise; His Nation's bulwark, and all Nature's pride, The Hero liv'd, and as he liv'd--he died-- Transcendent Destiny! how blest the brave Whose fall his Country's tears attend, shower'd on his trophied grave!

_SONNET_.

MORNING.

Light as the breeze that hails the infant morn The Milkmaid trips, as o'er her arm she slings Her cleanly pail, some favorite lay she sings As sweetly wild, and cheerful, as the horn.

O happy girl! may never faithless love, Or fancied splendor, lead thy steps astray; No cares becloud the suns.h.i.+ne of thy day, Nor want e'er urge thee from thy cot to rove.

What tho' thy station dooms thee to be poor, And by the hard-earn'd morsel thou art fed; Yet sweet content bedecks thy lowly bed, And health and peace sit smiling at thy door: Of these possess'd--thou hast a gracious meed, Which Heaven's high wisdom gives, to make thee rich indeed!

TO.............

AN IMPROMTU.

O Sub! you certainly have been, A little raking, roguish creature, And in that face may still be seen, Each laughing loves bewitching feature!

For thou hast stolen many a heart-- And robb'd the sweetness of the rose; Plac'd on that cheek, it doth impart More lovely tints, more fragrant blows!

Yes, thou art nature's favorite child, Array'd in smiles, seducing, killing; Did Joseph live, you'd drive him wild, And set his very soul a thrilling!

A poet, much too poor to live, Too poor, in this rich world to rove, Too poor, for aught but verse to give, But not, thank G.o.d, too poor to love!

Gives thee his little doggerel lay-- One truth I tell, in sorrow tell it, I'm forc'd to give my verse away, Because, alas! I cannot sell it.

And should you with a critic's eye, Proclaim me 'gainst the Muse a sinner, Reflect, dear girl! that such as I, Six times a week don't get a dinner.

And want of comfort, food, and wine, Will damp the genius, curb the spirit: These wants I'll own are often mine; But can't allow a want of merit.

For every stupid dog that drinks At poet's pond, nicknam'd divine: Say what he will, I know he thinks That all he writes is devilish fine!

_SONNET_.

NIGHT.

Now when dun Night her shadowy veil has spread, See want and infamy as forth they come, Lead their wan daughter from her branded home, To woo the stranger for unhallow'd bread.

Poor outcast! o'er thy sickly-tinted cheek And half-clad form, what havock want hath made; And the sweet l.u.s.tre of thine eye doth fade, And all thy soul's sad sorrow seems to speak.

O miserable state! compell'd to wear The wooing smile, as on thy aching breast Some wretch reclines, who feeling ne'er possess'd; Thy poor heart bursting with the stifled tear!

Oh, G.o.d OF MERCY! bid her woes subside, And be to her a friend, who hath no friend beside.