Written Upon The Rocks At Tunbridge,
Hither, amongst the Crouds, that shun
The smoaky Town, and sultry Sun,
In cooling Springs to seek for Health,
Or throw away superfluous Wealth,
A Native of Hibernia came,
Thus writ her Thoughts, but not her Name.
Hither the Britons, void of Care,
A happy, free--born Race, repair:
Whilst I, who feel a diff'rent Fate,
Lament my Country's wretched State;
The pitying Rocks return my Lays,
Just Emblem of the barren Bays.
Thus far -- When, lo! the God of Wit,
Who slightly glanc'd on what was writ,
Suspend, he cries, thy Cares a--while;
My Sackville soon shall bless your lsle:
No longer talk of barren Bays;
Remember, 'tis a Dorset sways.
poem by Mary Barber
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Southerndown South Wales No3
History Writ Large
Like layered cake the tide washes
The crumbled mix of history
Laid down in times that ceased so long ago
Yet stand so resolute for all to see.
Peering through the lens of time
We scan the distant vista with impunity
The cliffs that tower over all the bays
Along this ragged coastline etched in time
We feel the hand of God writ large
Yet most who pass this way see nothing
Nothing but the weathered view
Transient and ephemeral, short lived
But here history was made and carved
In the mind of God and in eternity
Southerndown South Wales
November 2004
No 3 in the Southerndown Trilogy
poem by James Tipp
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If
IF life were but a dream, my Love,
And death the waking time;
If day had not a beam, my Love,
And night had not a rhyme, —
A barren, barren world were this
Without one saving gleam;
I'd only ask that with a kiss
You'd wake me from the dream.
If dreaming were the sum of days,
And loving were the bane;
If battling for a wreath of bays
Could soothe a heart in pain, —
I'd scorn the meed of battle's might,
All other aims above
I'd choose the human's higher right,
To suffer and to love!
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Written For My Son, And Spoken By Him, At A public Examination For Victors.
To you, Athenians, we again submit;
Reward, or punish us, as you think fit.
Let Idleness, unpity'd, meet Disgrace;
For Idleness, this Year, is doubly base.
This is the Æra, this the destin'd Year,
For Arts and Sciences to flourish here.
The Muses, exil'd long, to Court repair;
And--strange to think! are all the Fashion there.
Who feels not now a gen'rous Emulation,
When Merit raises to the highest Station?
Scholars may surely hope a better Fate,
Whilst Carteret directs the Helm of State.
O would he govern here by Grecian Rules,
And chuse a Senate, to preside o'er Schools;
Honour, alone, to pay the glorious Task,
(A Recompence no Foreigner would ask!)
Then kind Britannia, doubtless, would consent,
Hibernia should supply a President.
Too oft, alas! are Talents misapply'd,
By Parents Fondness, Ignorance, and Pride.
This Grievance then would cease, and we should be
Regarded, as the Publick's Property:
Genius alone would be consulted then,
(The only Way to make us useful Men)
And each would have his sev'ral Task assign'd,
As Nature gave the Biass to his Mind.
Boys of a brutal, cruel Disposition,
Should go to Spain, to serve the Inquisition.
O what a Change in Landlords would appear!
Next Age, not one would rack his Tenants here.
The Lads, who study but to dress and dance,
Should cultivate their Worthlesness in France.
Those who love Liberty, to Albion roam;
But, could they bear Oppression,--stay at home.
Then glorious Ancestors would cease to be
Degraded by a worthless Progeny.
None should from noble Blood their Lineage trace,
Unless they added Lustre to their Race.
That the degen'rate Off--spring of the Great
Might be no more a Burden to the State;
The Sons of Peers, with mean, ignoble Hearts,
In Holland should be taught mechanic Arts;
And Boys of Genius to those Honours soar,
Which high--born Dunces but disgrac'd before:
See Nature, thus, the gen'rous Juice divide;
The Spirit rises, and the Dregs subside.
Thus modell'd, we may hope for happier Times;
Our Isle will be rever'd by distant Climes:
And, lest Posterity should think us rude,
And lost, at once, to Shame and Gratitude;
A Patriot Race shall sing the Drapier's Praise,
And civic Crowns fhall mingle with His Bays:
Nor shall His Works alone His Worth proclaim,
(Tho' none, like those, can eternize His Name)
His Statue shall be rais'd in ev'ry Street,
With proud Oppression, writhing at His Feet;
At his Right--hand fair Liberty shall smile,
Protected by the Guardian of our Isle;
On t'other Side, the Goddess Fame shall stand,
With His immortal Labours in her Hand:
Then shall each gen'rous Youth, who passes by,
And sees the Patriot's Image, plac'd on high,
With Emulation feel his Bosom fir'd,
And thus break forth, by Gratitude inspir'd.
``O Thou, whose Genius rose, to save the State,
``And snatch Thy Country from the Brink of Fate!
``When for Thy Life Hibernia sues in vain,
``And Heav'n no longer will Thy Crown detain;
``Her grateful Sons, already rob'd in White,
``Shall hail Thee, glorious, in the Realms of Light.
poem by Mary Barber
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Our Childrens Legacy - This Ruined Earth
In that dreamlike state we call living
We give in to desires of the flesh
We take without thought, without giving
until there is nothing left
We destroy all the land round about us
We'll destroy the balance of life
Barren wastes will lie deserted
Whilst we still cause trouble and strife
We have no thoughts of the future
Our childrens legacy, a barren land
So pollute and destroy, build and bomb
leave no green land, just atomic sand
Tear down the trees, concrete it over
after all, WE won't be around that long.
January 1988
poem by Penni Currie
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The Creator And A Barren Woman
A barren woman had been praying for a child for long,
Then after many years without hope the Creator heard her prayers;
Then the Creator said to her: 'A year today you will give birth'.
This is the story of the Creator and a barren woman:
A year after the barren woman gave birth to a child.
Now, she started to complain again to the Creator;
Because, she has no time to take care of the child.
'Oh, i am too tired of taking care of this child';
And the Creator was very patience.
'Oh, i cannot take care of this child any longer';
And the Creator was very patience again.
'Oh, i have given my husband a child but i cannot take care of him';
This child was a son and then, the Creator said to the woman:
'When you were baren you did cried out for a child but,
Now that you've got one you also crying daily for his upkeep';
'Well, the wants of mankind are many and mankind is NOT satisfied'.
Yes, we are all living on this earth;
With stories and the things that we see around us;
But mankind is really NOT satisfied, whether barren or with a child.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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On Lord Thurlow's Poems
When Thurlow this damn'd nonsense sent
(I hope I am not violent),
Nor men nor gods knew what he meant.
And since not even our Rogers' praise
To common sense his thoughts could raise--
Why would they let him print his lays'
To me, divine Apollo, grant--O!
Hermilda s first and second canto,
I'm fitting up a new portmanteau;
And thus to furnish decent lining,
My own and others' bays I'm twining,--
So, gentle Thurlow, throw me thine in.
Bible in Poetry: Galatians 4
As long as heir is just a child,
He is not diff’rent from a slave,
Although he owns the whole estate,
Until time set by his father,
He has guardians and too trustees.
When we were children, we were slaves,
Under the basic rules of world;
But when the time had fully come,
God sent his son, born of woman,
Born under law to redeem all,
In law to rights receive of sons;
Being sons, God sent the Spirit
Of His One Son into our hearts,
Who calls out ‘Abba’ or Father;
No longer are you slaves but sons,
And being sons, God made you heirs!
Paul’s Concern for the Galatians:
When formerly, you didn’t know God,
You’re slaves to those who were not gods;
Now that you know the living God,
Or rather known by God Himself,
Why do you turn back to your ways
Of weak, improper principles?
Do you want to be slaves again?
You observe special months, seasons,
And days and years, I fear for you;
Have my efforts all gone awaste?
I plead with you, my brothers then,
Become like me, henceforth in time;
You haven’t done wrong to me at all;
Because I was then ill, I preached
The gospel first to you earlier;
Although my illness troubled you,
You didn’t treat me with contempt, scorn.
Contrariwise, you welcomed me
As if I were God’s angel then:
As if I were Christ Jesus Lord;
What happened to all of your joy?
If you had done, I would have told;
You would have gouged your eyes for me!
Am I your foe for telling truth?
Those people want to win you o’er,
And alienate you from us somehow;
For goodness sake, be zealous then,
Provided good, the purpose be;
And be so always, forever;
My children dear for whom I ache,
With child-birth pains till you get Christ,
Oh, how I wish I be with you,
And change my tone, perplexed with you!
Hagar and Sarah:
You who want to be in the law,
Aren’t you aware of what law says?
’Tis writ: Abraham had two sons
One by the slave woman, Hagar,
Other by free woman, Sarah;
The former came in common way,
But the free woman Sarah’s son
Was born by promise of God’s mouth.
These represent two covenants:
The former one from Mount Sinai,
Which bears children who will be slaves;
And this is Hagar, Arabia,
Presently now Jerusalem,
Which is in bondage with children;
The city that’s above is free,
And she is our mother, Sarah!
For ’tis written:
‘Be glad, O barren woman then,
Who does not bear any children;
Break forth in joy and cry aloud;
You do not suffer labor pains;
Because the children born are more
Of the desolate woman than
Of her, who has a husband own.’
But then, what does the Scripture say?
Get rid of slave woman and son,
For latter never can share in
Inheritance with free woman’s son;
We aren’t children of slave woman,
But are the sons of free woman!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 7-2-2007
poem by John Celes
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Macquarie Harbour
Macquarie Harbour jailers lock
the sullen gates no more.....
but lash-strokes sound in every shock
of ocean on the dismal rocks
along that barren shore.
No more the bolters hear the hound
that bays upon the wind,
and terror-spurred kepp onward-bound
until they drop upon the ground
starved and terror-pinned....
But gales that whine among the hills
sniff at the savage tracks
the hopeless took. The snowfall fills
bleak ranges; then the moonlight spills
broad arows on their backs.
poem by Rex Ingamells
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A Truth Beyond Compromise.
She bears the emblem of the crescent moon upon her chest
Sinking, seeing the warmth of her bosom, I’m in need of a rest.
She speaks to angels who guide her thoughts, she’s seeking
All it is that mortal man hath ever sought,
A truth beyond compromise.
A truth as true as the sky
In revealing her emotion.
Rippling oceans shatter the establishment calm Of palm tree laden bays
Tourists, pleasure hunters are spread into dismay by a blood of the
Goddess’ tears. Brooding on her fears, she’s wasting away the years,
Too long she hath been tearing, frantic at her hair.
He cares but can’t reveal
Or speak of the way he feels
Still his heart doth weep
In and out of sleeping.
Still the Love he keeps
No other treasure doth
He wish to seek.
poem by David Lacey
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To The Right Honourable The Earl Of Thomond, At Bath
Obrian, were in Story told,
Thy Ancestors wore Crowns of old:
In fair Hibernia's Isle they reign'd;
A Country, by their Sons disdain'd!
Too apt to charge their Native Isle
With ev'ry Vice of Speech and Style:
Yet thy Eliza, great and good,
Of Seymour's, and of Piercy's Blood,
(Whose Ancestors, to Fame well known,
When injur'd, shook the British Throne
Will not thy native Isle deride,
Tho' to an higher Crown ally'd.
And shall Hibernia fear Disgrace,
From Thomond, of Milesian Race?
It ill becomes thee thus to treat
Thy Family's Imperial Seat.
Great Boiroimke! look down and see
This Change in thy Posterity;
Who quit all Titles to thy Throne,
But Hospitality alone.
poem by Mary Barber
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To A Young Lady, On Her Translation Of The Story Of Phoebus And Daphne, From Ovid
In Phœbus Wit (as Ovid said)
Enchanting Beauty woo'd;
In Daphne Beauty coily fled,
While vainly Wit pursu'd.
But when you trace what Ovid writ,
A diff'rent Turn we view;
Beauty no longer flies from Wit,
Since both are joyn'd in You.
Your Lines the wondrous Change impart,
From whence our Lawrels spring;
In Numbers fram'd to please the Heart,
And merit what they Sing.
Methinks thy Poet's gentle Shade
Its Wreath presents to Thee;
What Daphne owes you as a Maid,
She pays you as a Tree.
poem by Thomas Parnell
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What the Sexton Said
Your dust will be upon the wind
Within some certain years,
Though you be sealed in lead to-day
Amid the country's tears.
When this idyllic churchyard
Becomes the heart of town,
The place to build garage or inn,
They'll throw your tombstone down.
Your name so dim, so long outworn,
Your bones so near to earth,
Your sturdy kindred dead and gone,
How should men know your worth?
So read upon the runic moon
Man's epitaph, deep-writ.
It says the world is one great grave.
For names it cares no whit.
It tells the folk to live in peace,
And still, in peace, to die.
At least, so speaks the moon to me,
The tombstone of the sky.
poem by Vachel Lindsay
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To The Honourable Mrs. Spencer, On Her Removing From Windsor To Rookly In Hampshire.
Where--e'er you go, some Actions still we hear,
Which make the Goodness of your Mind appear.
Hibernia early saw those Seeds of Worth,
In your fair Breast, which now shoot nobly forth;
Foresaw the Hopes you gave, matur'd by Time,
And griev'd to yield you to a happier Clime.
Tho' to the Height of all your Wishes bless'd,
Yet still your Sighs can rise for the Distress'd:
So young, so good! Georgina, 'tis thy Fate,
To be admir'd, and lov'd in ev'ry State.
How does thy Manner to thy Words impart
Some won'drous Pow'r to gain upon the Heart,
Engaging All!--Beneficence we see,
Tho' fair Herself, yet owing Charms to Thee:
O fitted Thou for Spencer's Race, who scorn
To think they only for Themselves were born!
poem by Mary Barber
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Mom Said 'Remember Them
The childless, Father remember them
they are termed barren
the subject-matter of in-laws
the meal of their evil tongues
remember them.
The single ladies, Oh Father
it's their will to have family
a husband and children
but it ain't their wish to be single
remember them.
The widow, My Father
give them love they miss
their integrity is questioned
their cries, watch it father
remember them.
Those your daughters, Father
facing intimidation
them: street's laughingstock
they have no peace in heart
shame on them can't be bore
remember them FATHER.
poem by Fate Mcfate
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The First Spring Day
THE sunshine died long ago,
Stifled out long ago,
And the waste of the world was grey,
And night was the best to know,
For night was to doze and forget the day,
To be warm and forgetting and still,
And need not the sun and know not the chill:
But oh, for the day that was darkened so!
Why gaze on a barren heaven,
Void and unchanging heaven,
On a barren earth in the grime,
And not a poor blossom given,
No thing that was thinking of sunshine time,
For a promise, a praise of the past?
And so one forgot the sunshine at last;
And sleep could avail, but what to have striven?
The sunshine wakes once anew,
Wakes and is born anew,
And the Age of the earth grows young,
And heaven has its youth for hue,
And hope is the tune of the spring-bird's tongue,
And the leaves in their prisons all hark,
And blossoms will know there is end of the dark:
One hour of the sun, and the spring-time grew!
The sunshine new on the earth,
Heaven to brighten the earth,
And the deathful dimness gone by,
The barren and winter dearth!
And to-day is the best till the next is nigh,
And to-night is to-morrow begun,
To-morrow, when blossoms remember the sun!
Dead hopes, are ye born with the blossoms birth?
poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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Hymn 131
The Pharisee and publican.
Luke 18:10ff.
Saints, at your heav'nly Father's word
Give up your comforts to the Lord;
Behold how sinners disagree,
The publican and Pharisee!
One doth his righteousness proclaim,
The other owns his guilt and shame.
This man at humble distance stands,
And cries for grace with lifted hands
That boldly rises near the throne,
And talks of duties he has done.
The Lord their diff'rent language knows,
And diff'rent answers he bestows;
The humble soul with grace he crowns,
Whilst on the proud his anger frowns.
Dear Father! let me never be
Joined with the boasting Pharisee;
I have no merits of my own
But plead the suff'rings of thy Son.
poem by Isaac Watts
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To His Honoured And Most Ingenious Friendmr Charles Cotton
For brave comportment, wit without offence,
Words fully flowing, yet of influence,
Thou art that man of men, the man alone
Worthy the public admiration;
Who with thine own eyes read'st what we do write,
And giv'st our numbers euphony and weight;
Tell'st when a verse springs high; how understood
To be, or not, born of the royal blood
What state above, what symmetry below,
Lines have, or should have, thou the best can show:--
For which, my Charles, it is my pride to be,
Not so much known, as to be loved of thee:--
Long may I live so, and my wreath of bays
Be less another's laurel, than thy praise.
poem by Robert Herrick
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From an Outpost
I've tramped South England up and down
Down Dorset way, down Devon way,
Through every little ancient town
Down Dorset way, down Devon way.
I mind the old stone churches there,
The taverns round the market square,
The cobbled streets, the garden flowers,
The sundials telling peaceful hours
Down Dorset way, down Devon way.
The Meadowlands are green and fair
Down Somerset and Sussex way,
The clover scent is in the air
Down Somerset and Sussex way.
I mind the deep-thatched homesteads there
The noble downlands, clean and bare.
The sheepfolds and the cattle byres,
The blue wood-smoke from shepherd's fires
Down Dorset way, down Devon way.
Mayhap I shall not walk again
Down Dorset way, down Devon way,
Nor pick a posy in a lane
Down Somerset and Sussex way.
But though my bones, unshriven, rot
In some far distant alien spot,
what soul I have shall rest from care
To know that meadows still are fair
Down Dorset way, down Devon way.
poem by Leslie Coulson
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To His Honoured and Most Ingenious Friend Mr. Charles Cotton
For brave comportment, wit without offence,
Words fully flowing, yet of influence:
Thou art that man of men, the man alone,
Worthy the public admiration:
Who with thine own eyes read'st what we do write,
And giv'st our numbers euphony, and weight.
Tell'st when a verse springs high, how understood
To be, or not born of the Royal blood.
What state above, what symmetry below,
Lines have, or should have, thou the best canst show.
For which (my Charles) it is my pride to be,
Not so much known, as to be loved by thee.
Long may I live so, and my wreath of bays,
Be less another's laurel, than thy praise.
poem by Robert Herrick
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An Apology To Dr. Clayton, Bishop Of Killala, And His Lady
My Lord of Killala, I find to my Sorrow,
I can't have the Honour I hop'd for, Tomorrow.
But why I'm so wretched, my Friend must rehearse;
For I never can write my Vexations in Verse.
Disappointments are sent to poor Mortals to show,
'Tis in vain to expect to be happy below.
Yet you've a fair Prospect, it must be confess'd,
Who with Fortune, and Station, and Delia are bless'd;
With Delia, whose Soul is so fitted for you,
Who shares, with such Pleasure, the Good which you do;
Who visits your See with far other Designs,
Than conning your Rent--rolls, and raising your Fines.
No longer let Rome her old Argument boast,
That by Marriage the End of the Priesthood is lost;
That, toil'd and entangled in Family Cares,
The Clergy forget their celestial Affairs:
For, had she known Delia, she must have confess'd,
That the Church, in the Marriage of Prelates, was bless'd.
poem by Mary Barber
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