Sonnet. To Melancholy.

To thy unhappy courts a lonely guest
I come, corroding Melancholy, where,
Sequester'd from the world, this woe-worn breast
May yet indulge a solitary tear!
For what should cheer the wretch's struggling heart;
What lead him thro' misfortunes gloomy shades;
When retrospection wings her keenest dart,
And hope's dim land in misery's ocean fades?
Adieu, for ever! visionary joys,
Delusive shadows of a short-liv'd hour;
The rod of woe invincible, destroys
The light, the fairy fabric of your pow'r!
How short of bliss the sublunary reign,
How long the clouded days of misery and pain!

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

Mature Reflections.

Thomas Gent, Simple Poetry

Elegy On The Death Of Abraham Goldsmid, Esq.

Thomas Gent, Simple Poetry

On The Beautiful Portrait Of Mrs. Foreman, As Pandora.

Thomas Gent, Simple Poetry

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

Thomas Gent, Simple Poetry

English

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Sonnet.

Ye fates! who sternly point on sorrow's chart
The line of pain a wretch must still pursue,
To end the struggles of a bleeding heart,
And grace the triumph misery owes to you
How poor your pow'r! where fortitude, serene,
But smiling views the glimmering taper shine;
Time soon shall dim, and close the wearied scene,
Bestowing solace e'en on woes like mine.
Ah! stop your course too long I've felt your chain,
Too long the feeble influence of its pow'r;
The heir of grief may fall in love with pain,
And worst-misfortune feel the tranquil hour.
Hail, fortitude! blest friend life's ills to brave,
All misery boasts, shall wither in the grave!

Thomas Gent

Sonnet To Music.

Hail! Heavenly Maid, my pensive mind,
Invokes thy woe-subduing strain;
For there a shield my soul can find,
Which subjugates each dagger'd pain.
When beauty spurns the lover's sighs,
'Tis thine soft pity to inspire;
And cold indifference vanquish'd lies,
Beneath thy myrtle-vested lyre.
Oh! could contention's demon hear
Thy seraph voice, his blood-lav'd spear
He'd drop, and own thy power;
That smiling o'er each hapless land,
Sweet peace might call her hallow'd band,
To crown the festive hour.

Thomas Gent

Sonnet. To Hope.

How droops the wretch whom adverse fates pursue,
While sad experience, from his aching sight
Sweeps the fair prospects of unproved delight,
Which flattering friends and flattering fancies drew.
When want assails his solitary shed,
When dire distraction's horrent eye-ball glares,
Seen 'midst the myriad of tumultuous cares,
That shower their shafts on his devoted head.
Then, ere despair usurp his vanquish'd heart,
Is there a power, whose influence benign
Can bid his head in pillow'd peace recline,
And from his breast withdraw the barbed dart?
There is--sweet Hope! misfortune rests on thee--
Unswerving anchor of humanity!

Thomas Gent

Sonnet. On Seeing A Young Lady, I Had Previously Known, Confined In A Madhouse.

Sweet wreck of loveliness! alas, how soon
The sad brief summer of thy joys hath fled:
How sorrows Friendship for thy hapless doom,
Thy beauty faded, and thy hopes all dead.
Oh! 'twas that beauty's power which first destroy'd
Thy mind's serenity; its charms but led
The faithless friend, that thy pure love enjoy'd,
To tear the beauteous blossom from its bed.
How reason shudders at thy frenzied air!
To see thee smile, with fancy's dreams possess'd;
Or shrink, the frozen image of despair.
Or, love-enraptured, chant thy griefs to rest:
Oh! cease that mournful voice, affliction's child,
My heart but bleeds to hear thy musings wild.

Thomas Gent

Sonnet. To A Lyre.

Friend of the lonely hour, from thy lov'd strain
The magic pow'r of pleasure have I known:
Awhile I lose remembrance of my pain,
And seem to taste of joys that long had flown.
When o'er my suffering soul reflection casts
The gloom of sorrow's sable-shadowing veil,
Recalling sad misfortunes chilling blasts
How sweet to thee to tell the mournful tale!
And tho' denied to me the strings to move
Like heavenly-gifted bards, to whom belong
The power to melt the yielding soul to love,
Or wake to war, with energetic song.
Yet thou, my Lyre, canst cheer the gloomy hour,
When sullen grief asserts her tyrant pow'r.

Thomas Gent

Sonnet. Night.

Now when dun Night her shadowy veil has spread,
See want and infamy, as forth they come,
Lead their wan daughter from her branded home,
To woo the stranger for unhallow'd bread.
Poor outcast! o'er thy sickly-tinted cheek
And half-clad form, what havoc want hath made;
And the sweet lustre of thine eye doth fade,
And all thy soul's sad sorrow seems to speak.
O! miserable state! compell'd to wear
The wooing smile, as on thy aching breast
Some wretch reclines, who feeling ne'er possess'd;
Thy poor heart bursting with the stifled tear!
Oh! GOD OF MERCY! bid her woes subside,
And be to her a friend, who hath no friend beside.

Thomas Gent