Written From Dublin, To A Lady In The Country.

Poem By Mary Barber

A wretch, in smoaky Dublin pent,
Who rarely sees the Firmament,
You graciously invite, to view
The Sun's enliv'ning Rays with you;
To change the Town for flow'ry Meads,
And sing beneath the sylvan Shades.

You're kind in vain -- It will not be --
Retirement was deny'd to me;
Doom'd by inexorable Fate,
To pass thro' crouded Scenes I hate.
O with what Joy could I survey
The rising, glorious Source of Day!

Attend the Shepherd's fleecy Care,
Transported with the vernal Air;
Behold the Meadow's painted Pride,
Or see the limpid Waters glide;
Survey the distant, shaded Hills,
And, pensive, hear the murm'ring Rills.

Thro' your Versailles with Pleasure rove,
Admire the Gardens, and the Grove;
See Nature's bounteous Hand adorn
The blushing Peach, and blooming Thorn;
Beheld the Birds distend their Throats,
And hear their wild, melodious Notes.

Delighted, thro' your Pastures roam,
Or see the Kine come lowing home;
Whose od'rous Breaths a Joy impart,
That sooths the Sense, and glads the Heart;
With Pleasure view the frothing Pails,
And silent hear the creaking Rails;
See whistling Hinds attend their Ploughs,
Who never hear of broken Vows;
Where no Ambition to be great,
E'er taught the Nymph, or Swain, Deccit.

Thus thro' the Day, delighted, run;
Then raptur'd view the setting Sun;
The rich, diffufive God behold,
On distant Mountains pouring Gold,
Gilding the beauteous, rising Spire,
While Crystal Windows glow with Fire;
Gaze, till he quit the Western Skies,
And long to see his Sister rise;
Prefer the silent, Silver Moon
To the too radiant, noisy Noon.

Or Northward turn, with new Delight,
To mark what Triumphs wait the Night;
When Shepherds think the Heav'ns foreshow
Some dire Commotions here below;
When Light the human Form assumes,
And Champions meet with nodding Plumes,
With Silver Streamers, wide unfurl'd,
And gleaming Spears amaze the World.

Thence to the higher Heav'ns I soar,
And the great Architect adore;
Behold what Worlds are hung in Air,
And view ten thousand Empires there;
Then prostrate to Jehovah fall,
Who into Being spake them all.

Comments about Written From Dublin, To A Lady In The Country.

There is no comment submitted by members.


2,7 out of 5
19 total ratings

Other poems of BARBER

Jupiter And Fortune.

Once Jupiter, from out the Skies,
Beheld a thousand Temples rise;
The Goddess Fortune all invok'd,

A Letter For My Son To One Of His School--Fellows, Son To Henry Rose, Esq;

Dear Rose, as I lately was writing some Verse,
Which I next Day intended in School to rehearse,
My Mother came in, and I thought she'd run wild:

Conclusion Of A Letter To The Rev. Mr. C---.

'Tis Time to conclude; for I make it a Rule,
To leave off all Writing, when Con. comes from School.

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;

Apollo's Edict.

Ierne's now our royal Care:
We lately fix'd our Vice--roy there.
How near was she to be undone,
Till pious Love inspir'd her Son!

An Apology For My Son To His Master, For Not Bringing An Exercise On The Coronation Day.

Why are we Scholars plagu'd to write,
On Days devoted to Delight?
In Honour of the King, I'd play
Upon his Coronation Day: