En.Citatepedia^®.ro

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.
'Tis Hers to bring each lovely Deed to Light,
And force unwilling Virtue to the Sight:
'Tis Hers, and 'tis Her Muse's greatest Pride,
A Favour never to forget, or hide.

Illustrious Youth! and let me style you Friend,
O look with Candor on the Lines I send!
Warm from the Heart my artless Numbers fall;
Nor wait Correctness, when your Virtues call.
Here, bless'd with all that human Life requires,
Superior to vain Fears, or low Desires;
In chearful Solitude, in studious Ease;
Careful my Conscience, and my God, to please;
I think on Thee, when Want, or Worth, implore;
And unrepining share my little Store.
So Stars attend the beauteous Queen of Night;
And faintly shine, not emulate her Light.

poem by Mary Barber
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To Mrs. Ward. By The Same.

O thou, my beauteous, ever tender Friend,
Thou, on whom all my worldly Joys depend,
Accept these Numbers; and with Pleasure hear
Unstudy'd Truth, which few, alas! can bear;
While conscious Virtue takes the Muse's Part,
Glows on thy Cheek, and warms thy gen'rous Heart.

Let Birth--day Suits be thoughtless Celias Cire;
And Rows of Di'monds recommend the Fair;
While gazing Crouds around the Pageant press,
Charm'd with her Pride, and Luxury of Dress:
Far other Joys thy just Ambition move,
To cherish and reward a Husband's Love;
To slight vain Titles, in Retreat to shine,
Shun public Praise, and call a Poet thine.
And know, ye Fair, a Poet can supply,
What Wealth, and Pow'r, and Equipage deny.
When the vain Bus'ness of your Lives is o'er,
And the Glass frightens, whom it charm'd before;
When not a Trace remains of what you were,
And not a Compliment salutes your Ear;
Without one Virtue, to redeem Respect,
Without one Beauty, to sorbid Neglect;
With Tears unpity'd, you may then lament
The gloomy Setting of a Life mis--spent;
Nor Delia's Choice with witty Malice blame,
Who gave up Show for Happiness and Fame.

O! If the Muse, not uninspir'd, divine,
Thy bright Example shall for ever shine;
Teach the wise Virgin, where to fix her Choice,
And weigh no Marriage by the common Voice;
To yield with Dignity, reject with Grace;
Nor tire the Lover with a tedious Chace:
With Ease to conquer, and with Ease retain,
Brighten Prosperity, or soften Pain:
Know Woman's Glory, and her proper End;
Live to her Husband, Family, and Friend:
Thro' varying Life her various Virtues prove,
Honour her Portion here, and Bliss above.

Say, What Persuasion, or what Arts of mine,
Could gain a Passage to a Soul like thine?
Where Female Softness, Strength of Reason meet,
A piercing Judgment, and a Wit discrect;
Where ev'ry Passion, ev'ry Duty, knows
Its proper Bounds, and not unlicens'd flows.
Say, for thou know'st, my ever ablest Guide,
(One doubtful Act remains unjustify'd)
On Me, on Me, thy choicest Favours fell;
Could You so err, or I deserve so well?
Instruct me thou the happy Art to steer,
And still with Modesty thy Conduct clear;
So in thy Praises may the World agree;
Nor load with Vanity the Muse and Me.

With Song still usher'd shall the Morn arise,
That shew'd thee first, all--charming, to my Eyes:
I gaz'd with Rapture, yet chastiz'd with Awe:
So the First Man descending Angels saw.
Speaking, or silent, O! secure to charm,
To win with Wisdom, or with Beauty warm:
The Graces unobserv'd, with easy Care,
Form thy soft Accents, and compose thy Air.
I saw, and heard; nor heard, nor saw, unmov'd,
Unknowing, or I durst not know, I lov'd.
What thence I suffer'd, let high Heav'n declare,
Pitying my Grief, propitious to my Pray'r.
Heav'n try'd my Passion, and pronounc'd it true:
Hence I embolden'd, and hence softer You.
Yet oft with--held, and falt'ring oft with Pain,
My Tongue half utters, what my Eyes explain,
Nor prone to flatter, nor to Virtue blind;
Not void of Knowledge, and to learn inclin'd;
Nor sprung from noble, nor ungen'rous Blood;
Boasting a Father honest, wise, and good;
Such long observ'd, and by long Converse shown,
My Temper, Manners, and my Failings known:
You trust my Vows, and pity Love sincere;
Haste to relieve, and smile away my Fear;
Give all you can, and all the rest forsake,
The noblest Sacrifice, that Love could make!
Of what Avail the Use of Wealth to Thee?
Or what the Blessing, if unshar'd with Me?
O doubly honour'd by the grateful Mind,
For what you bring, and what you leave behind!

Is there a Man in Science not unread,
In simple Neatness elegantly bred,
Of what or Health or Nature asks, possess'd,
Receiv'd by all, and by his Friends caress'd,
False and insidious can the Fair pursue,
And look on Beauty with a Miser's View?
Taught by the Muse such abject Souls to hate,
And hope sweet Converse from the Marriage--State,
I place my Triumphs in a matchless Wife,
Nor seek superfluous Vanities of Life:
Thus, unobnoxious to Detraction's Aim,
Nor base Suspicion can attaint my Fame.

Degen'rate Thought! Let sland'rous Tongues assail;
Spread all their Poison, all their Rage prevail;
So gracious Heav'n restore thee, to enjoy
What Love could leave, but Wisdom could employ.

Mean--while my Delia manifests her Worth;
The Loss of Riches calls her Prudence forth:
Behold her now with Dignity descend;
And low, but necessary, Cares attend;
Chearful, what Fortune not allows, resign;
And, harder still, her Charities confine:
But Heav'n in secret sees the kind Intent,
Each Act of Pity, or of Bounty, meant;
Heav'n sees in secret; but in open Day
Will crown thy Merit, and thy Praise display.
Tho' small thy Store, not Millions could suffice,
To furnish all thy lib'ral Thought supplies.
How oft thy lov'd Sapphira melts thy Breast,
Obscur'd her Worth, her Genius half depress'd!
How oft thy Fancy helps Old--Age along!
Or hears the Widow's, and the Orphau's Song!
Now visionary Temples rise around;
And half thy Empire, GEORGE, is sacred Ground.

From Thee, my Delia, from thy watchful Care,
My Little lasts; my Little, Friends can share:
Nor Debts distract, nor Usuries devour;
Poor if I am, within my Fortune poor.
Smile on, my Fair, tho' cautious, void of Fear,
Wise to shun Sorrows, or prepar'd to bear.
Who copies Thee, shall never fail to find,
'Midst Clouds and Storms, the Sun--shine of the Mind:
For Piety (whatever Ill impends)
Omniscience guides, Omnipotence defends.

Bless'd in Retirement, Competence, and Love,
Below all Envy, and all Vice above,
Crown'd with Content, I only burn to show,
(Hopeless to recompense) how much I owe.
O born with Genius, and with Learning fill'd,
In ev'ry Rule of happy Writings skill'd;
Whom Beauties strike, false Ornaments offend;
Who weigh with Care each Author's Scope and End;
Know why Pope slackens, or augments his Fire;
And oft, where others damn, the most admire;
(So shallow Wits, with bolder Folly, blame,
From Parts, the faultless Universal Frame:
But Newton's Genius could the Whole explore,
See All was good, and Wisdom's Hand adore.)
This Verse (you know me free from faulty Pride)
Or kindly authorize, or kindly hide:
Approve; and Fame shall sanctify my Lays:
Suppress; yet Love my grateful Labour pays.

poem by Mary Barber
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To Sophronia.

Sophronia, all the World agree,
The Soul of Friendship dwells in Thee:
Let Envy other Gifts dispute,
Since here the Fury must be mute.
Without one vain, one venal View,
The Muse inscribes these Lines to you.
Tho' I thy Favour shall not share,
Thy Worth I'm destin'd to revere;
And in Sophronia must commend
The firm, disinterested Friend:
To Virtue I this Homage pay,
Rewarded, tho' you slight the Lay.

Those who thy Favour once obtain,
Need not sollicit thee again;
Nor ever at Neglect repine:
Their Wishes and their Cares are thine:
Nor at the Grave thy Friendship ends;
But to Posterity descends.

Hail, sacred Friendship! seldom found,
Tho' sought for all the World around:
Say, Blessing of the peaceful Cell!
How cam'st thou in a Court to dwell?

poem by Mary Barber
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An Ode, On Reading Mr. Richardson's History Of Sir Charles Grandison

Say, ye apostate and profane,
Wretches, who blush not to disdain
Allegiance to your God,--
Did e'er your idly wasted love
Of virtue for her sake remove
And lift you from the crowd?

Would you the race of glory run,
Know, the devout, and they alone,
Are equal to the task:
The labours of the illustrious course
Far other than the unaided force
Of human vigour ask,

To arm against reputed ill
The patient heart too brave to feel
The tortures of despair:
Nor safer yet high-crested pride,
When wealth flows in with every tide
To gain admittance there.

To rescue from the tyrant’s sword
The oppress'd; unseen and unimplored,
To cheer the face of woe;
From lawless insult to defend
An orphan's right—a fallen friend,
And a forgiven foe;

These, these distinguish from the crowd,
And these alone, the great and good,
The guardians of mankind;
Whose bosoms with these virtues heave,
O with what matchless speed they leave
The multitude behind!

Then ask ye, from what cause on earth
Virtues like these derive their birth?
Derived from Heaven alone,
Full on that favour’d breast they shine,
Where faith and resignation join
To call the blessing down.

Such is that heart:--but while the muse
Thy theme, O Richardson, pursues,
Her feeble spirits faint;
She cannot reach, and would not wrong,
The subject for an angel’s song,
The hero, and the saint!

poem by William Cowper
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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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Epitaph on Sir Thomas Hanmer, Bart.

Thou who survey'st these walls with curious eye,
Pause at this tomb where Hanmer's ashes lie;
His various worth through varied life attend,
And learn his virtues while thou mourn'st his end.
His force of genius burn'd in early youth,
With thirst of knowledge, and with love of truth;
His learning, joined with each endearing art,
Charm'd every ear, and gain'd every heart.
Thus early wise, the endanger'd real to aid,
His country call'd him from the studious shade;
In life's first bloom his public toils began,
At once commenced the senator and man.
In business dexterous, weighty in debate,
Thrice ten long years he labour'd for the state;
In every speech persuasive wisdom flow'd,
In every act refulgent virtue glow'd;
Suspended faction ceased from rage and strife,
To hear his eloquence, and praise his life.
Resistless merit fix'd the senate's choice,
Who hail'd him Speaker with united voice.
Illustrious age! how bright thy glories shone,
When Hanmer fill'd the chair - and Anne the throne.
Then when dark art obscured each fierce debate,
When mutual frauds perplex'd the maze of state,
The Moderator firmly mild appear'd -
Beheld with love - with veneration heard.
This task perform'd - he sought no gainful post
Nor wish'd to glitter at his country's cost;
Strict on the right he fix'd his stedfast eye,
With temperate zeal, and wise anxiety;
Nor e'er from Virtue's paths was lured aside,
To pluck the flowers of pleasure or of pride.
Her gifts despis'd, Corruption blush'd and fled,
And Fame pursued him where Conviction led.
Age call'd, at length, his active mind to rest,
With honour sated, and with cares oppress'd;
To letter'd ease retired and honest mirth,
To rural grandeur, and domestic worth:
Delighted still to please mankind, or mend,
The patriot's fire yet sparkled in the friend.
Calm Conscience then, his former life survey'd,
And recollected toils endeared the shade,
Till Nature call'd him to the general doom,
And Virtue's sorrow dignified his tomb.

poem by Samuel Johnson
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God Bless America

God Bless America
Land That I Love
Stand Beside Her And Guide Her
Through The Night With The Light From Above

From The Mountains To The Prairies
To The Oceans Wide With Hope
God Bless America
My Home Sweet Home

God Bless America
My Home Sweet Home
God Bless America

From The Mountains To The Praries
To The Oceans Wide With Hope
God Bless America
My Home Sweet Home

God Bless America
My Home Sweet Home

song performed by by LeAnn Rimes from You Light Up My Life
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To Alexander Pope, Esq.

Shall for the Man of Ross thy Lyre be strung,
And sleeps illustrious Thanet yet unsung?
Since to distinguish Merit is thy Care,
Let Thanet in thy deathless Praises share:
Let me, unequal to the Task, excite
Thy matchless Muse, to do his Merit Right.
Numbers, like thine, should call his Virtues forth;
Poetic Mirrors should be true to Worth;
Disdaining to reflect those glitt'ring Rays,
Which flow from Pomp, or from Ambition's Blaze.

From Scenes of Woe, unmov'd, whilst Others fly,
And turn from Anguish the unmelting Eye;
Thanet pursues the Footsteps of the Poor,
And silent enters thro' the lonely Door;
Fair Plenty in his Train, and Joy, and Health,
Seeking Distress, as Others seek for Wealth;
With God like Pity ev'ry Pray'r receives,
Each Wish fulfils, and ev'ry Want relieves:
Where Sickness reigns, he, to his utmost Pow'r,
Softens the Anguish of each dismal Hour:
He smooths the rugged Brow of anxious Care,
And gilds the gloomy Prospect of Despair:
Whilst Libertines on Vice their Wealth employ,
He makes the Widow's Heart to sing for Joy:
Orphans no more their Parents lost complain;
In Thanet's Bounty they revive again.
Nor for this Life alone would he provide;
To Life eternal Thanet was their Guide:
Nor on Morality alone depends;
But to the noblest Heights of Faith ascends:
Devotion's heav'nly Flame inspir'd his Breast;
Still in the Temple were his Vows address'd:
Tho' he in Virtue's Paths, delighted, trod,
Studious to please, and imitate his God;
The hallow'd Altar, grateful, he survey'd,
And there his lowly Adoration paid.

See the pale, childless Miser hoard up Wealth,
And, trembling, snatch an anxious View by Stealth;
Amass the shining Ore with guilty Care,
To aggrandize some distant, worthless Heir;
Who longs, impatient, for the solemn Toll,
Which, slow, proclaims the sad--departed Soul;
Then eyes with Joy the care--collected Hoard,
And spends, profuse, what Avarice had stor'd;
By Fortune's sudden Smiles to Madness fir'd,
He wastes on ev'ry Vice, what Guilt acquir'd.

So dwells on Mountain--Tops the Northern Snow,
Congeal'd by Frosts, for Years untaught to flow;
Till hotter Suns more vig'rous Beams display;
The Mass relents, the glitt'ring Piles decay;
Sudden, from high, resounding Torrents flow,
Impetuous rushing on the Vales below;
O'erwhelm the Harvest of the pining Swain,
And curse with Floods, which should have bless'd the Plain.

On Thanet Heav'n its happier Influence shed;
A num'rous Off--spring grac'd his nuptial Bed:
And yet those Motives to paternal Care
Steel'd not his Breast against the Suppliant's Pray'r.
Studious to draw down Blessings on his Race,
His Bountics with his Progeny increase.
Like Egypt's Flood, beneficent he rose;
Silent, tho' vast, his well--judg'd Bounty flows;
O'er the parch'd Earth it spreads its ample Course,
Profuse of Good, but, modest, hides its Source.
Ask not, to what his Charities amount;
So many Myriads swell the vast Account.

Ye vain Pretenders to superior Sense,
Ye empty Boasters of Beneficence,
Who in the Scorners Seat, exulting, sit,
And vaunt your impious Raillery for Wit,
The Gospel--Rule defective you pretend,
When you the social Duties recommend;
In Thanet see them heighten'd and refin'd;
In Thanet see the Friend of human Kind;
Heighten'd by Faith, see ev'ry Virtue's Force;
By Faith, their surest Sanction, noblest Source.
Loudly ye boast a more than Christian Zeal,
For Virtue's Int'rest, and the public Weal;
Best by Effects are Boastings understood;
Come, prove your Ardor for the public Good!
The mighty Heroes of your Tribe survey,
Their ev'ry hidden Excellence display;
Or dead, or living, set their Virtues forth;
Let all, united, vie with Thanet's Worth;
Free--thinkers, Moralists, on you I call,
Can Thanet's Worth be equall'd by you all?

Accept, illustrious Shade! these artless Lays;
My Soul this Homage, to thy Virtue pays:
Led by that sacred Light, a Stranger--Muse
Attempts those Paths, which abler Feet refuse;
In distant Climes thy Virtue she admires,
In distant Climes thy Worth her Strain inspires.

Long to thy Tomb the Wretched shall repair,
And to thy Ashes pay a silent Tear;
Shall to the Traveller thy Worth relate,
And Emulation thro' the World create:
Ages to come shall celebrate thy Fame,
And Orphans, yet unborn, shall bless thy Name.

When the firm Basis of the Earth gives Way,
And Nature's Self shall feel her last Decay;
When those, who from the Wretched turn'd their Eye.
Too late relenting, shall for Mercy cry;
The Thousands thou hast fed, shall, in thy Praise,
Their loud Hosanna's to JEHOVAH raise;
Thy modest Worth shall veil itself no more;
Angels shall tell what Thanet hid before.

poem by Mary Barber
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Ode V: On Love Of Praise

I.
Of all the springs within the mind
Which prompt her steps in fortune's maze,
From none more pleasing aid we find
Than from the genuine love of praise.

II.
Nor any partial, private end
Such reverence to the public bears;
Nor any passion, virtue's friend,
So like to virtue's self appears.

III.
For who in glory can delight
Without delight in glorious deeds?
What man a charming voice can slight,
Who courts the echo that succeeds?

IV.
But not the echo on the voice
More, than on virtue praise, depends;
To which, of course, it's real price
The judgment of the praiser lends.

V.
If praise then with religious awe
From the sole perfect judge be sought,
A nobler aim, a purer law
Nor priest, nor bard, nor sage hath taught.

VI.
With which in character the same
Tho' in an humbler sphere it lies,
I count that soul of human fame,
The suffrage of the good and wise.

poem by Mark Akenside
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Elegy XXV. To Delia, With Some Flowers

Whate'er could Sculpture's curious art employ,
Whate'er the lavish hand of Wealth can shower,
These would I give-and every gift enjoy,
That pleased my fair-but Fate denies the power.

Bless'd were my lot to feed the social fires!
To learn the latent wishes of a friend!
To give the boon his native taste admires,
And, for my transport, on his smile depend!

Bless'd, too, is he whose evening ramble strays
Where droop the sons of Indigence and Care!
His little gifts their gladden'd eyes amaze,
And win, at small expence, their fondest prayer!

And, oh! the joy, to shun the conscious light;
To spare the modest blush; to give unseen!
Like showers that fall behind the veil of night,
Yet deeply tinge the smiling vales with green.

But happiest they who drooping realms relieve!
Whose virtues in our cultured vales appear!
For whose sad fate a thousand shepherds grieve,
And fading fields allow the grief sincere.

To call lost Worth from its oppressive shade
To fix its equal sphere, and see it shine,
To hear it grateful own the generous aid:
This, this is transport-but must ne'er be mine.

Faint is my bounded bliss; nor I refuse
To range where daisies open, rivers roll,
While prose or song the languid hours amuse,
And sooth the fond impatience of my soul.

Awhile I'll weave the roofs of jasmine bowers,
And urge with trivial cares the loitering year;
Awhile I'll prune my grove, protect my flowers,
Then, unlamented, press an early bier!

Of those loved flowers the lifeless corse may share,
Some hireling hand a fading wreath bestow;
The rest will breathe as sweet, will glow as fair,
As when their master smiled to see them glow.

The sequent morn shall wake the sylvan quire;
The kid again shall wanton ere 'tis noon;
Nature will smile, will wear her best attire;
O let not gentle Delia smile so soon!

While the rude hearse conveys me slow away,
And careless eyes my vulgar fate proclaim,
Let thy kind tear my utmost worth o'erpay,
And, softly sighing, vindicate my fame.-

O Delia! cheer'd by thy superior praise,
I bless the silent path the Fates decree;
Pleased, from the list of my inglorious days,
To raise the moments crown'd with bliss and thee.

poem by William Shenstone
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Threnodia Augustalis: Overture - A Solemn Dirge

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HER LATE ROYAL HIGHNESS
THE PRINCESS DOWAGER OF WALES.

AIR -- TRIO.

ARISE, ye sons of worth, arise,
And waken every note of woe;
When truth and virtue reach the skies,
'Tis ours to weep the want below!

CHORUS.
When truth and virtue, etc.

MAN SPEAKER.
The praise attending pomp and power,
The incense given to kings,
Are but the trappings of an hour --
Mere transitory things!
The base bestow them: but the good agree
To spurn the venal gifts as flattery.
But when to pomp and power are join'd
An equal dignity of mind --
When titles are the smallest claim --
When wealth and rank and noble blood,
But aid the power of doing good --
Then all their trophies last; and flattery turns to fame.

Bless'd spirit thou, whose fame, just born to bloom
Shall spread and flourish from the tomb,
How hast thou left mankind for heaven!
Even now reproach and faction mourn.
And, wondering how their rage was borne,
Request to be forgiven.
Alas! they never had thy hate:
Unmov'd in conscious rectitude,
Thy towering mind self-centred stood,
Nor wanted man's opinion to be great.
In vain, to charm thy ravish'd sight,
A thousand gifts would fortune send;
In vain, to drive thee from the right,
A thousand sorrows urg'd thy end:
Like some well-fashion'd arch thy patience stood,
And purchas'd strength from its increasing load.
Pain met thee like a friend that set thee free;
Affliction still is virtue's opportunity!
Virtue, on herself relying,
Ev'ry passion hush'd to rest,
Loses ev'ry pain of dying
In the hopes of being blest.
Ev'ry added pang she suffers
Some increasing good bestows,
Ev'ry shock that malice offers
Only rocks her to repose.

SONG. BY A MAN -- AFFETTUOSO.
Virtue, on herself relying,
Ev'ry passion hush'd to rest,
Loses ev'ry pain of dying
In the hopes of being blest.

Ev'ry added pang she suffers
Some increasing good bestows,
Ev'ry shock that malice offers,
Only rocks her to repose.

WOMAN SPEAKER.
Yet, ah! what terrors frowned upon her fate --
Death, with its formidable band,
Fever and pain and pale consumptive care,
Determin'd took their stand:
Nor did the cruel ravagers design
To finish all their efforts at a blow;
But, mischievously slow,
They robb'd the relic and defac'd the shrine.
With unavailing grief,
Despairing of relief,
Her weeping children round
Beheld each hour
Death's growing power,
And trembled as he frown'd.

As helpless friends who view from shore
The labouring ship, and hear the tempest roar,
While winds and waves their wishes cross --
They stood, while hope and comfort fail,
Not to assist, but to bewail
The inevitable loss.
Relentless tyrant, at thy call
How do the good, the virtuous fall!
Truth, beauty, worth, and all that most engage,
But wake thy vengeance and provoke thy rage.

SONG. BY A MAN. -- BASSO. -- STACCATO. -- SPIRITOSO.
When vice my dart and scythe supply,
How great a king of terrors I!
If folly, fraud, your hearts engage,
Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage!
Fall, round me fall, ye little things,
Ye statesmen, warriors, poets, kings;
If virtue fail her counsel sage,
Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage!

MAN SPEAKER.
Yet let that wisdom, urged by her example,
Teach us to estimate what all must suffer;
Let us prize death as the best gift of nature --
As a safe inn, where weary travellers,
When they have journeyed through a world of cares,
May put off life and be at rest for ever.
Groans, weeping friends, indeed, and gloomy sables,
May oft distract us with their sad solemnity:
The preparation is the executioner.
Death, when unmasked, shows me a friendly face,
And is a terror only at a distance;
For as the line of life conducts me on
To Death's great court, the prospect seems more fair.
'Tis Nature's kind retreat, that's always open
To take us in when we have drained the cup
Of life, or worn our days to wretchedness.
In that secure, serene retreat,
Where all the humble, all the great,
Promiscuously recline;
Where wildly huddled to the eye,
The beggar's pouch and prince's purple lie,
May every bliss be thine.
And ah! bless'd spirit, wheresoe'er thy flight,
Through rolling worlds, or fields of liquid light,
May cherubs welcome their expected guest;
May saints with songs receive thee to their rest;
May peace that claimed while here thy warmest love,
May blissful endless peace be thine above!

SONG. BY A WOMAN. -- AMOROSO.
Lovely, lasting Peace below,
Comforter of every woe,
Heav'nly born, and bred on high,
To crown the favourites of the sky --
Lovely, lasting Peace, appear;
This world itself, if thou art here,
Is once again with Eden blest,
And man contains it in his breast.

WOMAN SPEAKER.
Our vows are heard! Long, long to mortal eyes,
Her soul was fitting to its kindred skies:
Celestial-like her bounty fell,
Where modest want and patient sorrow dwell;
Want pass'd for merit at her door,
Unseen the modest were supplied,
Her constant pity fed the poor --
Then only poor, indeed, the day she died.
And oh! for this! while sculpture decks thy shrine,
And art exhausts profusion round,
The tribute of a tear be mine,
A simple song, a sigh profound.
There Faith shall come, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the tomb that wraps thy clay;
And calm Religion shall repair
To dwell a weeping hermit there.
Truth, Fortitude, and Friendship shall agree
To blend their virtues while they think of thee.

AIR. CHORUS. -- POMPOSO.
Let us, let all the world agree,
To profit by resembling thee.

poem by Oliver Goldsmith
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To The Reverend Mr. Mabell, Of Cambridge

Tho' great Longinus claims thy aiding Hand,
And hopes, thro' thee, t'instruct a barb'rous Land,
Where vile Conceits the Pow'r of Wit confound,
And true Sublimity is lost in Sound;
Where Folly, dress'd ten thousand various Ways,
The Bar, the Play--house, and the Pulpit sways;
Yet to my Verse thy kind Attention lend;
Pardon the Poet, and indulge the Friend.

From Noise, and Nonsense, and vain Laughte free,
I steal a thoughtful Hour, and give to thee;
To thee, Conductor of my heedless Youth,
Who taught me first to rev'rence Sense, and Truth;
Virtue to praise; and boldly Vice deride,
With all the Pomp of Fashion on her Side.

Behold the Scene a motley Tribe compose,
Wives, Widows, Maids, and intermingled Beaux,
All Orders, Ages, in one League unite,
And to dear Passage consecrate the Night!
Now the Dice rattle in the sounding Box;
Now groans the Table with repeated Knocks;
(Delightful Musick to the Gamester's Ear!)
While ev'ry Bosom beats with Hope or Fear.
A Pass resounds--What wond'rous Transports rise
In Celia's Breast, and lighten in her Eyes!
She sweeps the Board--The Fop, with ardent Gaze,
Admires the Beauty that her Arm displays.

But who, unmov'd, can bear the piteous Sight,
While Cynthia frets and raves at Fortune's Spite?
Fled from her Cheek are ev'ry Love and Grace,
And all the Fury threatens in her Face:
Distracted, lost, with Grief and Rage o'ercome,
She quits the Dice, and flies to storm at home.
When I a Curse implore, may courteous Fate
With such a Consort curse the Man I hate!
But is there One amongst the Many found,
Adorn'd with Modesty, with Reason crown'd;
Who treads the slipp'ry Paths of Youth with Care,
And uninfected breathes in tainted Air?
If such there be, kind Heav'n, afford thy Aid,
And soften to my Wish the virtuous Maid!

See the Belle flutter with the sprightly Beau!
They trip it on the light, fantastic Toe:
Nor Words, nor Sighs, their am'rous Thoughts impart;
They dance, and glitter at each other's Heart!
With honest Scorn survey yon various Croud,
Of supple Slaves, or Lords of Titles proud!
Stiff--nodding Fools! a Mob in Masquerade!
Whom Honours brand, and Dignities upbraid.

Yet some there are, with Worth and Wisdom blest.
A noble Few! who satirize the rest;
Who scorn to boast their great Fore--father's Rays,
Shine of themselves, and mingle Blaze with Blaze.
And such is Orrery; whose gen'rous Mind,
Still prone to Pity, feels for human Kind.
A Zeal for Piety inflames his Breast,
Temper'd with Charity, in Meekness dress'd:
Grandeur and Ease his ev'ry Action guide;
He nor assumes, nor condescends in Pride:
Add sprightly Wit, by prudent Laws confin'd,
A Judgment sober, and by Books refin'd:
Add that the Muses ev'ry Charm dispense,
To tune his Voice, and beautify the Sense.

This to my Friend: And, O! may this inspite
Love of fair Fame, and fan the sacred Fire!
Dare to have Taste, and urge thy glorious Toil,
To teach th' Unknowing, and to please a Boyle.

poem by Mary Barber
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Lord, with Glowing Heart I'd Praise Thee

Lord, with glowing heart I'd praise Thee,
For the bliss Thy love bestows,
For the pardoning grace that saves me,
And the peace that from it flows:
Help, O God, my weak endeavor;
This dull soul to rapture raise:
Thou must light the flame, or never
Can my love be warmed to praise.

Praise, my soul, the God that sought thee,
Wretched wanderer, far astray;
Found thee lost, and kindly brought thee
From the paths of death away;
Praise, with love's devoutest feeling,
Him Who saw thy guilt-born fear,
And the light of hope revealing,
Bade the blood-stained cross appear.

Praise thy Savior God that drew thee
To that cross, new life to give,
Held a blood sealed pardon to thee,
Bade thee look to Him and live.
Praise the grace whose threats alarmed thee,
Roused thee from thy fatal ease;
Praise the grace whose promise warmed thee,
Praise the grace that whispered peace.

Lord, this bosom's ardent feeling
Vainly would my lips express.
Low before Thy footstool kneeling,
Deign Thy suppliant's prayer to bless:
Let Thy grace, my soul's chief treasure,
Love's pure flame within me raise;
And, since words can never measure,
Let my life show forth Thy praise.

poem by Francis Scott Key
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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.

O Pow'r supreme! yet, yet, Hortensia spare;
The Stranger, and the Wretched, are her Care:
Snatch her not hence; we cannot let her go;
Still let her be thy Substitute below,
To raise the sinking Heart, to heal Distress;
To Her was giv'n the Will and Pow'r to bless.

O would Heav'n grant me, ere I cross the Main,
To see thy Face, Hortensia, once again!
But I must hasten to Hibernia's Shore;
And never, never, shall behold thee more.

poem by Mary Barber
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A Letter Sent To Mrs. Barber

Thou glorious Ruler of the beauteous Day!
Have sev'nteen Years so swiftly roll'd away?
Hast thou so oft the heav'nly Circle run,
When scarce I thought thy radiant Course begun?
Never shall I my fleeting Time renew?
Must it all perish in one transient View?
I wish--Alas! my Wishes are in vain:
Those flying Years they never can regain:
With rapid Haste Old Time the Moments drives;
And scarce a Trace of Youth in Age survives:
So, when the weary'd Mortal sinks to Rest,
And ev'ry Tumult ceases in his Breast;
Imagin'd Scenes, and wish'd--for Views arise;
Anew Creation feeds his wond'ring Eyeo;
Till Phoebus, rising o'er the spangled Plain,
Recalls him from the bright, delusive Scene;
With Grief he then perceives th' enchanting Sight,
The fleeting Creature of oblivious Night.

When some fine Voice delights the raptur'd Heart,
By Nature pleasing, yet improv'd by Art;
Tho' trembling each Seraphic Sound decay,
And with melodious Cadence melt away;
The faithful Echo still revives the Strain,
And sweetly charms the list'ning Ear again:
But Life, once vanish'd, will return no more;
No mimic Thought its Presence can restore.

Say then, my Soul, how must I now survey
So many Years, so quickly snatch'd away?
Awake, my Muse! Thou only canst impart
Ease to my Griefs, and heal the wounded Heart:
What Theme shall now employ my youthful Lays?
Say! Next to Heav'n, what Subject claims my Praise?
O impious Question! Dare I ask the Theme,
When a lov'd Parent does that Duty claim?
The Infant Tree, that, with judicious Care,
Some Hand defended from the piercing Air,
With cooling Streams reliev'd the burning Root,
Or lopp'd, with tender Skill, each sickly Shoot,
Soon as it learns the Tempest to despise,
And with diffusive Branches hide the Skies,
Gladly rewards the weary'd Peasant's Pains,
And loads the Parent Hand with annual Gains.

Haste then, my Muse; Sapphira is the Theme;
O strive, tho' vainly, to enhance her Fame:
Her Guardian Care did all my Griefs assuage,
Those sure Attendants of an Infant Age!
By her conducted to the Light of Truth,
I sail, unshipwreck'd, thro' the Storm of Youth:
The heav'nly Influence of her sage Advice
Points from afar the dang'rous Rocks of Vice;
Shews, with discerning Eye, the blissful Plains,
Where Peace, eternal, with fair Virtue reigns.

O Thou, whom ev'ry Grace and Worth attends,
Thou best of Mothers, and thou best of Friends,
Indulgently accept these filial Lays;
Accept thy Son's inartificial Praise:
May Heav'n restore thee to these Eyes again,
And safely waft thee o'er th' Iernian Main:
O quickly to my longing Eyes repair,
And ever bless me with thy Guardian Cate!

poem by Mary Barber
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The Gifts of Life and Pollution

Nature's gifts are sunny beaches,
Nature's gifts are rocky mountains,
Nature's gifts are vast oceans,
Nature's gifts are the tranquil colors in the rainbow,
Nature's gifts are rain forests,
Nature's gift is life.

Our gifts are oceans filled with toxins,
Our gifts are global warming,
Our gifts are deserted forests,
Our gifts are killed animals,
Our gifts are serious diseases,
Our gift is pollution.

poem by Melanie Jackson
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To My First Born

Fair tiny rosebud! what a tide
Of hidden joy, o’erpow’ring, deep,
Of grateful love, of woman’s pride,
Thrills through my heart till I must weep
With bliss to look on thee, my son,
My first born child—my darling one!

What joy for me to sit and gaze
Upon thy gentle, baby face,
And, dreaming of far distant days,
With mother’s weakness strive to trace
Tokens of future greatness high,
On thy smooth brow and lustrous eye.

What do I wish thee, darling, say?
Is it that lordly mental power
That o’er thy kind will give thee sway,
Unchanging, full, a glorious dower
For those whose minds may grasp its worth,
True rulers and true kings of earth?

Or would I ask for thee that fire
Of wond’rous genius, great divine,
The spell that charms the poet’s lyre,
Till like a halo it will shine
Around a name praised, honored, sung,
In distant climes by many a tongue?

Ah, no! my child, with such vain themes
I will not mar thy quiet rest
Nor wish ambition’s restless dreams
Infused into thy tranquil breast;
Too soon will manhood’s weight of care
O’ercloud that waxen brow so fair.

For thee, my Babe, I only pray
Thou’lt live to bless thy parents’ love,
To be their hope, their earthly stay,
And gaining grace from heaven above,
Tread in the path the good have trod,
True to thy country and thy God!

poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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Temperance Hymn

God of our fathers! Thee we praise;
To-day, our grateful thanks ascend:
Accept these thanks-our cheerful lays
With organ's solemn chantings blend.

Thy grace the wretched drunkard found
Cast out, and weltering in his blood;
Now from his tongue doth praise resound-
He owes that praise to thee, O God!

Restored to virtue by thy hand,
The father, brother, son, arise;
From sin and wo reclaimed, they stand,
And swell thy praise with tearful eyes.

The mother, sister, daughter, too,
With tears of gratitude and praise,
Behold the change, and now, anew,
Receive their friends to their embrace.

No longer poverty and shame-
A sad inheritance-are theirs;
Their altered looks aloud proclaim
A happy change in their affairs.

Thanks, thanks, to thee, O God, we give!
What better tribute can we pay?
'T is on thy bounties that we live;-
We praise thee for this festal day!

poem by John Pierpont
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Though Some Good Things Of Lower Worth

The Lord is the portion of mine inheritance. Psalm 16:5.

Though some good things of lower worth
My heart is called on to resign,
Of all the gifts in heaven and earth,
The greatest and the best is mine
The love of God in Christ made known
The love that is enough alone,
My Father's love is all my own.

My soul's Restorer, let me learn
In that deep love to live and rest
Let me the precious thing discern
Of which I am indeed possessed.
My treasure let me feel and see,
And let my moments, as they flee,
Unfold my endless life in Thee.

Let me not dwell so much within
My bounded heart, with anxious heed
Where all my searches meet with sin,
And nothing satisfies my need
It shuts me from the sound and sight
Of that pure world of life and light,
Which has no breadth, or length, or height.

Let me Thy power, Thy beauty see;
So shall the hopeless labor cease,
And my free heart shall follow thee
Through paths of everlasting peace.
My strength Thy gift, my life Thy care,
I shall forget to seek elsewhere
The wealth to which my soul is heir.

I was not called to walk alone,
To clothe myself with love and light;
And for Thy glory, not my own,
My soul is precious in Thy sight.
My evil heart can never be
A home, a heritage for me
But Thou canst make it fit for Thee.

poem by Anna Laetitia Waring
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A Thanksgiving Prayer to God

Almighty God, to Thee I pray,
And thank Thee for all things this day,
I had received in ample way;
Let glory be to Thee, Aye! Aye!

I am a human being mere;
I sin often and always err;
Forgive me Lord, my God, I plead,
A better life, may I still lead.

This day is almost over, Lord!
I’m sorry if I broke accord;
Without Thine mercy, love O God,
My life gets thrown into discord.

My every want, Thou providest;
My praises, thanks, I offer best;
Ignore my iniquities Lord;
Afill my heart, mind with Thine word.

O let my lips utter good words,
And let my tongue not turn like swords,
And let me labor for Thine sake,
And dispel ignorance and ache.

The good I did all came from Thee
The bad surfaced from within me;
O help me do my duty well,
And always toll the success bell!

O fill this vessel, Lord, I pray,
With gifts that I can share today,
With downtrodden brethren around,
And men and women, poor, unsound.

O bless my solitude always;
Let devils not invade my days;
So bless my deeds and mundane ways,
Miraculously most, in case.

O take away my pride, O Lord;
I long to live in Thine accord;
Rescue me from each temptation
That takes me nearer Damnation.

Provide me Lord, with Thine insight;
Thou art my only way, truth, light;
Let love for Thee burn always bright,
From dawn till dusk, and through the night.

My fallacies are not just mine;
O keep me off women and wine;
This bread will do; my health is fine;
My soul with grace must always shine.

O Lord, now bless this bread I eat;
And keep my body, heart, soul, neat,
And walking in heavenly grace,
With wisdom, piety-filled face.

Copyright by Dr John Celes 1-17-2008

poem by John Celes
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Prologue To Mallet's Mustapha

Since Athens first began to draw mankind,
To picture life, and show the impassion'd mind;
The truly wise have ever deem'd the stage
The moral school of each enlighten'd age.
There, in full pomp, the tragic Muse appears,
Queen of soft sorrows, and of useful fears.
Faint is the lesson reason's rules impart:
She pours it strong, and instant through the heart.
If virtue is her theme, we sudden glow
With generous flame; and what we feel, we grow.
If vice she paints, indignant passions rise;
The villain sees himself with loathing eyes.
His soul starts, conscious, at another's groan,
And the pale tyrant trembles on his throne.
To-night, our meaning scene attempts to show
What fell events from dark suspicion flow;
Chief when it taints a lawless monarch's mind,
To the false herd of flattering slaves confined.
The soul sinks gradual to so dire a state;
E'en excellence but serves to feed its hate:
To hate remorseless cruelty succeeds,
And every worth, and every virtue bleeds.
Behold, our author at your bar appears,
His modest hopes depress'd by conscious fears.
Faults he has many—but to balance those,
His verse with heart-felt love of virtue glows:
All slighter errors let indulgence spare,
And be his equal trial full and fair.
For this best British privilege we call,
Then—as he merits, let him stand or fall.

poem by James Thomson
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