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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=455542" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>To Mrs. Strangeways Horner, With A Letter From My Son;</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">O thou, with ev'ry Virtue grac'd,<br>Adorn'd with Wit, and Sense, and Taste;<br>Who, with a Goodness unconfin'd,<br>Delight'st in blessing human Kind,<br>Whose Woes so oft thy Peace destroy;<br>'Tis just, thou shouldst partake their Joy:<br>Then in my Transport deign to share;<br>Behold this Letter from my Heir:<br>There see the Picture of a Mind,<br>In Duty, as in Arts, refin'd;<br>Who, in full Triumph, could submit<br>His Trophies at his Parent's Feet.<br>So he, in Roman Story fam'd,<br>Who from Corioli was nam'd,<br>With Joy engag'd in glorious Toils,<br>To glad his Mother with the Spoils:<br>Her Son, by Roman Arms, o'ercame;<br>By Roman Arts, mine soars to Fame.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Methinks, I see your Friendship rise,<br>And sparkle in your lovely Eyes.<br>Your Heir! (I hear you now repeat)<br>I long to know of your Estate.<br>Say--Is it an Hibernian Bog,<br>Where Phoebus seldom shines for Fog?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">HORTENSIA, there he sometimes shines;<br>But oft'ner hides his Head, and pines,<br>On happier Climes to look, nor see<br>Such dismal Scenes of Poverty;<br>Nor see an Isle, by Nature bless'd,<br>By ill--judg'd Policy oppress'd;<br>Her Trade usurp'd by foreign Lands,<br>Whilst Albion fast ties up her Hands:<br>Nor see her Sons in Science skill'd,<br>And yet her Posts by Strangers fill'd.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But, since of my Estate you ask,<br>The Answer is no easy Task,<br>Criticks, not Lawyers, are to show,<br>Whether my Title's good, or no.<br>Ovid has long ago defin'd,<br>What Lands are to the Muse assign'd:<br>'Tis but a barren Soil, 'tis true,<br>Not such as Heav'n bestow'd on You;<br>(Yet, Miser--like, our Lands you seize,<br>And win, but will not wear, the Bays<br>A steep, a slipp'ry, dang'rous Hill,<br>Which we, alas! are climbing still;<br>Still think there's better Land up higher,<br>Which all would gain, but few acquire.<br>If low or beaten Paths we trace,<br>We're deem'd an abject, grov'ling Race:<br>And oft, when we attempt to soar,<br>We miss our Aim, and fall the lower:<br>Tho' some by magic Numbers found<br>The Art to gain the highest Ground;<br>Yet most of those, alas! we know,<br>Had Cause to wish they'd stay'd below;<br>Rather than be exalted there,<br>To starve in pure poetic Air;<br>Whilst tasteless Wights, in Valleys fed,<br>Despise the Wits in Want of Bread.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yet sometimes we in Story find<br>An Instance of a noble Mind,<br>That made Apollo's Shrine its Care,<br>And bless'd the Tribe that worshipp'd there.<br>High in the deathless Lists of Fame,<br>Revere the godlike Sidney's Name:<br>There Dorset, and Southampton, view;<br>And there the Poets Montagu.<br>Eliza paid her Spencer's Toil<br>With Acres of Hibernian Soil:<br>And now illustrious Caroline<br>Resolves to raise the drooping Nine;<br>With Pleasure saw the lab'ring Hind<br>Studious to cultivate his Mind;<br>And deign'd to smile on rural Lines,<br>Where so much native Beauty shines.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">HORTENSIA, I revere your Friend:<br>May Blessings on her Head descend,<br>Who made a Peasant's Merit known,<br>And plac'd the Poor before the Throne:<br>Thus imitates the Pow'r Divine,<br>And proves her Soul ally'd to thine.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Mary+Barber">Mary Barber</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=455542" data-title="To Mrs. Strangeways Horner, With A Letter From My Son; de Mary Barber" data-description="O thou, with ev'ry Virtue grac'd,
Adorn'd with Wit, and Sense, and Taste;
Who, with a Goodness unconfin'd,
Delight'st in blessing human Kind,
Whose Woes so oft thy Peace destroy;
'Tis just, thou shouldst partake their Joy:
Then in my Transport dei..."></div>
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