Sent For The Album Of The Rev. G---- C----,

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
Demanded, so bent was the vixen on slaughter.
The head of St. John at the hand of her daughter:
Now do not detest me, nor hold me in dread,
Because, like King Herod, I send you a head:
Not a saint's, by-the-bye, although taken from life,
But a head of my friend, by the hand of my wife.

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

Content.

Thomas Gent, Simple Poetry

Shakspeare.

Thomas Gent, Simple Poetry

To Mary.

Thomas Gent, Simple Poetry

Mary.

Thomas Gent, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Written In The Album Of I---- H---- P----, Esq.

Dear P----, while Painters, Poets, Sages,
Inscribe this volume's votive pages
With partial friendship: why invite
The tribute of a luckless wight
Unknown--by wisdom or by wit
Indulged with no certificate?

Perchance, as in a diadem
Glittering with many a radiant gem,
Some mean metallic foil is placed
Judicious, by the hand of taste;
You seek, amidst the sons of fame,
To set an undistinguish'd name?
If so--that name is freely lent,
A pebble to your gems--T. GENT.

Thomas Gent

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 gra...

Thomas Gent

Written In The Album Of The Lady Of Dr. George Birkbeck, M.D.

Lady unknown! a pilgrim from the shrine
Of Poesy's fair temple, brings a wreath
Which fame and gratitude alike entwine,
Around a name that charms the monster Death,
And bids him pause!--Amidst despairing life
BIRKBECK's the harbinger of hope and health;
When sordid affluence was with man at strife,
He boldly stripp'd the veil, and show'd the wealth
To aged ignorance, and ardent youth,
Of cultured minds--the freedom of the soul!
The sun of science, and the light of truth,
The bliss of reason--mind without control.

Accept this tribute. Lady! and the praise,
As Consort and the soother of his care!
His offspring's pride--his friend's commingled rays,
And every other grace that man has deem'd most rare!

Thomas Gent

Epistle To A Friend.

Give me the wreath of friendship true,
Whose flowerets fade not in a breath:
From memory gaining many a hue,
To bloom beyond the touch of death.

And I will send it to thy home--
Thy home beloved, my faithful friend!
And pray for its perpetual bloom
And every bliss that earth can send.

Within its magic wreath I'd place
Hearts'-ease and every lovely flower;
To win thee by their matchless grace,
And cheer and bless the lonely hour.

When at the world's unkind return
Of all thy worth, and all thy care,
Thou may'st in spite of manhood turn,
And shed the sad, the bitter, tear.

Then, midst this holy grief of thine,
The thought of some true friend may bless,
And cheer the gloom like angel's smile,
Or sunbeam in a wilderness.
...

Thomas Gent

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

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 shine!

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.

Thomas Gent

Memorials Of A Tour In Italy, 1837 - XV. - At The Convent Of Camaldoli

Grieve for the Man who hither came bereft,
And seeking consolation from above;
Nor grieve the less that skill to him was left
To paint this picture of his lady-love:
Can she, a blessed saint, the work approve?
And oh, good Brethren of the cowl, a thing
So fair, to which with peril he must cling,
Destroy in pity, or with care remove.
That bloom, those eyes, can they assist to bind
Thoughts that would stray from Heaven? The dream must cease
To be; by Faith, not sight, his soul must live;
Else will the enamoured Monk too surely find
How wide a space can part from inward peace
The most profound repose his cell can give.

William Wordsworth