Written On The Death Of General Sir Ralph Abercrombie.

Mute Memory stands at Valour's awful shrine,
In tears Britannia mourns her hero dead;
A world's regret, brave ABERCROMBIE's thine,
For nature sorrow'd as thy spirit fled!

For, not the tear that matchless courage claims,
To honest zeal, and soft compassion due,
Alone is thine--o'er thy adored remains
Each virtue weeps, for all once lived in you.

Yes, on thy deeds exulting I could dwell,
To speak the merits of thy honour'd name;
But, ah! what need my humble muse to tell,
When Rapture's self has echoed forth thy fame?

Yet, still thy name its energies shall deal,
When wild storms gather round thy country's sun;
Her glowing youth shall grasp the gleamy steel,
Rank'd round the glorious wreaths which thou hast won!

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

Sonnet. To Charity.

Thomas Gent, Simple Poetry

Mister Punch. (A Hasty Sketch.)

Thomas Gent, Simple Poetry

Sonnet. Night.

Thomas Gent, Simple Poetry

Epitaph. On Matilda.

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.

On The Death Of General Sir Ralph Abercrombie.

Mute, memory stands, at valor's awful shrine,
In tears Britannia mourns her hero dead;
A world's regret, brave Abercrombie's thine.
For nature sorrow'd as thy spirit fled!

For, not the tear that matchless courage claims
To honest zeal, and soft compassion due,
Alone is thine o'er thy ador'd remains
Each virtue weeps, for all once liv'd in you.

Yes, on thy deeds exulting I could dwell,
To speak the merits of thy honor'd name;
But, ah! what need my humble muse to tell,
When rapture's self has echo'd forth thy fame?

Yet, still thy name its energies shall deal,
When wild-storms gather round thy country's sun;
Her glowing youth shall grasp the gleamy steel,
Rank'd round the glorious wreaths which thou hast won!

Thomas Gent

The Grave Of Dibdin.

Lives there who, with unhallow'd hand, would tear,
One leaf from that immortal wreath which shades
The Hero's living brow, or decks his urn?
Breathes there who does not triumph in the thought
That "Nelson's language is his mother tongue,"
And that St. Vincent's country is his own?
Oh! these bright guerdons of renown are won
By means most palpable to sense and sight;
By days of peril and by nights of toil;
By Valour's long probation, closed at last
In Victory's arms--consummated and seal'd
In deathless Glory and immortal Fame.

Musing I stand upon his lowly grave,
Who, though he fought no battle--though he pour'd
No hostile thunders on his country's foes,
Achieved for Britain triumphs, less array'd
"In pomp and circumstance," nor visible
To vul...

Thomas Gent

Written On The Death Of General Washington.

Lamented Chief! at thy distinguish'd deeds
The world shall gaze with wonder and applause,
While, on fair History's page, the patriot reads
Thy matchless virtue in thy Country's cause.

Yes, it was thine, amid destructive war,
To shield it nobly from oppression's chain;
By justice arm'd, to brave each threat'ning jar,
Assert its freedom, and its rights maintain.

Much honour'd Statesman, Husband, Father, Friend,
A generous nation's grateful tears are thine;
E'en unborn ages shall thy worth commend,
And never-fading laurels deck thy shrine.

Illustrious Warrior! on the immortal base,
By Freedom rear'd, thy envied name shall stand;
And Fame, by Truth inspired, shall fondly trace
Thee, Pride and Guardian of thy Native Land!

Thomas Gent

Sheridan.

Embalm'd in fame, and sacred from decay,
What mighty name, in arms, in arts, or verse,
From England claims this consecrated day.
Her nobles crowding round the shadowy hearse?

Hark! from yon fane, within whose hallow'd mounds,
Her bards, her warriors, and her statesmen, sleep;
The solemn, slow, funereal bell resounds,
While mournful echoes dread accordance keep.

Spirits revered! beyond that awful bourne.
Who share the dark communion of the tomb,
A kindred genius seeks your dread sojourn;
Ye heirs of glory! hail a brother home.

Obscured, as SHERIDAN to dust descends,
Recedes each ray from Wit's effulgent sphere;
Lo! every Muse in silent sorrow bends,
Her votive laurels mingling o'er his bier.

But chiefly thou, from whose polluted shrine

Thomas Gent

On The Death Of Lord Nelson.

Swift through the land while Fame transported flies,
And shouts triumphant shake the illumin'd skies;
Britannia, bending o'er her dauntless prows,
With laurels thickening round her blazon'd brows,
In joy dejected, sees her triumph crost,
Exults in Victory won, but mourns the Victor lost.
Immortal Nelson! still with fond amaze,
Thy glorious deeds each British eye surveys,
Beholds thee still, on conquer'd floods afar:
Fate's flaming shaft! the thunderbolt of war!
Hurl'd from thy hands, Britannia's vengeance roars,
And bloody billows stain the hostile shores;
Thy sacred ire Confed'rate Kingdoms braves
And 'whelms their Navies in Sepulchral waves!

--Graced with each attribute which Heaven supplies
To Godlike Chiefs: humane, intrepid, wise;
His Nation's bulwa...

Thomas Gent

On The Death Of Nelson.

Swift through the land while Fame transported flies,
And shouts triumphant shake th' illumined skies;
Britannia, bending o'er her dauntless prows,
With laurels thickening round her blazon'd brows,
In joy dejected, sees her triumph cross'd,
Exults in Victory won, but mourns the Victor lost.
Immortal NELSON! still with fond amaze
Thy glorious deed each British eye surveys,
Beholds thee still, on conquer'd floods afar:
Fate's flaming shaft! the thunderbolt of war!
Hurl'd from thy hands, Britannia's vengeance roars,
And bloody billows stain the hostile shores:
Thy sacred ire Confed'rate Kingdoms braves,
And 'whelms their Navies in Sepulchral waves!
--Graced with each attribute which Heaven supplies
To Godlike Chiefs: humane, intrepid, wise:
His Nation's Bulwark, a...

Thomas Gent