Poems (1828) by Thomas Gent Part 8

Alert in zeal, with art benigh endued, SOUTHEY! thy hand his blasted strength renew'd, And lured him on, his labours scarce begun, To win those laurels which thyself had won.

In vain! though vivified with pristine force, O'er learning's realms he shot with meteor course; To worth relentless, Fate's despotic frown Scowl'd in the bright perspective of renown: Timeless he falls, in Death's pale triumph led.

And his first laurels shade his gra.s.sy bed.

So sinks the Muse's offspring, doom'd to try, Like a caged eagle panting tow'rds the sky, A foil'd ascent, while adverse fortune flings Her strong link'd meshes o'er his flutt'ring wings, Sinks, while exalted Ignorance supine, Unheeded slumbers like the pamper'd swine; Obsequious slaves in his voluptuous bowers Young pleasures warble, while the dancing Hours In sickly sweetness languis.h.i.+ngly move, Like new-waked virgins flush'd with dreams of love-- Him, when by Death's dark angel swept away From sloth's embrace, in premature decay, Surviving friends, donation'd into grief, Shall mourn with anguish audible and brief, And pander-bards ring round in goodly chime His liberal heart, high wit, and soul sublime; But Flattery's frauds impartial Time disowns, Funereal pomp, and adulative tones; Slow where she moves through monumental aisles, With stern contempt insulted Reason smiles, While Falsehood, shrined above th' emblazon'd palls, Shames sanct.i.ty from consecrated walls: She seeks, with pensive step and saintly eyes, Some lonely grave, where rude the gra.s.s-tufts rise; Nor sculptured angels tell, nor chisell'd lines, There slumbers CHATTERTON--here WHITE reclines!

But n.o.bler triumphs WHITE'S probation claims Than ever blazon'd Wit's recorded names; For Virtue's sons, to bliss immortal born, Tower to their native heaven, and view with scorn The vain distinction of the trophied sod, 'Tis theirs to gain distinction with their G.o.d!

THE STATE SECRET.

AN IMPROMPTU.

"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 Added interest to beauty, and archness to grace, Where many fine folks met; and one very great, Proud and stupid, an embryo minister sate; Like a damper he came to put good humour out, And it chanced that, as Julia's pet-bird flew about.

It presumptuously 'lit on this mighty man's head; When her lore-laughing sister, sweet Eleanor, said, "Naughty bird! I must cage you for being so rude, On Lord------head, oh! how dare you intrude?"

"Let it rest," replied Julia, with an exquisite grace, "Don't frighten it off--for it likes a _soft place_!"

THE MORNING CALL.

TO THE HONOURABLE LADY--------.

Written and left on her Table during her absence--Bathing.

I dare not look at those dear eyes, The sun was never half so bright, There surely more of rapture lies Than ever bless'd a mortal's sight.

In thy sweet face I see impress'd Ten thousand thousand charms divine, The sunbeams of thy guileless breast Like Heaven's eternal mercies s.h.i.+ne!

Angel of love! life's endless joy, Our hope at morn, our evening prayer; The bliss above would have alloy, Unless dear--------- thou wert there!

Oh! Woman--what a charm hast thou Our rebel nature thus to tame: We ever must adore and bow.

While virtue guards thy holy fane!

_Werthing_.

SONNET.

ON THE DEATH OF TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE.

His weary warfare done, his woes forgot, Freedom! thy son, oppress'd so long, is free: He seeks the realms where tyranny is not, And those shall hail him who have died for thee!

Immortal TELL! receive a soul like thine, Who scorn'd obedience to usurp'd command: Who rose a giant from a sphere indign, To tear the rod from proud oppression's hand.

Alas! no victor-wreaths enzon'd his brow, But freedom long his hapless fate shall mourn; Her holy tears shall nurse the laurel-bough, Whose green leaves grace his consecrated urn.

Nursed by these tears, that bough shall rise sublime, And bloom triumphant 'mid the wrecks of time!

ON THE RUPTURE OF THE THAMES' TUNNEL,

WRITTEN 2nd JULY, 1827.

Every poor Quidnunc _now_ condemns The Tunnel underneath Old Thames, And swears, his science all forgetting, Friend Brunel's judgment wanted _whetting;_ 'Tis thus great characters are dish'd, When they get _wetter_ than was wish'd,-- Brunel to _Gravesend_ meant to go Under the water, wags say so, And under that same water put His hopes to find a shorter cut; But when we leave the light of day.

Water hath many a devious way, Which, like a naughty woman, leads The best of men to strange misdeeds: Had nearly, 'twas a toss-up whether, Gone to his grave and end together.

How the performance went amiss The _cla.s.sical_ account is this--

The Naiads, Thames' stream that swim in, Being _curious_, just like mortal _women_, Dear souls! 'tis said, midst all their cares, They love to peep at man's affairs, And wondering at the workmen's hammers, The noise of axes, engines, rammers, Thought 'twould be well, nor meant the fun ill, To make an opening through the Tunnel, Just to see how the work went on, And then, down dash'd they, every one; When these same _belles_ began to dire, 'Twas well the workmen 'scaped alive: Brunel, indeed, who knew full well The nature of a _diving bell_, Remain'd some time, nor made wry faces, Within their aqueous embraces; Nay, fierce and ungallant, adventured To oust them by the breach they entered.

Vain man! 'twas well that he could swim, Or, certes, they had ousted _him_.

Speed on great projects! though we rate 'em _Rash_, for alluvial pomatum, And under that a sandy stratum, Will offer at a little distance An insurmountable resistance.

How strange! to find the labour done Just as the _sand_ begins to _run_; In general human projects drop, Just when our _sand_ begins to _stop!_

ANACREONTIC.

"THE WISEST MEN ARE FOOLS IN WINE."

The wisest men are fools in wine, Experience makes us think: Its magic spells are so divine, We reason--yet we drink!

How short's the longest life of man, How soon its brightest laurels fade-- Then, as our life is but a span, Let all its hours be joyous made.

Wine o'er the ardent restless mind Entwines its poppy chain; A solace, then, the wretched find.

In fictions of the brain.

Oh! as the charmed gla.s.s we sip, We conquer care and pain: It woos like woman's dewy lip, To kiss--and come again!

This Song has been admirably set to Music, and Sung with great success, by MR. HENRY PHILLIPS.--It is published by MORI and LAVENU, 28, New Bond-street.

LINES

WRITTEN IN HORNSEY WOOD

Oh! ye, who pine, in London smoke immured, With spirits wearied, and with pains uncured, With all the catalogue of city evils, Colds, asthmas, rheumatism, coughs, blue devils!

Who bid each bold empiric roll in wealth, Who drains your fortunes while he saps your health: So well ye love your dirty streets and lanes, Ye court your ailments and embrace your pains.

And scarce ye know, so little have ye seen, If corn be yellow, or if gra.s.s be green; Why leave ye not your smoke-obstructed holes, With wholesome air to cheer your sickly souls?

In scenes where Health's bright G.o.ddess wakes the breeze, Floats on the stream, and fans the whisp'ring trees: Soon would the brighten'd eye her influence speak, And her full roses flush the faded cheek.

Then, where romantic Hornsey courts the eye With all the charms of sylvan scenery, Let the pale sons of Diligence repair, And pause, like me, from sedentary care; Here the rich landscape spreads profusely wide, And here embowering shades the prospect hide: Each mazy walk in wild meanders moves, And infant oaks, luxuriant, grace the groves: Oaks, that by time matured, removed afar, Shall ride triumphant, 'midst the wat'ry war; Shall blast the bulwarks of Britannia's foes, And claim her empire, wide as ocean flows!

O'er all the scene, mellifluous and bland, The blissful powers of harmony expand; Soft sigh the zephyrs 'mid the still retreats, And steal from Flora's lips ambrosial sweets; Their notes of love the feather'd songsters sing, And Cupid peeps behind the vest of Spring.