Written At Camberwell, Near London, In The Study Of Mr. Wainwright

Whilst happily I pass my Hours
In Camberwell's delightful Bow'rs;
From thence the beauteous Walks survey;
Or thro' the fragrant Mazes stray;
Or o'er the Study cast my Eye,
Where Virgil, Coke, and Horace lie,
Just Emblem of a Bosom grac'd
With Law, and Elegance of Taste;
Apollo I invoke in vain,
Apollo answers with Disdain:

``Mortal, you're here allow'd to roam.
``And bid to think yourself at home:
``O'er the Domesticks then preside;
``Let that content your Female Pride;
``In vain you call on me To--day;
``Here Wainwright only I obey.

poem by Mary Barber
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

To Her Grace The Dutchess Of Manchester, And Lady Diana Spencer

Madam, I hear, and hear with Sorrow,
That we're to lose Your Grace To--morrow;
Nor you alone, but Lady Di.
Where, thus deserted, shall I fly?
Am I condemn'd to live in Pain,
Till distant Autumn comes again?
Till Time, in Pity to my Grief,
Shall bring you back to my Relief?

Do not, relentless, let me moan;
O take me, Ladies, as your own!
Tho' Thousands have your Rigour felt,
Let me your lovely Bosoms melt:
Since you to win my Heart have deign'd,
Quit not the Conquest you have gain'd:
Nor Marlbro's glorious Footsteps shun;
He always kept the Field he won.

poem by Mary Barber
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Written For My Son, To Mr. Barry;

Since Phoebus makes your Verse divine,
Since the God glows in ev'ry Line;
Why should you think, but I, with Ease,
Might write my native, artless Lays?

My Mother told me many a Time,
That Double--dealing was a Crime:
Alas! and is it only so,
In us, whose Birth and Fortune's low?
For you, tho' nobly born, descend
To injure, yet appear a Friend;
And seem to make my Praise your Aim,
With more Success to wound my Fame.

So your Apollo's Priests, of old,
(As by his Poets we are told)
With glorious Wreaths the Victim drest;
Then plung'd the Poniard in his Breast.

poem by Mary Barber
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

To Her Grace The Dutchess Of Portland

'Tis theirs, who but to please aspire,
On Fiction to employ the Lyre;
Make Gods and Goddesses display
The Splendor of the Nuptial Day.

To paint thee at the hallow'd Shrine,
A solemn, glorious Scene! be Mine;
Now lightly touch'd--Some other Hour,
(If e'er the Cloud--dispelling Pow'r
Remove the Damps, that chill my Vein)
I'll trace the slight--drawn Lines again;
Warm Col'ring on the Piece bestow,
Till Life shall from the Pencil flow.

Lovely Bride! with Bliss be crown'd,
Diffusing Happiness around:
Beneficent, like Harley, shine;
Like Henrietta, grace your Line.

poem by Mary Barber
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

To The Rt. Hon. Charlotte Lady Conway, On Her Resolving To Leave Bath.

O Charlotte, truly pious, early wise!
The Pleasures sought by others, you despise:
Nor Bath, nor Bath's Allurements thee detain;
Unmov'd, you quit them to the Gay and Vain.
But tho' nor Health, nor Pleasure will prevail;
The Happiness you give, should turn the Scale.
O stay, and teach the Virtues of thy Breast:
Thousands by thy Example may be blest:
A Mind so humble, and so truly great,
So fitted to oblige in ev'ry State;
A Manner, so engaging and discrete,
A Manner, so inimitably sweet!
These, and thy thousand Charms, who can express?
Seymour, how vast a Treasure you possess!

poem by Mary Barber
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

To A Gentleman

I hope, Sir, by this you have found your Account,
In visiting Airy, and seeing his Mount:
If Froth can delight you, you're wonderous happy;
And we know it gives Joy on a Bottle of Nappy.
Your Friend would be very much mended, in troth,
Should Airy bestow him a Dash of his Froth:
To keep up the Metaphor, 'twould make him mellow,
And of a sour Stoic, a pleasant young Fellow;
And Airy be recompens'd well for that Favour,
If your Friend, in Return, should make him grow graver.
This Exchange should they make, it would set 'em both right;
Since one is too solid, and t'other too light.

poem by Mary Barber
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

To Mrs. Mary Caesar

I read in your delighted Face,
The Nuptial Bands are ty'd:
From me congratulate her Grace,
Young Portland's lovely Bride.

Tell her, an humble, artless Muse
Would hail the happy Pair;
But that, like Flow'rs by deadly Dews,
Her Strains are damp'd by Care.

Those whom the tuneful Nine inspire,
Have now a spacious Field:
To them I must resign the Lyre,
To none in Wishes yield.

May Prudence still the Fair attend,
Who, with distinguish'd Taste,
In Caesar early chose a Friend,
With ev'ry Virtue grac'd:

[...] Read more

poem by Mary Barber
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Written For My Son

When Athens was for Arts and Arms renown'd,
Olympic Wreaths uncommon Merit crown'd.
These slight Distinctions from the Learn'd and Wise,
Convey'd eternal Honour with the Prize:
'Twas this, the gen'rous Love of Fame inspir'd,
And Grecian Breasts with noblest Ardor fir'd.

For like Rewards like Judges we implore:
Immortal Fame, with Grecian Arts, restore:
Our growing Merit with Indulgence view;
And sure you'll favour what distinguish'd you.

Leave Ignorance and Sloth to Scorn and Shame;
But crown the Worthy with immortal Fame;
And Fame, conferr'd by you, can never fail:
What Men have purchas'd, they of Right entail.

poem by Mary Barber
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

To Mr. Rose;

Believe me, Rose, howe'er this Con. may please,
With flowing Numbers, and an easy Phrase;
With Wit, with Humour, and with ev'ry Art,
That steals the Ear, and ravishes the Heart;
Howe'er his Verses are with Rapture read,
They ne'er could spring from his poor Baby Head.
No, no, dear Rose, his Tricks are too well known;
They are his Mother's Verses, not his own.

Presumptuous Youth! this dang'rous Art forbear;
Nor tempt a Character beyond thy Sphere.
Let meaner Flames thy tender Breast inspire;
Touch not a Beam of hers--'Tis sacred Fire!
Phoebus might trust thy Mother with his Sun;
But you, fond Boy, may prove a Phaeton.

poem by Mary Barber
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Written Upon The Rocks At Tunbridge,

Hither, amongst the Crouds, that shun
The smoaky Town, and sultry Sun,
In cooling Springs to seek for Health,
Or throw away superfluous Wealth,
A Native of Hibernia came,
Thus writ her Thoughts, but not her Name.

Hither the Britons, void of Care,
A happy, free--born Race, repair:
Whilst I, who feel a diff'rent Fate,
Lament my Country's wretched State;
The pitying Rocks return my Lays,
Just Emblem of the barren Bays.

Thus far -- When, lo! the God of Wit,
Who slightly glanc'd on what was writ,
Suspend, he cries, thy Cares a--while;
My Sackville soon shall bless your lsle:
No longer talk of barren Bays;
Remember, 'tis a Dorset sways.

poem by Mary Barber
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!