To The Right Honourable John Barber, Esq; Lord Mayor Of London, On Committing One Of My Sons To His Care.
To the late King of Britain a Savage was brought,
Which wild in the Woods of Germania was caught.
This Present so princely was train'd up with Care;
And knew how to eat, and to jump, and to stare;
The Beaux, and the Belles, beheld it with Joy;
And at Court the high Mode was to see the Wild Boy.
Reflecting on this, with a politic View,
I determin'd to send such a Present to You.
In the Wilds of Hibernia this Boy was beset,
And caught (as the Natives are there) in a Net:
The Creature has Sense, and, in my Eyes, is pretty,
With Talents to make a good Man in the City;
Industrious, and orderly, prudent, and smart,
And not too much Conscience, nor too little Art;
Not scrup'lous, but honest, a Heart set on Gain,
Whose highest Ambition is fix'd on the Chain.
From You may he copy to wear it with Glory;
Like You, in Return--be honour'd in Story.
poem by Mary Barber
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
To The Right Honourable John Earl Of Orrery, At Bath, After The Death Of The Late Earl.
'Tis said, for ev'ry common Grief
The Muses can afford Relief:
And, surely, on that heav'nly Train
A Boyle can never call in vain.
Then strait invoke the sacred Nine,
Nor impious slight their Gifts divine;
Dispel those Clouds, which damp your Fire;
Shew, Bath, like
The Earl's Answer,
written extempore.
Nor Bath, nor Tunbridge, can my Lays inspire;
Nor radiant Beauty make me strike the Lyre:
Far from the busy Croud I sit, forlorn;
And sigh in secret, and in Silence mourn:
Nor can my Anguish ever find an End;
I weep a Father, and have lost a Friend.
Reply to the foregoing Verses.
Why did I hope to make your Anguish less?
[...] Read more
poem by Mary Barber
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
To The Right Hon. The Earl of Orrery, On His Promise To Sup With The Author.
Tho' the Muse had deny'd me so often before,
I ventur'd this Day to invoke her once more.
She ask'd what I wanted; I said, with Delight,
Your Lordship had promis'd to sup here To--night;
That on an Occasion so much to my Honour,
I hop'd she'd excuse me for calling upon her.
To this she reply'd, with Disdain in her Looks:
If that be the Case, go summon your Cooks.
I told her in Answer, How little you eat;
That in vain I should hope to regale you with Meat;
That she knew, Wit and Humour to you were a Feast,
Who had, tho' no Stomach, an excellent Taste.
This calm'd her Resentment; she paus'd for a while--
Then the Goddess, propitious, reply'd with a Smile:
If with Humour and Wit you would have him delighted.
What need I be call'd?--Let the Dean be invited.
The Bus'ness is done, if with him you prevail;
For a Boyle, and a Swift, will each other regale.
poem by Mary Barber
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
An Apology To Dr. Clayton, Bishop Of Killala, And His Lady
My Lord of Killala, I find to my Sorrow,
I can't have the Honour I hop'd for, Tomorrow.
But why I'm so wretched, my Friend must rehearse;
For I never can write my Vexations in Verse.
Disappointments are sent to poor Mortals to show,
'Tis in vain to expect to be happy below.
Yet you've a fair Prospect, it must be confess'd,
Who with Fortune, and Station, and Delia are bless'd;
With Delia, whose Soul is so fitted for you,
Who shares, with such Pleasure, the Good which you do;
Who visits your See with far other Designs,
Than conning your Rent--rolls, and raising your Fines.
No longer let Rome her old Argument boast,
That by Marriage the End of the Priesthood is lost;
That, toil'd and entangled in Family Cares,
The Clergy forget their celestial Affairs:
For, had she known Delia, she must have confess'd,
That the Church, in the Marriage of Prelates, was bless'd.
poem by Mary Barber
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Epilogue To A Comedy Acted At Bath,
Ladies, this Entertainment we have shown,
Has not been rightly suited, I must own.
Heroic Virtue should have been display'd,
And Homage to heroic Virtue paid.
Low Comedy supplies but mean Delight;
Some Heroine should have grac'd our Scenes Tonight,
First Fortune's Favours, then her Frowns to feel,
Unmov'd, unshaken, on her tott'ring Wheel;
With Wisdom blest by Heav'n's peculiar Care,
Too great to be elated, or despair;
A lovely Form, and an excelling Mind,
To all that Providence ordains, resign'd;
Rever'd by All, Delight of ev'ry Eye,
Humane and humble, when exalted high;
From Princes sprung, and gloriously ally'd,
At once her Sex's, and her Country's Pride;
Whose Soul, superior to all earthly State,
Shines with new Lustre 'midst the Storms of Fate.
Then had the Audience wept her Woes anew,
[...] Read more
poem by Mary Barber
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
To The Right Honourable The Lady Sarah Cowper.
Let me the Honour soon obtain,
For which I long have hop'd in vain;
Since I, alas! am now confin'd,
Your Visit would be doubly kind.
What Sorrows have I not to fear,
Ty'd to the Bed of Sickness here?
When all that's human, quits the Place,
And Winter shews his horrid Face;
Whilst Desolation proudly stalks
Along the dull, deserted Walks.
Methinks the Skies already lour;
Loud, from the Hills, the Torrents pour;
The Shops are shut; the Days are dark;
And scarce a Dog is left to bark.
O, shield me from the dreadful Storms,
Which my distemper'd Fancy forms!
The thoughtless Fair the Toilet prize,
There practise Smiles, and point their Eyes:
[...] Read more
poem by Mary Barber
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Written For My Son In His Sickness, To One Of His School fellows.
I little thought that honest Dick
Would slight me so, when I was sick.
Is he a Friend, who only stays,
Whilst Health and Pleasure gild our Days;
Flies, when Disease our Temper sours,
Nor helps to pass the gloomy Hours?
Says my Mamma, who loves to make
Reflections for her Childrens sake;
You see how mortal Friendship ends--
My Child, secure celestial Friends:
Make Heav'n your chief, your early Care;
You'll meet no Disappointment there.
Build not on Length of Days, my Son;
Life's longest Race is quickly run.
Lay hold on ev'ry coming Hour;
Do all the Good that's in your Pow'r:
This will the sinking Heart sustain,
When Cordials are dispens'd in vain;
Asswage the racking Pains, that seize
[...] Read more
poem by Mary Barber
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
The Oak And Its Branches.
An Oak, with spreading Branches crown'd,
Beheld an Ivy on the Ground,
Expos'd to ev'ry trampling Beast,
That roam'd around the dreary Waste.
The Tree of Jove, in all his State,
With Pity view'd the Ivy's Fate;
And kindly told her, She should find
Security around his Rind:
Nor was that only his Intent,
But to bestow some Nourishment.
The Branches saw, and griev'd to see
Some Juices taken from the Tree.
Parent, say they, in angry Tone,
Your Sap should nourish us alone:
Why should you nurse this Stranger Plant,
With what your Sons, in time, may want;
May want, to raise us high in Air,
And make us more distinguish'd there.
[...] Read more
poem by Mary Barber
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
To His Excellency The Lord Carteret.
The Picture strikes--'tis drawn with won d'rous Art;
Well has the Poet play'd the Painter's Part.
Tho' 'tis your Glory, yet, my Lord, I own,
I grieve the Features fit yourself alone.
But know, tho' All agree the Picture's yours,
'Tis Steadiness alone your Claim secures.
With Pleasure now your Image you furvey;
But should you from the Rules of Virtue stray,
Should e'er degrading Vice deform your Frame,
You'd start, like Io from the crystal Stream.
When Kneller has display'd, with matchless Grace,
The fleeting Glories of Clarinda's Face;
She sighs, to think how Time will soon devour
The lovely Bloom, which gives her now such Pow'r:
But yours, a Likeness of a nobler Kind,
Displays the deathless Beauties of the Mind:
Be it your Glory to surpass the Paint,
And make the finish'd Picture look too faint.
[...] Read more
poem by Mary Barber
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
To A Lady Who Was Libell'd.
When Cynthia, Regent of the Tides,
Pale in meridian Pride presides;
A Sov'reign Pow'r the Goddess claims
O'er Seas, and Sea--supplying Streams;
The River of the richest Source
With Ease she turns, and checks his Course;
His crystal Clearness can defile
With ev'ry Filth, and Salt as vile;
However strong, and smooth, and pure,
Her Tyranny he must endure;
Till, her Dominion in the Wain,
He clears, and is himself again.
Thus, over black, benighted Brains,
Fell Envy, baleful Goddess, reigns;
O'er mortal Passions, pale, presides;
Passions, the Soul's tumultuous Tides;
Which, in their fierce, resistless Sway,
Invade all Merit in their Way;
With Ease the clearest Truths confute,
[...] Read more
poem by Mary Barber
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!