The Night-Blowing Cereus.

Can it be true, so fragrant and so fair,
To give thy perfumes to the dews of night?
Can aught so beautiful, despise the glare,
And fade, and sicken in the morning light?

Yes! peerless flower, the Heavens alone exhale
Thy fragrance, while the glittering stars attest,
And incense wafted by the midnight gale,
Untainted rises from thy spotless breast.

How like that Faith whose nature is apart
From human gaze, to love and work unseen,
Which gives to God an undivided heart,
In sorrow steadfast, and in joy serene;
That night-flower of the soul, whose fragrant power
Breathes on the darkness of the closing 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

On The Rupture Of The Thames' Tunnel,

Thomas Gent, Simple Poetry

A Sketch From Life.

Thomas Gent, Simple Poetry

To ------.

Thomas Gent, Simple Poetry

Sonnet. The Beggar.

Thomas Gent, Simple Poetry

English

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The Heliotrope.

There is a flower, whose modest eye
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Canst thou not trace a moral here,
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Night.

Lo! where the car of Day down slopes of flame
On burnished axle quits the drowsy skies!
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Morning And Night.

FROM "THE TRIUMPH OF MUSIC."


    ... Fresh from bathing in orient fountains,
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And sweet as the star-beams in fountains,
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Her spirit in dimples comes dancing,
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Nocturne

A disc of violet blue,
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The new moon hangs in a sky of dew;
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Begins the cricket's choir.

Bright blurs of golden white,
And points of silvery glimmer,
The first stars wink in the web of night;
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In the honeysuckle-colored light,
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Soft through the dim and dying eve,
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Night.

'Tis eventide; the noisy brook is hushed
Or murmurs only as a tired child,
Worn out with play; the tangled weeds lie still
Within the marshy hollow.    Quaint and dark
The willows bend above the brooklet's tide,
Reflecting shadowy images therein.
The dark-browed trees, with faces to the sky,
Shut out the light that fades in crimson lines
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            The woods are filled
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                All day the sun
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An Address To Night.

Like some sad spirit from an unknown shore
Thou comest with two children in thine arms:
Flushed, poppied Sleep, whom mortals aye adore,
Her flowing raiment sculptured to her charms.
Soft on thy bosom in pure baby rest
Clasped as a fair white rose in musky nest;
But on thy other, like a thought of woe,
Her brother, lean, cold Death doth thin recline,
To thee as dear as she, thy maid divine,
Whose frowsy hair his hectic breathings blow
In poppied ringlets billowing all her marble brow.

Oft have I taken Sleep from thy vague arms
And fondled her faint head, with poppies wreath'd,
Within my bosom's depths, until its storms
With her were hushed and I but mildly breath'd.
And then this child, O Night! with frolic art
Arose from rest, and on my panting heart

Madison Julius Cawein