Jupiter And Fortune.
Once Jupiter, from out the Skies,
Beheld a thousand Temples rise;
The Goddess Fortune all invok'd,
To Jove an Altar seldom smoak'd:
The God resolv'd to make Inspection,
What had occasion'd this Defection;
And bid the Goddess tell the Arts,
By which she won deluded Hearts.
My Arts! (says she) Great Jove, you know,
That I do ev'ry Thing below:
I make my Vot'ries dine on Plate;
I give the gilded Coach of State;
Bestow the glitt'ring Gems, that deck
The fair Lavinia's lovely Neck;
I make Novella Nature's Boast,
And raise Valeria to a Toast;
'Tis I, who give the Stupid, Taste,
(Or make the Poets lie, at least);
My fav'rite Sons, whene'er they please,
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poem by Mary Barber
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To Mrs. Barber
See, the bright Sun renews his annual Course,
Each Beam re--tinges, and revives its Force,
By Years uninjur'd; so may'st thou remain,
Not Time from thee, but thou from Time may'st gain:
O might the Fates thy vital Thread prolong,
And make thy Life immortal, as thy Song!
Less Lustre waits the God, when he refines
The rip'ning Metal in Peruvian Mines;
Brightens the Crystal with transparent Day,
Or points the Di'mond with its sparkling Ray;
Than when, delighted, he thy Soul inspires,
Informs thy Judgment, and thy Fancy fires;
Assists thee striking out some bold Design,
And breathes immortal Honours on each Line:
In common as His Rays on all descend,
So You the Great delight, the Poor befriend:
As Heat productive His bright Beams bestow,
So, warm with Life, your pow'rful Numbers flow:
As He from Clouds bursts forth divinely bright,
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poem by Mary Barber
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To His Grace The Duke Of Buckingham And Normanby, At The Camp Before Philipsburgh.
Return, brave Youth! suspend thy Martial Fire,
Nor, like great Berwick, in the Field expire.
Illustrious Exile! thou art gone at last;
Thy Toils, and various Dangers now are past:
The royal Blood, which flow'd in Berwick's Veins,
Is now pour'd out on hostile German Plains:
But tho' in Dust thy mortal Part be laid,
Yet shall thy dear--bought Laurels never fade:
Tho' to a foreign Prince's Service ty'd,
You liv'd with Glory, and with Glory dy'd.
MUSE, look not back, nor vainly mourn the Fate,
Which robb'd Britannia of an Arm so great.
On the sad Scene may Princes turn their Eye;
And from Oppression's fatal Footsteps fly;
Of arbitrary Pow'r the Danger see,
To British Monarchs the forbidden Tree;
Which, like the first, forbid by Pow'r divine,
Hurts not themselves alone, but taints their Line.
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poem by Mary Barber
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An Apology For The Clergy,
How well these Laymen love to gibe,
And throw their Jests on Levi's Tribe!
Must One be toil'd to Death, they cry,
Whilst other Priests are yawning by?
Forgetful that He reaps the Gain,
Why should They waste their Lungs in vain?
When Men were weak enough to prize
The Christian Scheme, as good and wise,
To think there was an Heav'n and Hell;
To pray and preach did very well:
When Mortals look'd beyond the Grave,
A Priest, for Conscience sake, might slave:
But in this learned Realm and Age,
Where Faith is beaten off the Stage;
This happy Realm, where Reason reigns,
And scorns to drag Religion's Chains;
Where free--born Britons, ev'ry Day,
Sit down to feast, and rise to play;
And, since their Money buys their Meat,
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poem by Mary Barber
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To The Honourable Mrs. Percival.
And will your Goodness never have an End?
And will you still persist to be my Friend?
To meet me still with that engaging Air,
Still open, ardent, gen'rous, and sincere;
Still to advise, to aid, to cheer, to bless;
Still to prevent, or to dispel, Distress;
Sollicit for me with unweary'd Zeal,
Pleas'd to succeed, nor slacken'd when you fail;
Point out each Path to good Success from far;
And guide me by thy Light, my happier Star!
When of ungen'rous Minds I Favours ask,
And sink, oppress'd beneath the grievous Task;
Hear the false Promise, or the feign'd Excuse,
In Words that mean but more refin'd Abuse;
Full in my View thy nobler Soul appears,
And swells my Heart, and fills my Eyes with Tears;
Whilst, to prevent my Wish, your Goodness flies,
Nor one kind Look deceives me, from your Eyes.
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poem by Mary Barber
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To The Right Honble. The Lady Dowager Torrington,
When you command, the Muse obeys,
Proud to present her humble Lays.
Of writing I'll no more repent,
Nor think my Time unwisely spent;
If Verse the Happiness procures
Of pleasing such a Soul as yours.
Endless Anxiety, I find,
Hath dire Effects upon the Mind:
A Life of unsuccessful Care
Too often sinks us to Despair.
From such a Life as this, I chuse
To snatch some Moments for the Muse;
To slight Mortality, and soar
To Worlds where Anguish is no more;
Forget Ierne's wretched State,
Tho' doom'd to share her cruel Fate;
Destin'd to pass my joyless Days,
Where Poverty, relentless, preys;
And form'd, unhappily, to grieve
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poem by Mary Barber
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A Letter Written For My Daughter To A Lady, Who Had Presented Her With A Cap.
Your late kind Gift let me restore;
For I must never wear it more.
My Mother cries, ``What's here to do?
``A Crimson Velvet Cap for you!
``If to these Heights so soon you climb,
``You'll wear a Coachman's Cap in time:
``Perhaps on Palfry pace along,
``With ruffled Shirt, and Tete--Moutton;
``Banish the Woman from your Face,
``And let the Rake supply the Place;
``Delighted see the People stare,
``And ask each other what you are?
If she goes on to this dull Tune,
Poor I must be a Quaker soon.
She'll scarcely let me wear a Knot;
But keeps me like a Hottentot;
Says, Dressing plain, at small Expence,
Shews better Taste, and better Sense.
I'd take her Judgment, I confess,
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poem by Mary Barber
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A Letter To A Friend,
As in some wealthy, trading Town,
Where Riches raise to fure Renown,
The Man, with ample Sums in Store,
More than enough, yet wanting more,
Bent on Abundance, first secures
His Rails, his Windows, and his Doors,
With many a Chain, and Bolt, and Pin.
To keep Rogues out, and Riches in;
Ranges his Iron Chests in View,
And paints his Window Bars with Blue;
Discounts your Notes, receives your Rents,
A Banker now, to all Intents.
Suppose his more successful Labours
Should raise him high above his Neighbours:
As sure, as if Apollo said it,
They'll all combine to blast his Credit:
But if, in solid Wealth secure,
Their vain Assaults he can endure;
Their Malice but augments his Gain,
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poem by Mary Barber
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A Letter Written From London To Mrs. Strangeways Hornet
Say, my Hortensia, in this silent Hour,
When the pale Queen of Night exerts her Pow'r,
What Guardian--Angels on thy Slumbers wait,
To paint the Glories of thy future State;
To shew what Mansions, in the Realms divine,
Are set apart for Souls, refin'd as thine?
Tho' thither, wing'd with Hope, thy Virtues soar,
Late, very late, may'st thou those Realms explore!
Adas! I left thee sick: O Shame to tell!
I should have staid to see Hortensia well:
But dire Necessity, relentless, sway'd;
She, stern, enjoin'd, unwilling I obey'd.
Torn from thy Sight, how have I dragg'd the Day'
Which, in thy Presence, flew too swift away!
How shall I pass the melancholy Night?
When will the Post arrive, and give Delight?
Of thy returning Health when shall I hear?
Fain would I hope, tho' quite depress'd with Fear.
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poem by Mary Barber
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On Leaving Bath.
The Britons, in their Nature shy,
View Strangers with a distant Eye:
We think them partial and severe;
And judge their Manners by their Air:
Are undeceiv'd by Time alone;
Their Value rises, as they're known.
Here many a worthy Mind I found,
With Sense and Taste, by Virtue crown'd,
At once so truly good and great,
They knew to bear a prosp'rous State.
Few take from noble Blood Pretence
To act or look with Insolence:
Veins, with the richest Purple dy'd,
But seldom swell the Heart with Pride,
So, tho' the River--Gods, from high,
With plenteous Urns the Streams supply,
Which still enlarge, as they descend,
Roll down, and in the Ocean end,
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poem by Mary Barber
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