Song

Oh! never will I leave my love,
My captive soul would sigh to stray,
Tho' seraph-songs its truth to prove,
Call it from earth to heaven to away.

For heaven has deign'd on earth to send
As rich a gift as it can give;
Alas! that mortal bliss must end,
For mortal man must cease to live.

Yet transient would my sorrows be
Should Delia first her breath resign;
Sweet Maid! my soul would follow thee,
For never can it part from thine.

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

Hymn.

Thomas Gent, Simple Poetry

To Robert Southey, Esq. On Reading His "Remains Of Henry Kirke White."

Thomas Gent, Simple Poetry

Impromptu, To Oriana. On Attending With Her, As Sponsors, At A Christening

Thomas Gent, Simple Poetry

Sonnet. Night.

Thomas Gent, Simple Poetry

English

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

Song.

Wilt thou, because thy Florio loves,
Forsake the giddy glitt'ring throng,
With him to dwell in peaceful groves,
With him to hear the shepherd's song?

Can'st thou, without a sigh, resign
The homage by thy charms inspir'd?
To one, oh! say, can'st thou confine
What oft so many have admir'd?

Sweet maid! oh! bless'd shall be our love,
Till time shall bid it cease to flow;
With thee shall ev'ry moment prove
A little heaven form'd below!

John Carr

Song

Yes, I could love, could softly yield
To passion all my willing breast,
And fondly listen to the voice
That oft invites me to be blest;

That still, when Fancy, lost in bliss,
Stands gazing on the form divine,
So sweetly whispers to my soul,
O make the heavenly Julia thine!

But hush, thou fascinating voice!
Hence visionary extacy!
Yes, I could love, but ah! I fear
She would not deign to smile on me.

Thomas Oldham

Eclogue, Spring

SPRING.

Muse of the pastoral reed and sylvan reign,
Divine inspirer of each tuneful swain,
Who taught the Doric Shepherd to portray
Primeval nature in his simple lay;
And him of Mantua, in a nicer age,
To form the graces of his artful page;
O, come! where crystal Avon winds serene,
And with thy presence bless the brightening scene;
Now, while I rove his willowy banks along,
With fond intent to wake the rural song,
Inspire me, Goddess! to my strains impart
The force of nature, and the grace of art.

Now has the Night her dusky veil withdrawn,
And, softly blushing, peeps the smiling Dawn;
The lark, on quivering wings, amid the skies
Pours his shrill song, inviting her to rise;
The breathing Zephyrs just begin to play,
Waking the flowers to s...

Thomas Oldham

Song.

Fly from the world, O Bessy! to me,
    Thou wilt never find any sincerer;
I'll give up the world, O Bessy! for thee,
    I can never meet any that's dearer.
Then tell me no more, with a tear and a sigh,
    That our loves will be censured by many;
All, all have their follies, and who will deny
    That ours is the sweetest of any?

When your lip has met mine, in communion so sweet,
    Have we felt as if virtue forbid it?--
Have we felt as if heaven denied them to meet?--
    No, rather 'twas heaven that did it.
So innocent, love, is the joy we then sip,
    So little of wrong is there in it,
That I wish all my errors were lodged on your lip,
    And I'd kiss them away in a minute.

Then come to your lover, oh! fly to his shed,
    From a world...

Thomas Moore

Farewell.

Farewell! and know, where'er I roam,
    My heart still turns to thee,
From spacious halls, or trackless woods,
    Or on the foaming sea.

Farewell, my friend! oh, could I say,
    My love, my own, to you,
My outlook on this dreary world
    Would have a brighter hue.

But duty calls, and I must go,
    E'en now, with outstretch'd hand,
I take a sad, sad leave of thee,
    To dwell in distant land.

For thy sweet sake I'll onward toil,
In earnest, patient strife.
Content, if thou shalt know I live
An earnest, useful life.

And if, in future years thou'rt free,
And none has gain'd thy heart,
Oh, darling, wilt thou come to me,
And we shall never part.

My shatter'd life will then be sweet,
My spirit shall rejoic...

Thomas Frederick Young

The Blue-Eyed Maid.

Sweet are the hours when roseate spring
With health and joy salutes the day.
When zephyr, borne on wanton wing,
Soft whispering, wakes the blushing May.
Sweet are the hours, yet not so sweet
As when my blue-eyed Maid I meet,
And hear her soul-entrancing tale,
Sequester'd in the shadowy vale.

The mellow horn's long-echoing notes
Startle the morn, commingling strong;
At eve, the harp's wild music floats.
And ravish'd Silence drinks the song.
Yet sweeter is the song of love,
When EMMA'S voice enchants the grove,
While listening sylphs repeat the tale,
Sequester'd in the silent vale.

Thomas Gent