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;
What Sums her Lace and Linen cost!
The Cloaths that must his Person grace,
Shine with Embroidery, and Lace.
The costly Pride of Persian Looms,
And Guido's Paintings, grace his Rooms.
His Wealth Castalio will not waste;
But must have ev'ry thing in Taste.
He's an OEconomist confest;
But what he buys, must be the best:
For common Use a Set of Plate;
Old China, when he dines in State;
A Coach and Six, to take the Air;
Besides a Chariot, and a Chair.
All these important Calls supply'd,
Calls of Necessity, not Pride,
His Income's regularly spent;
He scarcely saves to pay his Rent.
No Man alive would do more Good,
Or give more freely, if he cou'd.
He grieves, whene'er the Wretched sue;
But what can poor Castalio do?
Would Heav'n but send ten thousand more,
He'd give--just as he did before.
poem by Mary Barber
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To The Right Honourable The Lady Elizabeth Boyle On Her Birth—Day
May each new Year some new Perfection give,
Till all the Mother in the Daughter live!
May'st Thou her Virtues to the World restore!
And be what Henrietta was before!
And when revolving Years mature thy Charms,
When Pride of Conquest thy fair Bosom warms,
May some great Youth, for ev'ry Grace renown'd,
With Taste and Science bless'd, by Virtue crown'd;
By Virtue guarded from Ambition's Wiles,
Superior both to Fortune's Frowns and Smiles;
Who wears the Honours of a glorious Name,
Yet to Distinction bears a nobler Claim;
Like a new Star, in native Lustre bright,
That boasts no Radiance from reflected Light:
Allow'd the rising Genius of his Age;
By ev'ry Excellence thy Heart engage;
Like Him who bless'd thy Mother's Nuptial State;
But O! may Heav'n give Thine a longer Date.
poem by Mary Barber
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A Man With Money
She wants a man with lots of money,
not a poor boy,
He buys her things she calls him honey,
she calls me poor boy,
What good could it do,
to give a love pure and true,
when any fool could understand,
she thinks that money makes the man,
She wants a man with lots of money,
not a poor boy,
She wants the things she'll buy with money,
not a poor boy,
a man with money,man with money,man with money,
Just down thwe street,
I know a place
When there asleep,
I'll cover my face,
I'll break the lock,open the door,
I'll slip inside, I'll rob the store,
Then I'll be a man with lots of money,
not a poor boy,
I'll buy her things, she'll call me honey,
not a poor boy,
A man with money, man with money, man with money, man with money
song performed by by Who
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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,
Can Palaces in Desarts raise,
Cut out Canals, make Fountains play,
And make the dreary Waste look gay;
Ev'n Vice seems Virtue by my Smiles;
I gild the Villain's gloomy Wiles,
Nay, almost raise him to a God,
While crowded Levees wait his Nod.
Enough--the Thunderer reply'd;
But say, whom have you satisfy'd?
These boasted Gifts are thine, I own;
But know, Content is mine alone.
poem by Mary Barber
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Hymn 137
Salvation by grace in Christ.
2 Tim. 1:9,10.
Now to the power of God supreme
Be everlasting honors giv'n;
He saves from hell, (we bless his name,)
He calls our wand'ring feet to heav'n.
Not for our duties or deserts,
But of his own abounding grace,
He works salvation in our hearts,
And forms a people for his praise.
'Twas his own purpose that begun
To rescue rebels doomed to die;
He gave us grace in Christ his Son
Before he spread the starry sky.
Jesus the Lord appears at last,
And makes his Father's counsels known;
Declares the great transactions past,
And brings immortal blessings down.
He dies, and in that dreadful night
Did all the powers of hell destroy;
Rising, he brought our heav'n to light,
And took possession of the joy.
poem by Isaac Watts
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Five-Per-Cent
Because I have ten thousand pounds I sit upon my stern,
And leave my living tranquilly for other folks to earn.
For in some procreative way that isn't very clear,
Ten thousand pounds will breed, they say, five hundred every year.
So as I have a healthy hate of economic strife,
I mean to stand aloof from it the balance of my life.
And yet with sympathy I see the grimy son of toil,
And heartly congratulate the tiller of the soil.
I like the miner in the mine, the sailor on the sea,
Because up to five hundred pounds they sail and mine for me.
For me their toil is taxed unto that annual extent,
According to the holy shibboleth of Five-per-Cent.
So get ten thousand pounds, my friend, in any way you can.
And leave your future welfare to the noble Working Man.
He'll buy you suits of Harris tweed, an Airedale and a car;
Your golf clubs and your morning Times, your whisky and cigar.
He'll cosily install you in a cottage by a stream,
With every modern comfort, and a garden that's a dream>
Or if your tastes be urban, he'll provide you with a flat,
Secluded from the clamour of the proletariat.
With pictures, music, easy chairs, a table of good cheer,
A chap can manage nicely on five hundred pounds a year.
And though around you painful signs of industry you view,
Why should you work when you can make your money work for you?
So I'll get down upon my knees and bless the Working Man,
Who offers me a life of ease through all my mortal span;
Whose loins are lean to make me fat, who slaves to keep me free,
Who dies before his prime to let me round the century;
Whose wife and children toil in urn until their strength is spent,
That I may live in idleness upon my five-per-cent.
And if at times they curse me, why should I feel any blame?
For in my place I know that they would do the very same.
Aye, though hey hoist a flag that's red on Sunday afternoon,
Just offer them ten thousand pounds and see them change their tune.
So I'll enjoy my dividends and live my life with zest,
And bless the mighty men who first - invented Interest.
poem by Robert William Service
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The Vulgar Little Lady
"But, mamma, now, " said Charlotte, "pray, don't you believe
That I'm better than Jenny, my nurse?
Only see my red shoes, and the lace on my sleeve;
Her clothes are a thousand times worse.
"I ride in my coach, and have nothing to do,
And the country folks stare at me so;
And nobody dares to control me but you
Because I'm a lady, you know.
"Then, servants are vulgar, and I am genteel;
So really, 'tis out of the way,
To think that I should not be better a deal
Than maids, and such people as they. "
"Gentility, Charlotte," her mother replied,
"Belongs to no station or place;
And there's nothing so vulgar as folly and pride,
Though dress'd in red slippers and lace.
Not all the fine things that fine ladies possess
Should teach them the poor to despise;
For 'tis in good manners, and not in good dress,
That the truest gentility lies."
poem by Ann Taylor
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Happy New Year 2012 (a song)
Happy New Year, Two Thousand Twelve!
With hope anew, let us all delve;
Forget the past year’s woes galore;
To each, God opens newer door!
Happy New Year, resolve sans fears;
Pray God should give all lesser tears;
Why waste money going to moon?
Our earth is wealthy, great a boon!
Happy New Year, aim to labour;
To brethren, no hatred harbour;
To share our love, God wants us to;
The rest of things, He’ll surely do!
Happy New Year, give others joy;
Obey your parents, if girl or boy;
Pray God gives leaders, clear minds, hearts;
You give your mite and do your parts!
Happy New Year, live and let live;
Help the poor; to God, glory give;
This earth can turn a Paradise,
If toil can all, becoming wise!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 30-12-11
poem by John Celes
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God Will Be Good To You
The Lord my God is good to me, open your eyes and you will see,
And the Lord shall be good to you, if you would only allow Him to.
God had died for both of us, and is waiting for you to in Him trust,
Trust in the Savior Jesus Christ, and God will give to you new life.
Friend, new life in God’s Son, is freely available today to everyone,
Your trust, is all He asks of you, for a new life with Christ to ensue,
And God will supply all you need, if His Truth you would only heed,
The Truth set forth from Calvary, of Grace provided to you and me.
What does one have to lose, by embracing the Lord’s Good News?
The news sent to all by Grace, not for some, but for all to embrace.
The only thing we need to do, is accept God’s Gift, to me and you,
A Gift from Him, prompted by love, sent to all from Heaven above.
God is good to all who come, into a saving knowledge of His Son,
For they become part of His Family, not for a time, but for Eternity.
If you treat your family good, don’t you believe The Father would?
Caring for believers in many ways, as we live out our earthly days.
God truly cares for all His own, as Christ prepares an eternal home,
Prepared for all those who believe, as the Gospel they just receive.
You will see, no limits for Christ, or the good He pours on your life,
And all the good He starts you’ll see, continues on through eternity.
(Copyright ©06/2008)
Don't it feel good?
Don’t it feel good
When you rise in the morn
Sippin’ your cofffee
Feeling the sun on your face?
Hearin’ doves cooing,
sparrows twitterin’
Feelin’ kinda good
Bout the whole human race.
Don’t it feel good
When you give a smile to a stranger
And the smile is returned
With uninhibited grace?
Don’t it feel good
To compliment someone
With praise as priceless
As Chantilly lace?
Don’t it feel good
To watch the surprise
And the warm glow of pride
That comes over their face?
don’t it feel good
To love everybody…
The way that
Everyone should?
Live your life… the way
you know you should
And what’d I say?
Don’t it feel good… to feel good?
poem by David Whalen
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A True Tale
A mother, who vast Pleasure finds
In modelling her Childrens Minds;
With whom, in exquisite Delight,
She passes many a Winter Night;
Mingles in ev'ry Play, to find
What Byass Nature gave the Mind;
Resolving thence to take her Aim,
To guide them to the Realms of Fame;
And wisely make those Realms their Way
To Regions of eternal Day;
Each boist'rous Passion to controul,
And early humanize the Soul;
In simple Tales, beside the Fire,
The noblest Notions would inspire:
Her Children, conscious of her Care,
Transported, hung around her Chair.
Of Scripture--Heroes she would tell,
Whose Names they lisp'd, ere they could spell:
The Mother then, delighted, smiles;
And shews the Story on the Tiles.
At other Times, her Themes would be
The Sages of Antiquity;
Who left immortal Names behind,
By proving Blessings to their Kind.
Again, she takes another Scope,
And tells of Addison, and Pope.
Studious to let her Children know
The various Turns of Things below;--
How Virtue here was oft oppress'd,
To shine more glorious with the Bless'd;
Told Tully's and the Gracchi's Doom,
The Patriots, and the Pride of Rome.
Then bless'd the Drapier's happier Fate,
Who sav'd, and lives to guard the State.
Some Comedies gave great Delight,
And entertain'd them many a Night:
Others could no Admittance find,
Forbid, as Poison to the Mind:
Those Authors Wit and Sense, said she,
But heighten their Impiety.
This happy Mother met, one Day,
The Book of Fables, writ by Gay;
And told her Children, Here's a Treasure,
A Fund of Wisdom, and of Pleasure!
Such Morals, and so finely writ;
Such Decency, good Sense, and Wit!
Well has the Poet found the Art,
To raise the Mind, and mend the Heart.
Her fav'rite Son the Volume seiz'd;
And, as he read, seem'd highly pleas'd;
Made such Reflections ev'ry Page;
The Mother thought above his Age;
Delighted read, but scarce was able
To finish the concluding Fable.
What ails my Child? the Mother cries:
Whose Sorrows now have fill'd your Eyes?
O dear Mamma, can he want Friends,
Who writes for such exalted Ends?
O base, degen'rate human Kind!
Had I a Fortune to my Mind,
Should Gay complain? But now, alas!
Thro' what a World am I to pass?
Where Friendship is an empty Name,
And Merit scarcely paid in Fame?
Resolv'd to lull his Woes to Rest,
She tells him, He should hope the best:
This has been yet Gay's Case, I own;
But now his Merit's amply known.
Content that tender Heart of thine:
He'll be the Care of Caroline.
Who thus instructs the royal Race,
Must have a Pension, or a Place.
Mamma, if you were Queen, says he,
And such a Book were writ for me,
I find 'tis so much to your Taste,
That Gay would keep his Coach at least.
My Son, what you suppose, is true:
I see its Excellence in you.
Poets who write to mend the Mind,
A royal Recompence should find.
But I am barr'd by Fortune's Frowns,
From the best Privilege of Crowns;
The glorious, godlike Pow'r to bless,
And raise up Merit in Distress.
But, dear Mamma, I long to know,
Were you the Queen, what you'd bestow.
What I'd bestow, says she, my Dear?
At least, a thousand Pounds a Year.
poem by Mary Barber
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Psalm 72 part 1
The kingdom of Christ.
Great God, whose universal sway
The known and unknown worlds obey,
Now give the kingdom to thy Son,
Extend his power, exalt his throne.
Thy sceptre well becomes his hands,
All heav'n submits to his commands;
His justice shall avenge the poor,
And pride and rage prevail no more.
With power be vindicates the just,
And treads th' oppressor in the dust;
His worship and his fear shall last,
Till hours, and years, and time be past.
As rain on meadows newly mown,
So shall he send his influence down;
His grace on fainting souls distils,
Like heav'nly dew on thirsty hills.
The heathen lands that lie beneath
The shades of overspreading death,
Revive at his first dawning light,
And deserts blossom at the sight.
The saints shall flourish in his days,
Dressed in the robes of joy and praise
Peace, like a river from his throne,
Shall flow to nations yet unknown.
poem by Isaac Watts
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Hymn 16 Part 2
The enjoyment of Christ; or, Delight in ordinances.
Lord, what a heav'n of saving grace
Shines through the beauties of thy face,
And lights our passions to a flame!
Lord, how we love thy charming name!
When I can say, "My God is mine,"
When I can feel thy glories shine,
I tread the world beneath my feet,
And all that earth calls good or great.
While such a scene of sacred joys
Our raptured eyes and souls employs,
Here we could sit, and gaze away
A long, an everlasting day.
Well, we shall quickly pass the night
To the fair coasts of perfect light;
Then shall our joyful senses rove
O'er the dear object of our love.
[There shall we drink full draughts of bliss,
And pluck new life from heav'nly trees:
Yet now and then, dear Lord, bestow
A drop of heav'n on worms below.
Send comforts down from thy right hand,
While we pass through this barren land,
And in thy temple let us see
A glimpse of love, a glimpse of thee.]
poem by Isaac Watts
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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:
I mean, to remember our Friends in Great--Britain.
Two Bottles of Wine, and two Dishes I'll give:
Then fly from the Crouds that oppress you--and live.
The first Glass shall welcome you, Sir, to our Coast;
And dear Lady Conway shall be my next Toast.
With Mirth, and good Humour, I'll make up the Treat;
I know you're too wise, to love dining in State.
poem by Mary Barber
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The Meal And Cruse Of Oil
By the poor widow's oil and meal
Elijah was sustained;
Though small the stock it lasted well,
For God the store maintained.
It seemed as if from day to day,
They were to eat and die;
But still, though in a secret way,
He sent a fresh supply.
Thus to his poor he still will give
Just for the present hour;
But for tomorrow they must live
Upon his word and power.
No barn or storehouse they possess
On which they can depend;
Yet have no cause to fear distress,
For Jesus is their friend.
Then let not doubts your mind assail,
Remember, God has said,
The cruse and barrel shall not fail,
My people shall be fed.
And thus though faint it often seems,
He keeps their grace alive;
Supplied by his refreshing streams,
Their dying hopes revive.
Though in ourselves we have no stock,
The Lord is nigh to save;
His door flies open when we knock,
And 'tis but ask and have.
poem by John Newton
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Sonnet. To Generall Goring, After The Pacification At Berwi
I.
Now the peace is made at the foes rate,
Whilst men of armes to kettles their old helmes translate,
And drinke in caskes of honourable plate.
In ev'ry hand [let] a cup be found,
That from all hearts a health may sound
To GORING! to GORING! see 't goe round.
II.
He whose glories shine so brave and high,
That captive they in triumph leade each care and eye,
Claiming uncombated the victorie,
And from the earth to heav'n rebound,
Fixt there eternall as this round:
To GORING! to GORING! see him crown'd.
III.
To his lovely bride, in love with scars,
Whose eyes wound deepe in peace, as doth his sword in wars;
They shortly must depose the Queen of Stars:
Her cheekes the morning blushes give,
And the benighted world repreeve;
To LETTICE! to LETTICE! let her live.
IV.
Give me scorching heat, thy heat, dry Sun,
That to this payre I may drinke off an ocean:
Yet leave my grateful thirst unquensht, undone;
Or a full bowle of heav'nly wine,
In which dissolved stars should shine,
To the couple! to the couple! th' are divine.
poem by Richard Lovelace
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Sonnet. To Generall Goring, After The Pacification At Berwicke. A La Chabot.
I.
Now the peace is made at the foes rate,
Whilst men of armes to kettles their old helmes translate,
And drinke in caskes of honourable plate.
In ev'ry hand [let] a cup be found,
That from all hearts a health may sound
To GORING! to GORING! see 't goe round.
II.
He whose glories shine so brave and high,
That captive they in triumph leade each care and eye,
Claiming uncombated the victorie,
And from the earth to heav'n rebound,
Fixt there eternall as this round:
To GORING! to GORING! see him crown'd.
III.
To his lovely bride, in love with scars,
Whose eyes wound deepe in peace, as doth his sword in wars;
They shortly must depose the Queen of Stars:
Her cheekes the morning blushes give,
And the benighted world repreeve;
To LETTICE! to LETTICE! let her live.
IV.
Give me scorching heat, thy heat, dry Sun,
That to this payre I may drinke off an ocean:
Yet leave my grateful thirst unquensht, undone;
Or a full bowle of heav'nly wine,
In which dissolved stars should shine,
To the couple! to the couple! th' are divine.
poem by Richard Lovelace
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On Ye Bishop Of Meaths Death
Mourn widdowd Iland, Mourn, your Pan is dead.
Mourn ye unhappy flocks your Sheapherd Pan is fled;
Around your grief in dolefull straines convey,
& Lett ym in sad Eccho's dy away,
As sympathising wth their masters care,
As if they felt th' unlucky newes they bear,
Of this so true a saint heav'n seem'd to send him here.
To shew how good in innocence we were:
So true a saint.—
We thought he was no man, but from ye skyes
(as there were oft of old) some angell in disguise,
But see to undeceive us to our grief, he dies.
He was with so good thoughts so freely springing blest,
ye divine garden so few briars did molest,
As if a Paradise were in his breast.
Serene his mind as heaven did appear;
His lookes serene as mercy's self might wear;
His actions might in Justice scales be try'd;
When ere he speak & heav'n a theam suppli'd,
Hed melt ye rockiest hearts like Moses to a tide.
But now he setts, his paines & toiles are o're,
& heav'n rewards ye seer with all his store:
He's spent wth doing good, & now lies down at ease
Stretcht on ye Pillows of æternall peace.
So ye fam'd Pithian Priestess when her soul
With ye demanded Oracle is full,
Vext with ye God yt rages in her breast,
Nature is tir'd, her spirits are opprest,
She flyes to sacred groves, & sinkes away to rest.
poem by Thomas Parnell
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Psalm XXXIV: Lord, I Will Bless Thee
Lord, I will bless thee all my days,
Thy praise shall dwell upon my tongue;
My soul shall glory in thy grace,
While saints rejoice to hear the song.
Come, magnify the Lord with me,
Come, let us all exalt his name;
I sought th'eternal God, and he
Has not exposed my hope to shame.
I told him all my secret grief,
My secret groaning reached his ears;
He gave my inward pains relief;
And calmed the tumult of my fears.
To him the poor lift up their eyes,
Their faces feel the heav'nly shine;
A beam of mercy from the skies
Fills them with light and joy divine.
His holy angels pitch their tents
Around the men that serve the Lord;
O fear and love him, all his saints,
Taste of' his grace, and trust his word.
The wild young lions, pinched with pain
And hunger, roar through all the wood;
But none shall seek the Lord in vain,
Nor want supplies of real good.
Children, in years and knowledge young,
Your parents' hope, your parents' joy,
Attend the counsels of my tongue,
Let pious thoughts your minds employ.
If you desire a length of days,
And peace to crown your mortal state,
Restrain your feet from impious ways,
Your lips from slander and deceit.
The eyes of God regard his saints,
His ears are open to their cries;
He sets his frowning face against
The sons of violence anti lies.
To humble souls and broken hearts
God with his grace is ever nigh;
Pardon and hope his love imparts,
When men in deep contrition lie.
He tells their tears, he counts their groans,
His Son redeems their souls from death;
His Spirit heals their broken bones,
They in his praise employ their breath.
poem by Isaac Watts
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Psalm 69 part 3
Christ's obedience and death; or, God glorified and sinners saved.
Father, I sing thy wondrous grace,
I bless my Savior's name;
He bought salvation for the poor,
And bore the sinner's shame.
His deep distress has raised us high;
His duty and his zeal
Fulfilled the law which mortals broke,
And finished all thy will.
His dying groans, his living songs,
Shall better please my God
Than harp or trumpet's solemn sound,
Than goat's or bullock's blood.
This shall his humble followers see,
And set their hearts at rest
They by his death draw near to thee,
And live for ever blest.
Let heav'n and all that dwell on high
To God their voices raise,
While lands and seas assist the sky,
And join t' advance the praise.
Zion is thine, most holy God,
Thy Son shall bless her gates;
And glory purchased by his blood
For thy own Isr'el waits.
poem by Isaac Watts
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Psalm 34 part 1
God's care of the saints; or, Deliverance by prayer.
Lord, I will bless thee all my days,
Thy praise shall dwell upon my tongue
My soul shall glory in thy grace,
While saints rejoice to hear the song.
Come, magnify the Lord with me,
Come, let us all exalt his name;
I sought th' eternal God, and he
Has not exposed my hope to shame.
I told him all my secret grief,
My secret groaning reached his ears;
He gave my inward pains relief;
And calmed the tumult of my fears.
To him the poor lift up their eyes,
Their faces feel the heav'nly shine;
A beam of mercy from the skies
Fills them with light and joy divine.
His holy angels pitch their tents
Around the men that serve the Lord;
O fear and love him, all his saints,
Taste of his grace, and trust his word.
The wild young lions, pinched with pain
And hunger, roar through all the wood;
But none shall seek the Lord in vain,
Nor want supplies of real good.
poem by Isaac Watts
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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