On The Portrait Of The Son Of J.G. Lambton, Esq., M.P. By Sir Thomas Lawrence, P.R.A.

Beautiful Boy--thy heavenward thoughts
Are pictured in thine eyes,
Thou hast no taint of mortal birth,
Thy communing is not of earth,
Thy holy musings rise:
Like incense kindled from on high,
Ascending to its native sky.

And such a head might once have graced
The infant Samuel, when
Call'd by the favour of his God,
The youthful priest the Temple trod
Beloved of Heaven and men!
The same devotion on his brow
As brightens in thy forehead now.

Or, thou may'st seem to Fancy's eye
One borne by arms Divine;
One, whom on Earth a Saviour bless'd,
And on whose features left impress'd
The Contact's holy sign:
A light, a halo, and a grace,
So pure th' expression of that face.

Or, has the Painter's skill alone
Such grace and glory given?
Clothed thee with attributes which seem
Creations of an angel's dream,
To raise the soul to Heaven?
No, as he found thee, he arrayed,
And Genius taught what God had made!

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

The Morning Call. To The Honourable Lady--------.

Thomas Gent, Simple Poetry

Epigram. Auri Sacra Fames.

Thomas Gent, Simple Poetry

Written In The Album Of The Lady Of Counsellor D. Pollock.

Thomas Gent, Simple Poetry

1827; Or, The Poet's Last Poem.

Thomas Gent, Simple Poetry

English

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

Beguiled into forgetfulness of care
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Sonnet. About Jesus. IV.

If Thou hadst been a painter, what fresh looks,
What shining of pent glories, what new grace
Had burst upon us from the great Earth's face!
How had we read, as in new-languaged books,
Clear love of God in lone retreating nooks!
A lily, as thy hand its form would trace,
Were plainly seen God's child, of lower race;
And, O my heart, blue hills! and grassy brooks!
Thy soul lay to all undulations bare,
Answering in waves. Each morn the sun did rise,
And God's world woke beneath life-giving skies,
Thou sawest clear thy Father's meanings there;
'Mid Earth's Ideal, and expressions rare,
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Sonnet. About Jesus. VI.

And is not Earth thy living picture, where
Thou utterest beauty, simple and profound,
In the same form by wondrous union bound;
Where one may see the first step of the stair,
And not the next, for brooding vapours there?
And God is well content the starry round
Should wake the infant's inarticulate sound,
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And so all men of low or lofty mind,
Who in their hearts hear thy unspoken word,
Have lessons low or lofty, to their kind,
In these thy living shows of beauty, Lord;
While the child's heart that simply childlike is,
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Blessings on thee, noble boy!
With thy sunny eyes of blue,
Speaking in their cloudless depths
Of a spirit pure and true.

In thy thoughtful look and calm,
In thy forehead broad and high,
We have seemed to meet again
One whose home is in the sky.

Thou to Earth art still a stranger,
To Life's tumult and unrest;
Angel visitants alone
Stir the fountains in thy breast.

Thou hast yet no Past to shadow
With a fear the Future's light,
And the Present spreads before thee
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Our Saviour's Boyhood.

With what a flood of wondrous thoughts
    Each Christian breast must swell
When, wandering back through ages past,
    With simple faith they dwell
On quiet Nazareth's sacred sod,
Where the Child Saviour's footsteps trod.

Awe-struck we picture to ourselves
    That brow serene and fair,
That gentle face, the long rich curls
    Of wavy golden hair,
And those deep wondrous, star-like eyes,
Holy and calm as midnight skies.

We see Him in the work-shop shed
    With Joseph, wise and good,
Obedient to His guardian's word,
    Docile and meek of mood;
The Mighty Lord of Heaven and Earth
Toiling like one of lowly birth.

Or else, with His young Mother fair -
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Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

To My Son. [1]

1.

Those flaxen locks, those eyes of blue
Bright as thy mother's in their hue;
Those rosy lips, whose dimples play
And smile to steal the heart away,
Recall a scene of former joy,
And touch thy father's heart, my Boy!


2.

And thou canst lisp a father's name -
Ah, William, were thine own the same, -
No self-reproach - but, let me cease -
My care for thee shall purchase peace;
Thy mother's shade shall smile in joy,
And pardon all the past, my Boy!


3.

Her lowly grave the turf has prest,
And thou hast known a stranger's breast;
Derision sneers upon thy birth,
And yields thee scarce a name on earth;
Yet shall not these one hope destroy, -
A Father's heart is thine, my Boy!


4.

W...

George Gordon Byron