Poems (1828) by Thomas Gent Part 9

Ye swains! who ne'er obtain'd with all your sighs One tender look from Chloe's sparkling eyes, In shades like these her cruelty a.s.sail, Here, whisper soft your amatory tale; The scene to sympathy the maid shall move, And smiles propitious crown your slighted love.

While the fresh air with fragrance summer fills, And lifts her voice, heard jocund o'er the hills, All jubilant the waving woods display Her gorgeous gifts, magnificently gay!

The wond'ring eye beholds these waving woods Reflected bright in artificial floods, And still, the tufts of cl.u.s.t'ring shrubs between, Like pa.s.sing sprites, the nymphs and swains are seen; Till fancy triumphs in th'exulting breast, And Care shrinks back, astonish'd! dispossess'd!

For all breathes rapture, all enchantment seems, Like fairy visions, and poetic dreams!

Though on such scenes the fancy loves to dwell, The stomach oft a different tale will tell; Then, leave the wood, and seek the shelt'ring roof, And put the pantry's vital strength to proof; The aerial banquets of the tuneful nine May suit some appet.i.tes, but faith! not mine; For my coa.r.s.e palate coa.r.s.er food must please, Substantial beef, pies, puddings, ducks, and peas; Such food the fangs of keen disease defies, And such rare feeding Hornsey-house supplies: Nor these alone the joys that court us here, Wine! generous wine! that drowns corroding care, a.s.serts its empire in the glittering bowl, And pours Promethean vigour o'er the soul.

Here, too, _that_ bluff John Bull, whose blood boils high At such base wares of foreign luxury; Who scorns to revel in imported cheer, Who prides in perry, and exults in beer: On these his surly virtue shall regale, With quickening cyder, and with fattening ale.

Nor think, ye Fair! our Hornsey has denied The elegant repasts where you preside: Here, may the heart rejoice, expanding free In all the social luxury of Tea!

Whose essence pure inspires such charming chat, With nods, and winks, and whispers, and _all that_; Here, then, while 'wrapt inspired, like Horace old, We chant convivial hymns to Bacchus bold; Or heave the incense of unconscious sighs, To catch the grace that beams from beauty's eyes; Or, in the winding wilds, sequester'd deep, Th' unwilling Muse invoking, fall asleep; Or cursing her, and her ungranted smiles, Chase b.u.t.terflies along the echoing aisles: Howe'er employ'd, _here_ be the town forgot, Where fogs, and smoke, and jostling crowds, _are not_.

TO MARY.

WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT.

Oh! is there not in infant smiles A witching power, a cheering ray, A charm, that every care beguiles, And bids the weary soul be gay?

There surely is--for thou hast been, Child of my heart, my peaceful dove, Gladdening life's sad and chequer'd scene, An emblem of the peace above.

Now all is calm, and dark, and still, And bright the beam the moonlight throws On ocean wave, and gentle rill, And on thy slumbering cheek of rose.

And may no care disturb that breast, Nor sorrow dim that brow serene; And may thy latest years be bless'd As thy sweet infancy has been.

BLACK EYES AND BLUE.

FROM THE ITALIAN.

Blue eyes and jet Fell out one morn, Azure cried in a pet, "Away, dark scorn!-- "We are brilliant and blue "As the waves of the sea-- "And as cold and untrue "And as changeable ye.

"We are born of the sky, "Of a summer night, "When the first stars lie "In a bed of blue light; "From the cloudy zone "Round the setting sun, "Like an angel's throne, "Are our glories won."

"Pretty ladies, hold,"

Cupid said to the eyes-- For beauties that scold "Are seldom wise; "'Tis not colour I seek "Love's fires to impart-- "Give me eyes that can speak "From the depths of the heart."

EPIGRAM.

AURI SACRA FAMES.

I knew a being once, his peaked head With a few lank and greasy hairs was spread; His visage blue, in length was like your own Seen in the convex of a table-spoon.

His mouth, or rather gash athwart his face, To stop at either ear had just the grace, A hideous rift: his teeth were all canine, And just like Death's (in Milton) was his grin.

One s.h.i.+lling, and one fourteen-penny leg, (This shorter was than that, and not so big), He had; and they, when meeting at his knees, An angle formed of ninety-eight degrees.

Nature, in scheming how his back to vary, A hint had taken from the dromedary: His eyes an inward, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g vision threw, Striving each other through his nose to view.

His intellect was just one ray above The idiot Cymon's ere he fell in love.

At school they Taraxippus[1] called the wight; The Misses, when they met him, shriek'd with fright.

But, spite of all that Nature had denied, When sudden Fortune made the cub her pride, And gave him twenty thousand pounds a-year, _Then_, from the pretty Misses you might hear, "_His face was not the finest, and, indeed, He was a little, they must own, in-kneed; His shoulders, certainly, were rather high, But, then, he had a most expressive eye; Nor were their hearts by outward charms inclined: Give them the higher beauties of the mind_!"

[Footnote 1: Greek: Taraxippus, a Grecian Deity; the G.o.d of the Hippodrome, literally, in English, _horse-frightener_.]

SONNET.

TO FAITH.

Hail! holy FAITH, on life's wide ocean toss'd, I see thee sit calm in thy beaten bark; As NOAH sat, throned in his high-borne ark, Secure and fearless while a world was lost!

In vain contending storms thy head enzone, Thy bosom shrinks not from the bolt that falls: The dreadful shaft plays harmless, nor appals Thy stedfast eye, fix'd on Jehovah's throne!

E'en though thou saw'st the mighty fabric nod, Of system'd worlds, thou hear'st a sacred charm, Graved on thy heart, to shelter thee from harm.

And thus it speaks:--"Thou art my trust, O G.o.d!

And thou canst bid the jarring-powers be still, Each ponderous...o...b.. subservient to thy will!"

ON A SPIRITED PORTRAIT IN MY ALb.u.m,

Of a favorite Deer-hound, belonging to SIR WALTER SCOTT, by my friend, EDWIN LANDSEER, Esq.

Who in this sketchey wonder does not trace The fire, the spirit, and the living grace, That mark the hand of genius and of taste?

Who does not recognize in such a head Truth, vigilance, fidelity, inbred, Sagacity that's human, and a waste Of those high qualities, and virtues rare, Which poor humanity has not to spare?

Then, faithful Hound! thy happy lot is cast In pleasant places--and thy life has pa.s.s'd In the dear service of a Master--whom The world's concurrent voice has yielded now The meed of highest praise--and on whose brow Th' imperishable wreath of fame shall bloom; Nor is this fate less happy than the rest, That _he_ should paint thee, _who can paint thee best!_

SONNET.

TO HOPE.

How droops the wretch whom adverse fates pursue, While sad experience, from his aching sight Sweeps the fair prospects of unproved delight, Which flattering friends and flattering fancies drew.

When want a.s.sails his solitary shed, When dire distraction's horrent eye-ball glares, Seen 'midst the myriad of tumultuous cares, That shower their shafts on his devoted head.

Then, ere despair usurp his vanquish'd heart, Is there a power, whose influence benign Can bid his head in pillow'd peace recline, And from his breast withdraw the barbed dart?

There is--sweet Hope! misfortune rests on thee-- Unswerving anchor of humanity!

LINES

WRITTEN ON THE SIXTH OF SEPTEMBER.