Poem by Thomas Gent

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When the rough storm roars round the peasant's cot,
  And bursting thunders roll their awful din;
While shrieks the frighted night bird o'er the spot,
  Oh! what serenity remains within!
For there Contentment, Health, and Peace abide,
  And pillow'd age, with calm eye fix'd above;
Labor's bold son, his blithe and blooming bride,
  And lisping innocence, and filial love.
To such a scene let proud Ambition turn,
  Whose aching breast conceals it's secret woe;
Then shall his fireful spirit melt, and mourn
  The mild enjoyments it can never know;
Then shall he feel the littleness of state,
And sigh that Fortune e'er had made him great.

1. Henry and Eliza
2. Lines, Written on the Sixth of September
3. To a Fly, on the Bosom of Chloe, While Sleeping
4. Night
5. To ––––

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