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      POEMS;

      BY

      THOMAS GENT.



      LONDON


      1828.




ADVERTISEMENT.


Some of the Pieces in this volume have been separately published,
at different times; the indulgence, I may say favour,
with which they were individually received, has encouraged me
to collect and re-publish them. I have added many others,
which are now first printed. I shall be well satisfied, if they
find as favourable a reception as their precursors; and are
thought not to have increased the size, without at all increasing
the merit, of the book.

I cannot omit this opportunity of thanking those Critics,
who have honoured me by reviewing my verses. I owe them
my warm acknowledgments for candidly measuring my Poems
by their pretensions. They have looked at them as they really
were;--as the amusements of the leisure hours of a man
whose fortune will not favour his inclination to devote himself
to poetry; and conceiving a favourable opinion of them in
that character, have kindly expressed it.

_London, December, 1827._

During the progress of these pages through the press, it has
pleased Providence to inflict upon me the severest calamity that
domestic life can sustain. In the private sorrows of the humble
candidate for literary fame, I am aware that the world will feel
no interest, yet humanity will forgive the weakness that struggles
under such a bereavement, and will pardon the tear that falls
upon such a tomb. If, indeed, the Being who is lost to her family
and society were endowed only with those gifts and graces,
which are shared by thousands of her sex, I should have been
silent at this moment. To those who knew her,[1] and to know
her was to esteem and love, this tribute will be superfluous; but
to those who knew her not, I would say, that, superadded to
every natural advantage, to the charms of every polite accomplishment,
and to a cheerful and sincere piety, she was deeply
imbued with the love of literature and of science. In these, her
Lectures on the Physiology of the External Senses exhibit a
splendid proof of her acquirements in their highest walks, and
are an imperishable memorial of her patient and laborious research.
They who were present at the delivery of these Lectures
will not soon forget the effect of her impressive elocution,
chastened as it was by as unaffected modesty as ever adorned
and dignified a woman. I speak of that which she performed--that
which her capacious mind had meditated I forbear to mention.
For the advancement of her sex in pursuits that are intellectual
she made many sacrifices, both of her feelings and her
time; yet, in all she did, and in all she contemplated, usefulness
was her end and aim--but I must not proceed; less than this I
could not say--more than this might be deemed ostentatious.


What earthly tongue, and, oh! what human pen
  Can tell that scene of suffering, too severe.
'Tis ever present to my sight, oh! when
  Will the sound cease its torture on mine ear?

Oh! my lost love, thou patient Being, never!
  Thy dying look of love can I forget;
The last fond pressure of thy hand, _for ever!_
  Thrills in my veins, I see thy struggles yet