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Thomas Gent (Томас Гент)


The Sibyl


A SKETCH.

So stood the Sibyl: stream'd her hoary hair
Wild as the blast, and with a comet's glare
Glow'd her red eye-balls 'midst the sunken gloom
Of their wild orbs, like death-fires in a tomb.
Slow, like the rising storm, in fitful moans,
Broke from her breast the deep prophetic tones.
Anon, with whirlwind rash, the Spirit came;
Then in dire splendour, like imprison'd flame
Flashing through rifted domes or towns amazed,
Her voice in thunder burst; her arm she raised;
Outstretch'd her hands, as with a Fury's force,
To grasp, and launch the slow descending curse:
Still as she spoke, her stature seem'd to grow;
Still she denounced unmitigable woe:
Pain, want, and madness, pestilence, and death,
Rode forth triumphant at her blasting breath:
Their march she marshall'd, taught their ire to fall—
And seem'd herself the emblem of them all!



Thomas Gent's other poems:
  1. Prometheus
  2. On the Portrait of the Son of J.G. Lambton, Esq
  3. On a Delightful Drawing in my Album
  4. The Grave of Dibdin
  5. The Recall of the Hero


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