Poem by Thomas Gent

Lines, Written on the Sixth of September

Ill-Fated hour! oft as thy annual reign
Leads on th' autumnal tide, my pinion'd joys
Fade with the glories of the fading year;
"Remembrance 'wakes with all her busy train,"
And bids affection heave the heart-drawn sigh
O'er the cold tomb, rich with the spoils of death,
And wet with many a tributary tear!

Eight times has each successive season sway'd
The fruitful sceptre of our milder clime
Since My Loved ****** died! but why, ah! why
Should melancholy cloud my early years?
Religion spurns earth's visionary scene,
Philosophy revolts at misery's chain:
Just Heaven recall'd it's own, the pilgrim call'd
From human woes, from sorrow's rankling worm;
Shall frailty then prevail?

                                        Oh! be it mine
To curb the sigh which bursts o'er Heaven's decree;
To tread the path of rectitude––that when
Life's dying ray shall glimmer in the frame,
That latest breath I may in peace resign,
"Firm in the faith of seeing thee and God."

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

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