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

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

To Thaddeus.[1]

Thomas Gent, Simple Poetry

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

Thomas Gent, Simple Poetry

To----.

Thomas Gent, Simple Poetry

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

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.

Sonnet. To Peace.

Come long-lost blessing! heaven-lov'd seraph, haste,
On pity's wings upborne, a world's wide woes
Invoke thy smiles extatic, long effac'd,
Beneath the tear which all corrosive flows;
While reason shudders, let ambition weep,
When wounding truth records what it has done:
Records the hosts consign'd to death's cold sleep,
Conspicuous 'mid the pomp of conflicts won!
Shall not the fiend relent, while groaning age
Pours its deep sorrows o'er its offspring slain;
While sire-robb'd infants mourn the deathful rage,
In many a penury enfeebled strain?
Sweet maid, return! behold affliction's tear,
And in my theme accept a nation's prayer.

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. 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

Sonnet

When the rough storm roars round the peasant's cot,
And bursting thunders roll their awful din;
While shrieks the frighted night bird o'er the spot,
Oh! what serenity remains within!
For there Contentment, Health, and Peace abide,
And pillow'd age, with calm eye fix'd above;
Labor's bold son, his blithe and blooming bride,
And lisping innocence, and filial love.
To such a scene let proud Ambition turn,
Whose aching breast conceals it's secret woe;
Then shall his fireful spirit melt, and mourn
The mild enjoyments it can never know;
Then shall he feel the littleness of state,
And sigh that Fortune e'er had made him great.

Thomas Gent

Sonnet.

When the rough storm roars round the peasant's cot,
And bursting thunders roll their awful din;
While shrieks the frighted night-bird o'er the spot,
Oh! what serenity remains within!
For there contentment, health, and peace, abide,
And pillow'd age, with calm eye fix'd above;
Labour's bold son, his blithe and blooming bride,
And lisping innocence, and filial love.
To such a scene let proud Ambition turn,
Whose aching breast conceals its secret woe;
Then shall his fireful spirit melt, and mourn
The mild enjoyments it can never know;
Then shall he feel the littleness of state,
And sigh that fortune e'er had made him great.

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