An Invitation To Edward Walpole, Esq.
When I heard you were landed, I flew to the Nine,
Intreating their Aid to invite you to dine.
They told me, I came on that Errand too late;
For you were engag'd by the Rich, and the Great.
Already! said I; they were speedy indeed:
However I'll try, and I hope to succeed.
Those Creatures of Power, who your Levee attend,
If your Father were out, their Conge's would end:
Tho' your personal Merit is great, 'tis allow'd;
'Tis the Son of the Statesman, that weighs with the Croud.
I expect not a Place, nor hope for a Pension,
The Love of the Muse is my only Pretension.
I hate to abuse--and I never can flatter:
I write for no Party, nor either bespatter.
From the Lands of Parnassus the Rents are ill--paid,
And England has cruelly cramp'd us in Trade:
So look not for China, or Service of Plate,
Or ought that is costly, to tempt you to eat.
Yet a Way to engage you I think I have hit on:
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poem by Mary Barber
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An Apology Written For My Son To The Reverend Mr. Sampson,
With Joy your Summons we obey,
And come to celebrate this Day.
Yet I, alas! despair to please;
For you require exalted Lays:
And, let me write whate'er I will,
You'll think my Verse deficient still;
Altho' the Task I now decline,
Asks no Assistance from the Nine;
For Nature, better far than Art,
Can paint the honest, grateful Heart.
Heav'n knows how much I rack'd my Head,
(For beaten Paths I scorn to tread)
To tell the Vice--Roy something new,
Who graciously distinguish'd you;
Who had your Merit in his Eye,
When Prelates often pass'd it by.
What Blessings must the People share,
Where Virtue is the Ruler's Care!
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poem by Mary Barber
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NewsFfrom St. James's.
A courtier, summon'd hence of late,
Was call'd to Minos' Judgment Seat.
The Cretan Sage began the Charge,
Recounted all his Crimes at large;
His Insincerity, and Pride,
His Hundred evil Arts beside;
Arts, thinly veil'd with Virtue's Guise,
The modern Statesmens Scheme to rise.
He, cringing, owns his Guilt, with Shame;
Yet from himself would shift the Blame;
Insists, that since the World began,
Kings seldom rais'd the virtuous Man:
(Some Instances must be allow'd,
Tho' almost lost in such a Croud)
That Courts were other Things of late,
Than when he rul'd the Cretan State:
That those who breathe in them, will find,
The tainted Air corrupts the Mind.
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poem by Mary Barber
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To Mrs. Frances--Arabella Kelly.
To Day, as at my Glass I stood,
To set my Head--cloaths, and my Hood;
I saw my grizzled Locks with Dread,
And call'd to mind the Gorgon's Head.
Thought I, whate'er the Poets say,
Medusa's Hair was only gray:
Tho' Ovid, who the Story told,
Was too well--bred to call her old;
But, what amounted to the same,
He made her an immortal Dame.
Yet now, whene'er a Matron sage
Hath felt the rugged Hand of Age,
You hear out witty Coxcombs cry,
Rot that old Witch--she'll never die.
Tho', had they but a little Reading,
Ovid would teach them better Breeding.
I fancy now, I hear you say,
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poem by Mary Barber
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To Dr. Richard Helsham Upon My Recovery From A Dangerous Fit Of Sickness.
For fleeting Life recall'd, for Health restor'd,
Be first the God of Life and Health ador'd;
Whose boundless Mercy claims this Tribute due:
And next to Heav'n, I owe my Thanks to you;
To you, who feel the Ease your Med'cines give,
And, in reviving Patients, doubly live;
You, who from Nature's Dictates never stray;
But wisely wait, till she points out the Way:
Where--e'er she leads, unerring, you pursue
Her mazy System, op'ning to your View.
In you reviv'd we Ratcliff's Genius see,
Heighten'd by Learning and Humanity.
With Ease all Nature's Secrets you explore,
And to the noblest Heights of Science soar.
Your Thoughts, unbounded, travel with the Sun;
And see attendant Worlds around him run;
Which trace their distant Courses thro' the Sky,
Nor fly his Throne too far, nor press too nigh.
The wise and wond'rous Laws you clearly know,
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poem by Mary Barber
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The Peacock.
Once Juno's Bird (as Authors say)
Was seiz'd on by some Birds of Prey:
They pluck'd his Feathers, one by one,
Till all his useful Plumes were gone;
Stript him of ev'ry thing beside;
But left his Train, to please his Pride.
Some other Birds admir'd to see,
He tamely bore such Injury;
And often on his Patience jok'd--
He cry'd--They must not be provok'd:
I'm in their Pow'r, nor shall debate,
But yield to my unhappy Fate.
Yet in this Plight would he resort,
To where the Eagle kept his Court:
For, tho' oppress'd, he still was proud
To make his Bows among the Croud.
The Eagle, gracious, saw him there;
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poem by Mary Barber
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On Seeing An Officer's Widow Distracted
O wretch! hath Madness cur'd thy dire Despair?
Yes--All thy Sorrows now are light as Air:
No more you mourn your once lov'd Husband's Fate,
Who bravely perish'd for a thankless State.
For rolling Years thy Piety prevail'd;
At length, quite sunk--thy Hope, thy Patience fail'd:
Distracted now you tread on Life's last Stage,
Nor feel the Weight of Poverty and Age:
How blest in this, compar'd with those, whose Lot
Dooms them to Miseries, by you forgot!
Now, wild as Winds, you from your Off--spring fly,
Or fright them from you with distracted Eye;
Rove thro' the Streets; or sing, devoid of Care,
With ratter'd Garments, and dishevell'd Hair;
By hooting Boys to higher Phrenzy fir'd,
At length you fink, by cruel Treatment tir'd,
Sink into Sleep, an Emblem of the Dead,
A Stone thy Pillow, the cold Earth thy Bed.
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poem by Mary Barber
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To The Right Honourable The Earl Of Orrery In Dublin
Let Others speak your Titles, and your Blood;
Accept from Me the glorious Name of Good.
This Honour only from fair Virtue springs,
Ennobles Slaves, adds Dignity to Kings.
O Born to shew Nobility design'd
Not to insult, but to protect Mankind!
Well you discern to spare, or to bestow;
Nor waste in Riot, what to Worth you owe.
Judgment your Bounty guides; and all agree,
'Tis Praise, 'tis Glory, to receive from Thee.
Gen'rous thy Gifts; but more thy matchless Art,
To spare the Blush, and doubly bind the Heart.
Tho' Fortune place me in a distant Scene;
And Mountains rise, and Oceans roll between;
O'er Mountains, Oceans, Gratitude conveys
The good Man's Act, and wide extends his Praise.
Strange! that your Judgment errs in this alone;
Barber you bless, yet hope your Gifts unknown.
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poem by Mary Barber
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An Unanswerable Apology For The Rich.
All--bounteous Heav'n, Castalio cries,
With bended Knees, and lifted Eyes,
When shall I have the Pow'r to bless,
And raise up Merit in Distress?
How do our Hearts deceive us here!
He gets ten thousand Pounds a Year.
With this the pious Youth is able
To build, and plant, and keep a Table.
But then the Poor he must not treat:
Who asks the Wretch, that wants to eat?
Alas! to ease their Woes he wishes;
But cannot live without Ten Dishes:
Tho' Six would serve as well, 'tis true;
But one must live, as others do.
He now feels Wants unknown before,
Wants still increasing with his Store.
The good Castalio must provide
Brocade, and Jewels, for his Bride.
Her Toilet shines with Plate emboss'd;
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poem by Mary Barber
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A Letter For My Son To One Of His School--Fellows, Son To Henry Rose, Esq;
Dear Rose, as I lately was writing some Verse,
Which I next Day intended in School to rehearse,
My Mother came in, and I thought she'd run wild:
``This Mr. Macmullen has ruin'd my Child:
``He uses me ill, and the World shall know it;
``I sent you to Latin, he makes you a Poet:
``A fine Way of training a Shop keeper's Son!
``'Twould better become him to teach you to dun:
``Let him teach both his Wit, and his Rhyming, to Rose;
``And give you some Lessons, to help to sell Cloaths:
``He'll have an Estate, and 'twill do very well,
``That he, like his Father, in Arts should excel;
``But for you, if your Father will take my Advice,
``He'll send you no more, till he lowers his Price:
``A Guinea a Quarter! 'tis monstrously dear!--
``You might learn to dance for four Guineas a Year:
``Then, Sir, 'tell your Master, That these are hard Times;
``And Paper's too dear to be wasted in Rhymes:
``I'll teach you a Way of employing it better;
``As, July the fifteenth, Lord Levington Debtor:
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poem by Mary Barber
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