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

Joy to thee, Lady! many years of joy
To thee--and thine--that springtide of the heart,
The bliss of virtuous love, without alloy.
And all that health and gladsome life impart.
How gracefully hast thou thy task perform'd,
The watchful tender mother, matchless wife;
All woman boasts--thou hast indeed adorn'd--
Thine the high merit of an useful life.
For ever cheerful, though the Tragic Muse^[1]
May call thee Sister, both in form and mind;
Thou do'st to all those envied charms transfuse,
Which shine so highly temper'd and refined.
Lady revered--the sunbeam and the rose
Are poor in beauty to sweet woman's smiles:
'Tis the bright sunset of life's awful close,
The Poet's deathless wreath! a spell all grief beguiles!

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 A Fly, On The Bosom Of Chloe, While Sleeping.

Thomas Gent, Simple Poetry

To The Reviewers.

Thomas Gent, Simple Poetry

To My Spaniel Fanny.

Thomas Gent, Simple Poetry

The Sibyl.

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.

Lines Written In The Album Of The Countess Of Lonsdale. Nov. 5, 1834

Lady! a Pen (perhaps with thy regard,
Among the Favoured, favoured not the least)
Left, 'mid the Records of this Book inscribed,
Deliberate traces, registers of thought
And feeling, suited to the place and time
That gave them birth: months passed, and still this hand,
That had not been too timid to imprint
Words which the virtues of thy Lord inspired,
Was yet not bold enough to write of Thee.
And why that scrupulous reserve? In sooth
The blameless cause lay in the Theme itself.
Flowers are there many that delight to strive
With the sharp wind, and seem to court the shower,
Yet are by nature careless of the sun
Whether he shine on them or not; and some,
Where'er he moves along the unclouded sky,
Turn a broad front full on his flattering beams:
Others do ra...

William Wordsworth

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

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

To Caroline, Viscountess Valletort.

WRITTEN AT LACOCK ABBEY, JANUARY, 1832.


When I would sing thy beauty's light,
Such various forms, and all so bright,
I've seen thee, from thy childhood, wear,
I know not which to call most fair,
Nor 'mong the countless charms that spring
For ever round thee, which to sing.

    When I would paint thee as thou art,
Then all thou wert comes o'er my heart--
The graceful child in Beauty's dawn
Within the nursery's shade withdrawn,
Or peeping out--like a young moon
Upon a world 'twill brighten soon.
Then next in girlhood's blushing hour,
As from thy own loved Abbey-tower
I've seen thee look, all radiant, down,
With smiles that to the hoary frown
Of centuries round thee lent a ray,
Chasing even Age's gloom away;--

Thomas Moore

Addressed To Miss ----, On Reading The Prayer For Indifference, An Ode, By Mrs. Greville.

And dwells there in a female heart,
By bounteous Heaven designd,
The choicest raptures to impart,
To feel the most refined


Dwells there a wish in such a breast
Its nature to forego,
To smother in ignoble rest
At once both bliss and woe!


Far be the thought, and far the strain,
Which breathes the low desire,
How sweet soeer the verse complain,
Though Phbus string the lyre.


Come, then, fair maid (in nature wise),
Who, knowing them, can tell
From generous sympathy what joys
The glowing bosom swell:


In justice to the various powers
Of pleasing, which you share,
Join me, amid your silent hours,
To form the better prayer.


With lenient balm may Oberon hence
To fairy-land be driven...

William Cowper

Memorials Of A Tour On The Continent, 1820 - XXVII. - The Three Cottage Girls

I

How blest the Maid whose heart, yet free
From Love's uneasy sovereignty
Beats with a fancy running high,
Her simple cares to magnify;
Whom Labour, never urged to toil,
Hath cherished on a healthful soil;
Who knows not pomp, who heeds not pelf;
Whose heaviest sin it is to look
Askance upon her pretty Self
Reflected in some crystal brook;
Whom grief hath spared, who sheds no tear
But in sweet pity; and can hear
Another's praise from envy clear.

II

Such (but O lavish Nature! why
That dark unfathomable eye,
Where lurks a Spirit that replies
To stillest mood of softest skies,
Yet hints at peace to be o'erthrown,
Another's first, and then her own?)
Such, haply, yon Italian Maid,
Our Lady's laggard Votaress,
Halt...

William Wordsworth