Thomas Gent

Ye Bards in all your thousand dens, Great souls with fewer pence than pens, Sublime adorers of Apollo,

Oh, Youth! could dark futurity reveal Her hidden worlds, unlock her cloud-hung gates, Or snatch the keys of mystery from time,

Let this rough fragment lend its mossy seat; Let Contemplation hail this lone retreat: Come, meek-eyed goddess, through the midnight gloom,

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

To thee, O Albion! be the tribute paid Which sympathy demands, the patriot tear; While echo'd forth to thy remotest shade,

The wisest men are fools in wine, Experience makes us think: Its magic spells are so divine,

Stranger! if thou e'er did'st love, If nature in thy bosom glows, A Minstrel, rude, may haply move,

Blue eyes and jet Fell out one morn, Azure cried in a pet,

Sweet Insect! that on two small wings doth fly, And, flying, carry on those wings yourself; Methinks I see you, looking from your eye,

Dearest love! when thy God shall recall thee, Be this record inscribed on thy tomb: Truth, and gratitude, well may applaud thee,

In some lone hamlet it were better far To live unknown amid Contentment's isle, Than court the bauble of an air-blown star,

When stern Misfortune, monitress severe! Dissolves Prosperity's enchanting dreams, And, chased from Man's probationary sphere,

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

Give me the wreath of friendship true, Whose flowerets fade not in a breath: From memory gaining many a hue,

Sacred to Pity! is upraised this stone, The humble tribute of a friend unknown; To grant the beauteous wreck its hallow'd claim,

O'er the wide heath now moon-tide horrors hung, And night's dark pencil dimm'd the tints of spring; The boding minstrel now harsh omens sung,

Here, in our fairy bowers, we dwell, Women our idol, life's best treasure! Echo enchanted joys to tell,

Sung by the Children of the City of London School of Instruction and Industry. CHORUS. Sacred, and heart-deep be the sound

Lady! who didst--with angel-look and smile, And the sweet lustre of those dear, dark eyes, Gracefully bend before the font of Christ,

Come, gentle sleep! thou soft restorer, come, And close these wearied eyes, by grief oppress'd; For one short hour, be this thy peaceful home,

Genius of England! wherefore to the earth Is thy plumed helm, thy peerless sceptre cast? Thy courts of late with minstrelsy and mirth

Madam! when sorrowing o'er the virtuous dead, The gentlest solace of the tears we shed, Is, to surviving excellence to turn,

Oh! ye, who pine, in London smoke immured, With spirits wearied, and with pains uncured, With all the catalogue of city evils,

Ill-fated hour! oft as thy annual reign Leads on th' autumnal tide, my pinion'd joys Fade with the glories of the fading year;

When first the infant bird attempts to fly, And cautious spreads its pinions to the sky, Each happy breeze the timid trav'ller cheers,

Bring the sad cypress wreath to grace the tomb, Where rests the liberal friend of human kind, Around its base let deathless flow'rets bloom,

Sons of Renown! ye heirs of matchless fame, Whose Sires in Glory's path victorious fell; Adding new honors to the British name,

Ill-Fated hour! oft as thy annual reign Leads on th'autumnal tide, my pinion'd joys Fade with the glories of the fading year;

Love!--what is love? a mere machine, a spring For freaks fantastic, a convenient thing, A point to which each scribbling wight most steer,

How oft have I seen her upon the sea-shore, While tearful, her face, she would hide, In sad silence the loss of the Sailor deplore

O Love! divinest dream of youth, Thy day of ecstacy is o'er, My bosom, touch'd by time and truth,

Who stops the Minister of State, When hurrying to the Lords' debate? Who, spite of gravity beguiles,

By my friend, T. WOODWARD, ESQ., of a Group, consisting of a Donkey, a Boy, and a Dog. Welcome, my pretty Neddy--welcome too Thy merry Rider with his apron blue;

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,

By the trim taper, and the blazing hearth, (While loud without the blast of winter sung), Now thrill'd with awe, and now relax'd with mirth,

Oh! had'st thou, Jove! with adamantine locks Fix'd fast the springs of poor Pandora's box, Then had she, bright enchantment! bloom'd for ever

Physician and Naturalist to Lord Amherst, Governor General of India, who died at Cawnpoor, 24th of November, 1826. Another awful warning voice of death To human dignity, and human pride;

Mute, memory stands, at valor's awful shrine, In tears Britannia mourns her hero dead; A world's regret, brave Abercrombie's thine.

Swift through the land while Fame transported flies, And shouts triumphant shake the illumin'd skies; Britannia, bending o'er her dauntless prows,

Swift through the land while Fame transported flies, And shouts triumphant shake th' illumined skies; Britannia, bending o'er her dauntless prows,

Beautiful Boy--thy heavenward thoughts Are pictured in thine eyes, Thou hast no taint of mortal birth,

Every poor Quidnunc now condemns The Tunnel underneath Old Thames, And swears, his science all forgetting,

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

Once more we venture here, to prove our worth, And ask indulgence kind, to tempt us forth: Seek not perfection from our essays green,

What sovereign good shall satiate man's desires, Propell'd by Hope's unconquerable fires? Vain each bright bauble by ambition prized;

Great epoch in the history of bards! Important day to those who woo the nine; Better than fame are visitation-cards,

Love, Cupid, Gallantry, whate'er We call that elf, seen every where, Half frolicsome, half ennuyeuse,

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,

With a Drawing of the Head of an Eminent Artist. Dear Sir, you remember, when Herod of Jewry Had given a ball, how a shocking old fury

While o'er this pageant of sublunar things Oblivion spreads her unrelenting wings, And sweeps adown her dark unebbing tide

Embalm'd in fame, and sacred from decay, What mighty name, in arms, in arts, or verse, From England claims this consecrated day.

Oh! never will I leave my love, My captive soul would sigh to stray, Tho' seraph-songs its truth to prove,

When Discord blew her fell alarm On Gallia's blood-stain'd ground, When Usurpation's giant arm

When the rough storm roars round the peasant's cot, And bursting thunders roll their awful din; While shrieks the frighted night bird o'er the spot,

Oh! best belov'd of heaven, on earth bestow'd To raise the pilgrim, sunk with ghastly fears, To cool his burning wounds, to wipe his tears,

Hail! Heavenly Maid, my pensive mind, Invokes thy woe-subduing strain; For there a shield my soul can find,

Fair flower! that fall'n beneath the angry blast, Which marks with wither'd sweets its fearful way, I grieve to see thee on the low earth cast,

When the rough storm roars round the peasant's cot, And bursting thunders roll their awful din; While shrieks the frighted night-bird o'er the spot,

Meek Maid! that sitting on yon lofty tower, View'st the calm floods that wildly beat below, Be off! yon sunbeam veils a heavy shower,

Light as the breeze that hails the infant morn The Milkmaid trips, as o'er her arm she slings Her cleanly pail, some fav'rite lay she sings

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,

Sweet wreck of loveliness! alas, how soon The sad brief summer of thy joys hath fled: How sorrows Friendship for thy hapless doom,

Sweet songstress! whom the melancholy Muse With more than fondness loved, for thee she strung The lyre, on which herself enraptured hung,

His weary warfare done, his woes forgot, Freedom! thy son, oppress'd so long, is free: He seeks the realms where tyranny is not,

Of late I saw him on his staff reclined, Bow'd down beneath a weary weight of woes, Without a roof to shelter from the wind

Thou bud of early promise, may the rose Which time, methinks, will rear in envied bloom, By friendship nurs'd, its grateful sweets disclose,

Fair flower! that fall'n beneath the angry blast, Which marks with wither'd sweets its fearful way, I grieve to see thee on the low earth cast,

Friend of the lonely hour, from thy lov'd strain The magic pow'r of pleasure have I known: Awhile I lose remembrance of my pain,

O! best-beloved of Heaven, on earth bestow'd, To raise the pilgrim sunk with ghastly fears, To cool his burning wounds, to wipe his tears,

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,

How droops the wretch whom adverse fates pursue, While sad experience, from his aching sight Sweeps the fair prospects of unproved delight,

Bless'd be the hour that gave my LYDIA birth, The day be sacred 'mid each varying year; How oft the name recals thy spotless worth,

To thy unhappy courts a lonely guest I come, corroding Melancholy, where, Sequester'd from the world, this woe-worn breast

Come long-lost blessing! heaven-lov'd seraph, haste, On pity's wings upborne, a world's wide woes Invoke thy smiles extatic, long effac'd,

"Why, there's Peace, Jack, come damme let's push round the grog, And awhile altogether in good humor jog, For they say we shall soon go ashore;

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.

Come, thou blessed day of rest! Soother of the tortured breast, Wearied souls release from toil,

A parson once--and poorer he Than ever parson ought to be; Yet not so proud as some from College,

Sweet are the hours when roseate spring With health and joy salutes the day. When zephyr, borne on wanton wing,

Hail, lovely morn! and thou, all-beauteous sea! Sun-sparkling with the diamond's countless rays: Thy look, how tranquil, one eternal calm,

Ah! this wild desolated spot, Calls forth the plaintive tear; Remembrance paints my little cot,

Sung by Messrs. PYNE, NELSON, Miss WITHAM, and Master LONGHURST.--Composed by Mr. ROOKE. We, who the wide world make our home; The barren heath our cheerful bed;

Lives there who, with unhallow'd hand, would tear, One leaf from that immortal wreath which shades The Hero's living brow, or decks his urn?

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

Once more Britannia sheathes her conqu'ring sword, And Peace returns, by Victory restored; Peace, that erewhile estranged, 'midst long alarms,

I dare not look at those dear eyes, The sun was never half so bright, There surely more of rapture lies

Can it be true, so fragrant and so fair, To give thy perfumes to the dews of night? Can aught so beautiful, despise the glare,

Come away, come away, little fly! Don't disturb the sweet calm of lore's nest; If you do, I protest you shall die,

Ah! who is he by Cynthia's gleam Discern'd, the statue of distress; Weeping beside the willow'd stream

Ah! who is he by Cynthia's gleam Discern'd, the statue of distress: Weeping beside the willow'd stream

A Sketch. So stood the Sibyl: stream'd her hoary hair Wild as the blast, and with a comet's glare

"Murder will out:"--and so will truth sometimes; For once I'll prove it in a dozen lines.-- At one of those parties where Julia's sweet face

Say, dark prow'd visitant! that o'er the brine Stalk'st proudly--heeding not what wind may blow, What chart, what compass, shapes that course of thine,

Still e'er that shrine defiance rears its head, Which rolls in sullen murmurs o'er the dead, That shrine which conquest, as it stems the flood.

0 Nymph! with cheeks of roseate hue, Whose eyes are violets bath'd in dew, So liquid, languishing, and blue,

Come, JENNY, let me sip the dew That on those coral lips doth play, One kiss would every care subdue,

O Sue! you certainly have been A little raking, roguish creature, And in that face may still be seen

Come away, come away, little fly! Don't disturb the sweet calm of love's nest: If you do, I protest you shall die,

I dare not spoil this spotless page With any feeble verse of mine; The Poet's fire has lost its rage,

Thou art indeed a lovely flower, And I, just like the fleeting hour, Which few will heed on folly's brink,

Oh! is there not in infant smiles A witching power, a cheering ray, A charm, that every care beguiles,

Fanny! were all the world like thee, How cheerly then this life would glide, Dear emblem of Fidelity!

Southey! high placed on the contested throne Of modern verse, a Muse, herself unknown, Sues that her tears may consecrate the strains

Written at the Cottage of T. LEWIS, Esq. Woodbury Downs. In the retirement of this lovely spot, Sacred to friendship, industry, and worth,

Farewell! loved youth, for still I hold thee dear, Though thou hast left me friendless and alone; Still, still thy name recals the heartfelt tear,

Oh! ye, enthroned in presidential awe, To give the song-smit generation law; Who wield Apollo's delegated rod,

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

Tell me, chaste spirit! in yon orb of light, Which seems to wearied souls an ark of rest, So calm, so peaceful, so divinely bright--

Dear P----, while Painters, Poets, Sages, Inscribe this volume's votive pages With partial friendship: why invite

Joy to thee, Lady! many years of joy To thee--and thine--that springtide of the heart, The bliss of virtuous love, without alloy.

Lady unknown! a pilgrim from the shrine Of Poesy's fair temple, brings a wreath Which fame and gratitude alike entwine,

Mute Memory stands at Valour's awful shrine, In tears Britannia mourns her hero dead; A world's regret, brave ABERCROMBIE's thine,

Lamented Chief! at thy distinguish'd deeds The world shall gaze with wonder and applause, While, on fair History's page, the patriot reads

By Miss A.M. TURNER, Daughter of the Eminent Engraver. Death to the very life! not the closed eye, Not those small paralytic limbs alone,

I love the joyous thoughtless heart, The revels of the youthful mind, 'Ere sad experience points the dart,