Here In Our Fairy Bowers We Dwell. A Glee.

Here, in our fairy bowers, we dwell,
Women our idol, life's best treasure!
Echo enchanted joys to tell,
Our feast of laugh, of love, and pleasure.
Say, is not this then bliss divine,
Beauty's smiles and rosy wine?

Eternal mirth and sunshine reign,
For grief we cannot find the leisure;
Night's social gods have banish'd pain,
Morn lights us to increasing pleasure.
Say, is not this then bliss divine,
Beauty's smiles and rosy wine?
Here in our fairy bowers, &c.

Thomas Gent

Thomas Gent was an 18th-century English writer, printer, and bookseller, known predominantly for his historical works. Despite facing numerous financial difficulties, his passion for printing never waned, leading him to chronicle his experiences and the events of his time with a distinct personal touch. His works offer a vivid depiction of 18th-century English life, ensuring his place in literary history.

Thomas Gent

Sonnet. In The Manner Of The Moderns.

Thomas Gent, Simple Poetry

Mature Reflections.

Thomas Gent, Simple Poetry

On Reading The Poem Of "Paris." By The Rev George Croly, A.M.

Thomas Gent, Simple Poetry

Reflections Of A Poet, On Going To A Great Dinner.

Thomas Gent, Simple Poetry

English

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And The Laughter Of The Young And Gay Was Far Too Glad And Loud.

Hush, hush! my thoughts are resting on a changeless world of bliss;
Oh! come not with the voice of mirth to lure them back to this.
'Tis true, we've much of sadness in our weary sojourn here,
That fades, and leaves no deeper trace than childhood's reckless tear;
But there are woes which scathe the heart till all its bloom is o'er,
A deadly blight we feel but once, that once for evermore.

Oh, then, 'tis sweet on fancy's wing to cleave that bright domain!
The loved and the redeemed are there, why lure me back again?
The cadences of gladness to your hearts may yet be dear;
They have no melody for mine, all, all is desert here.
The sunshine still is bright to you, the moonlight and the flowers;
To me they tell a harrowing tale of dear departed hours.

I would not cu...

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Oh! Had We Some Bright Little Isle Of Our Own.

Oh! had we some bright little isle of our own,
In a blue summer ocean, far off and alone,
Where a leaf never dies in the still blooming bowers,
And the bee banquets on thro' a whole year of flowers;
    Where the sun loves to pause
        With so fond a delay,
    That the night only draws
        A thin veil o'er the day;
Where simply to feel that we breathe, that we live,
Is worth the best joy that life elsewhere can give.

There, with souls ever ardent and pure as the clime,
We should love, as they loved in the first golden time;
The glow of the sunshine, the balm of the air,
Would steal to our hearts, and make all summer there.
    With affection as free
        From decline as the bowers,
    And, with hope, like the bee,
        Living always ...

Thomas Moore

Oh, Could We Do With This World Of Ours.

Oh, could we do with this world of ours
As thou dost with thy garden bowers,
Reject the weeds and keep the flowers,
    What a heaven on earth we'd make it!
So bright a dwelling should be our own,
So warranted free from sigh or frown,
That angels soon would be coming down,
    By the week or month to take it.

Like those gay flies that wing thro' air,
And in themselves a lustre bear,
A stock of light, still ready there,
    Whenever they wish to use it;
So, in this world I'd make for thee,
Our hearts should all like fire-flies be,
And the flash of wit or poesy
    Break forth whenever we choose it.

While every joy that glads our sphere
Hath still some shadow hovering near,
In this new world of ours, my dear,
    Such shadows will all ...

Thomas Moore

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 grass be green;
Why leave ye not your smoke-obstructed holes,
With wholesome air to cheer your sickly souls?
In scenes where Health's bright goddess 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 romanti...

Thomas Gent

Beauty And Song.

Down in yon summer vale,
    Where the rill flows.
Thus said a Nightingale
    To his loved Rose:--
"Tho' rich the pleasures
"Of song's sweet measures,
"Vain were its melody,
"Rose, without thee."

Then from the green recess
    Of her night-bower,
Beaming with bashfulness,
    Spoke the bright flower:--
"Tho' morn should lend her
"Its sunniest splendor,
"What would the Rose be,
"Unsung by thee?"

Thus still let Song attend
    Woman's bright way;
Thus still let woman lend
    Light to the lay.
Like stars thro' heaven's sea
Floating in harmony
Beauty should glide along
Circled by Song.

Thomas Moore

Wreath The Bowl.

    Wreath the bowl
    With flowers of soul,
The brightest wit can find us;
    We'll take a flight
    Towards heaven to-night,
And leave dull earth behind us.
    Should Love amid
    The wreaths be hid,
That joy, the enchanter, brings us,
    No danger fear,
    While wine is near,
We'll drown him if he stings us,
    Then, wreath the bowl
    With flowers of soul,
The brightest wit can find us;
    We'll take a flight
    Towards heaven to-night,
And leave dull earth behind us.

    'Twas nectar fed
    Of old, 'tis said,
Their Junos, Joves, Apollos;
    And man may brew
    His nectar too,
The rich receipt's as follows:
    Take wine like this,
    Let looks of bliss
Around it well be blended,
 ...

Thomas Moore