On A Spirited Portrait In My Album,

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 pass'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!

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

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

Thomas Gent, Simple Poetry

Here In Our Fairy Bowers We Dwell. A Glee.

Thomas Gent, Simple Poetry

Hymn.

Thomas Gent, Simple Poetry

Sunday.

Thomas Gent, Simple Poetry

English

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On Rover, A Lady's Spaniel

INSTRUCTIONS TO A PAINTER[1]

Happiest of the spaniel race,
Painter, with thy colours grace:
Draw his forehead large and high,
Draw his blue and humid eye;
Draw his neck so smooth and round,
Little neck with ribbons bound!
And the muscly swelling breast,
Where the Loves and Graces rest;
And the spreading even back,
Soft, and sleek, and glossy black;
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Like the tendrils of the vines;
And the silky twisted hair,
Shadowing thick the velvet ear;
Velvet ears, which, hanging low,
O'er the veiny temples flow.
    With a proper light and shade,
Let the winding hoop be laid;
And within that arching bower,
(Secret circle, mystic power,)
In a downy slumber place
Happiest of the spaniel race;
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Jonathan Swift

On A Delightful Drawing In My Album,

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;
And thou, poor Dog, most patient thing of all,
Begging for morsels that may never fall!
Oh! 'tis a faithful group--and it might shame
Painters of bold pretence, and greater name--
To see how nature triumphs, and how rare
Such matchless proofs of Nature's triumphs are--
The smallest particle of sand may tell
With what rich ore Pactolus' tide may swell:
And Woodward! this ingenious, chaste design,
Proclaims what treasures lie within the mine--
Pupil of Cooper--Nature's favorite son--
Whom, but to name, and to admire, is one!

Thomas Gent

To His Serene Highness The Duke Of Montpensier On His Portrait Of The Lady Adelaide Forbes.

Donington Park, 1802


To catch the thought, by painting's spell,
    Howe'er remote, howe'er refined,
And o'er the kindling canvas tell
    The silent story of the mind;

O'er nature's form to glance the eye,
    And fix, by mimic light and shade,
Her morning tinges ere they fly,
    Her evening blushes, ere they fade;

Yes, these are Painting's proudest powers,
    The gift, by which her art divine
Above all others proudly towers,--
    And these, oh Prince! are richly thine.

And yet, when Friendship sees thee trace,
    In almost living truth exprest,
This bright memorial of a face
    On which her eye delights to rest;

While o'er the lovely look serene,
    The smile of peace, the bloom of youth,
The ch...

Thomas Moore

The Huntsman And His Hound.

When hill and dale, long years ago,
Lay clad in nature's dress,
And flourish'd the primeval pomp
Of nature's wilderness,

A huntsman and his hound would roam,
Where fed the timid deer,
And where the partridge's drum, or whirr,
Brought music to his ear.

In sooth, he heard all forest sounds
With real sportsman's joy;
And here he always pleasure found,
With little of alloy.

The pigeon's coo, the squirrel's chirp,
The wild-bird's thrilling lay,
Brought freshen'd pleasure to his heart,
At ev'ry op'ning day.

But music sweeter far than aught
In wood or vale around,
Was the loud crackling of the deer,
Or baying of his hound.

Full many a deer his steady aim,
With faithful rifle slew,
But, faithful as his rifle ...

Thomas Frederick Young

Lines Suggested By A Portrait From The Pencil Of F. Stone

Beguiled into forgetfulness of care
Due to the day's unfinished task; of pen
Or book regardless, and of that fair scene
In Nature's prodigality displayed
Before my window, oftentimes and long
I gaze upon a Portrait whose mild gleam
Of beauty never ceases to enrich
The common light; whose stillness charms the air,
Or seems to charm it, into like repose;
Whose silence, for the pleasure of the ear,
Surpasses sweetest music. There she sits
With emblematic purity attired
In a white vest, white as her marble neck
Is, and the pillar of the throat would be
But for the shadow by the drooping chin
Cast into that recess, the tender shade,
The shade and light, both there and everywhere,
And through the very atmosphere she breathes,
Broad, clear, and toned harmon...

William Wordsworth

Incident Characteristic Of A Favorite Dog

On his morning rounds the Master
Goes to learn how all things fare;
Searches pasture after pasture,
Sheep and cattle eyes with care;
And, for silence or for talk,
He hath comrades in his walk;
Four dogs, each pair of different breed,
Distinguished two for scent, and two for speed.

See a hare before him started!
Off they fly in earnest chase;
Every dog is eager-hearted,
All the four are in the race:
And the hare whom they pursue,
Knows from instinct what to do;
Her hope is near: no turn she makes;
But, like an arrow, to the river takes.

Deep the river was, and crusted
Thinly by a one night's frost;
But the nimble Hare hath trusted
To the ice, and safely crost;
She hath crost, and without heed
All are following at full speed,...

William Wordsworth