Poem by Thomas Gent

To ––––

         An Impromtu

O Sub! you certainly have been,
  A little raking, roguish creature,
And in that face may still be seen,
  Each laughing loves bewitching feature!

For thou hast stolen many a heart––
  And robb'd the sweetness of the rose;
Plac'd on that cheek, it doth impart
  More lovely tints, more fragrant blows!

Yes, thou art nature's favorite child,
  Array'd in smiles, seducing, killing;
Did Joseph live, you'd drive him wild,
  And set his very soul a thrilling!

A poet, much too poor to live,
   Too poor, in this rich world to rove,
Too poor, for aught but verse to give,
  But not, thank God, too poor to love!

Gives thee his little doggerel lay––
  One truth I tell, in sorrow tell it,
I'm forc'd to give my verse away,
  Because, alas! I cannot sell it.

And should you with a critic's eye,
  Proclaim me 'gainst the Muse a sinner,
Reflect, dear girl! that such as I,
  Six times a week don't get a dinner.

And want of comfort, food, and wine,
  Will damp the genius, curb the spirit:
These wants I'll own are often mine;
  But can't allow a want of merit.

For every stupid dog that drinks
  At poet's pond, nicknam'd divine:
Say what he will, I know he thinks
  That all he writes is devilish fine!

1. Henry and Eliza
2. Lines, Written on the Sixth of September
3. To a Fly, on the Bosom of Chloe, While Sleeping
4. When the Rough Storm Roars Round the Peasant's Cot
5. Night

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