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Verses Written In An Alcove - Anna Lætitia Barbauld


NOW the moon-beam's trembling lustre
Silvers o'er the dewy green,
And in soft and shadowy colours
Sweetly paints the checquer'd scene.

Here between the opening branches
Streams a flood of soften'd light,
There the thick and twisted foliage
Spreads the browner gloom of night.

There is sure the haunt of fairies,
In yon cool Alcove they play ;
Care can never cross the threshold,
Care was only made for day.

Far from hence be noisy clamour,
Sick disgust and anxious fear ;
Pining grief and wasting anguish
Never keep their vigils here.

Tell no tales of sheeted spectres,
Rising from the quiet tomb ;
Fairer forms this cell shall visit,
Brighter visions gild the gloom.

Choral songs and sprightly voices
Echo from her cell shall call ;
Sweeter, sweeter than the murmur
Of the distant water fall.

Every ruder gust of passion
Lull'd with music dies away,
Till within the charmed bosom
None but soft affections play :

Soft, as when the evening breezes
Gently stir the poplar grove ;
Brighter than the smile of summer,
Sweeter than the breath of love.

Thee, th' inchanted Muse shall follow,
LISSY ! to the rustic cell,
And each careless note repeating
Tune them to her charming shell.

Not the Muse who wreath'd with laurel,
Solemn stalks with tragic gait,
And in clear and lofty vision
Sees the future births of fate ;

Not the maid who crown'd with cypress
Sweeps along in scepter'd pall,
And in sad and solemn accents
Mourns the crested heroe's fall ;

But that other smiling sister,
With the blue and laughing eye,
Singing, in a lighter measure,
Strains of woodland harmony :

All unknown to fame or glory,
Easy, blith and debonair,
Crown'd with flowers, her careless tresses
Loosely floating on the air.

Then, when next the star of evening
Softly sheds the silent dew,
Let me in this rustic temple,
LISSY ! meet the Muse and you.

Anna Lætitia Barbauld

Verses On Mrs Rowe - Anna Lætitia Barbauld


SUCH were the notes our chaster SAPPHO sung,
And every muse dropt honey on her tongue.
Blest shade ! how pure a breath of praise was thine,
Whose spotless life was faultless as thy line :
In whom each worth and every grace conspire,
The Christian's meekness and the Poet's fire.
Learn'd without pride, a woman without art ;
The sweetest manners and the gentlest heart.

Smooth like her verse her passions learnt to move,
And her whole soul was harmony and love :
Virtue that breast without a conflict gain'd,
And easy like a native monarch reign'd.
On earth still favour'd as by heaven approv'd,
The world applauded, and ALEXIS lov'd.
With love, with health, with fame, and friendship blest,
And of a chearful heart the constant feast,
What more of bliss sincere could earth bestow ?
What purer heaven could angels taste below ?
But bliss from earth's vain scenes too quickly flies ;
The golden chord is broke, ALEXIS dies.
Now in the leafy shade, and widow'd grove,
Sad PHILOMELA mourns her absent love.
Now deep retir'd in FROME's enchanting vale,
She pours her tuneful sorrows on the gale ;
Without one fond reserve the world disclaims,
And gives up all her soul to heavenly flames.

Yet in no useless gloom she wore her days ;
She lov'd the work, and only shun'd the praise.
Her pious hand the poor, the mourner blest ;
Her image liv'd in every kindred breast.
THYNN, CARTERET, BLACKMORE, ORRERY approv'd,
And PRIOR prais'd, and noble HERTFORD lov'd ;
Seraphic KENN, and tuneful WATTS were thine,
And virtue's noblest champions fill'd the line.
Blest in thy friendships ! in thy death too blest !
Receiv'd without a pang to endless rest.
Heaven call'd the Saint matur'd by length of days,
And her pure spirit was exhal'd in praise.
Bright pattern of thy sex, be thou my muse ;
Thy gentle sweetness thro' my soul diffuse :
Let me thy palm, tho' not thy laurel share,
And copy thee in charity and prayer.
Tho' for the bard my lines are yet too faint,
Yet in my life let me transcribe the saint.

Anna Lætitia Barbauld

To Wisdom - Anna Lætitia Barbauld


O WISDOM ! if thy soft controul
Can sooth the sickness of the soul,
Can bid the warring passions cease,
And breathe the balm of tender peace,
WISDOM ! I bless thy gentle sway,
And ever, ever will obey.

But if thou com'st with frown austere
To nurse the brood of care and fear ;
To bid our sweetest passions die,
And leave us in their room a sigh ;

Of if thine aspect stern have power
To wither each poor transient flower,
That cheers the pilgrimage of woe,
And dry the springs whence hope should flow ;
WISDOM, thine empire I disclaim,
Thou empty boast of pompous name !
In gloomy shade of cloisters dwell,
But never haunt my chearful cell.
Hail to pleasure's frolic train ;
Hail to fancy's golden reign ;
Festive mirth, and laughter wild,
Free and sportful as the child ;
Hope with eager sparkling eyes,
And easy faith, and fond surprise :
Let these, in fairy colours drest,
Forever share my careless breast ;
Then, tho' wise I may not be,
The wise themselves shall envy me.

Anna Lætitia Barbauld

With Some Drawings of Birds and Insects - Anna Lætitia Barbauld


The kindred arts to please thee shall conspire,
One dip the pencil, and one string the lyre.
(Pope)



Amanda bids;--at her command again
I seize the pencil, or resume the pen;
No other call my willing hand requires,
And Friendship, better than a Muse inspires.
Painting and Poetry are near allied;
The kindred arts two sister Muses guide:
This charms the eye, that steals upon the ear;
There sounds are tuned, and colours blended here:
This with a silent touch enchants our eyes,
And bids a gayer, brighter world arise:
That, less allied to sense, with deeper art
Can pierce the close recesses of the heart;
By well-set syllables, and potent sound,
Can rouse, can chill the breast, can soothe, can wound;
To life adds motion, and to beauty soul,
And breathes a spirit through the finished whole:
Each perfects each, in friendly union joined;--
This gives Amanda's form, and that her mind.
But humbler themes my artless hand requires,
No higher than the feathered tribe aspires.
Yet who the various nations can declare
That plough with busy wing the peopled air?
These cleave the crumbling bark for insect food;
Those dip their crooked beak in kindred blood:
Some haunt the rushy moor, the lonely woods;
Some bathe their silver plumage in the floods;
Some fly to man, his household gods implore,
And gather round his hospitable door,
Wait the known call, and find protection there
From all the lesser tyrants of the air.
The tawny Eagle seats his callow brood
High on the cliff, and feasts his young with blood.
On Snowdon's rocks, or Orkney's wide domain,
Whose beetling cliffs o'erhang the Western main,
The royal bird his lonely kingdom forms
Amidst the gathering clouds and sullen storms;


Through the wide waste of air he darts his sight,
And holds his sounding pinions poised for flight;
With cruel eye premeditates the war,
And marks his destined victim from afar:
Descending in a whirlwind to the ground,
His pinions like the rush of waters sound;
The fairest of the fold he bears away,
And to his nest compels the struggling prey;
He scorns the game by meaner hunters tore,
And dips his talons in no vulgar gore.


With lovelier pomp along the grassy plain
The Silver Pheasant draws his shining train.
On Asia's myrtle shores, by Phasis' stream,
He spreads his plumage to the sunny gleam;
But when the wiry net his flight confines,
He lowers his purple crest, and inly pines:
The beauteous captive hangs his ruffled wing,
Opprest by bondage and our chilly spring.
To claim the verse unnumbered tribes appear,
That swell the music of the vernal year:


Seized with the spirit of the kindly May,
They sleek the glossy wing, and tune the lay;
With emulative strife the notes prolong,
And pour out all their little souls in song.
When winter bites upon the naked plain,
Nor food nor shelter in the groves remain,
By instinct led, a firm united band,
As marshaled by some skillful general's hand,
The congregated nations wing their way
In dusky columns o'er the trackless sea;


In clouds unnumbered annual hover o'er
The craggy Bass, or Kilda's utmost shore;
Thence spread their sails to meet the southern wind,
And leave the gathering tempest far behind;
Pursue the circling sun's indulgent ray,
Course the swift seasons, and o'ertake the day.
Not so the insect race, ordained to keep
The lazy sabbath of a half-year's sleep:
Entombed beneath the filmy web they lie,
And wait the influence of a kinder sky.


When vernal sunbeams pierce their dark retreat,
The heaving tomb distends with vital heat;
The half-formed brood, impatient of their cell,
Start from their trance, and burst their silken shell;--
Trembling awhile they stand, and scarcely dare
To launch at once upon the untried air:
At length assured, they catch the favouring gale,
And leave their sordid spoils, and high in ether sail.
So when brave Tancred struck the conscious rind,
He found a nymph in every trunk confined;


The forest labours with convulsive throes,
The bursting trees the lovely births disclose,
And a gay troop of damsels round him stood,
Where late was rugged bark and lifeless wood.
Lo! the bright train their radiant wings unfold!
With silver fringed, and freckled o'er with gold:
On the gay bosom of some fragrant flower
They idly fluttering live their little hour;
Their life all pleasure, and their task all play,
All spring their age, and sunshine all their day.


Not so the child of sorrow, wretched Man,
His course with toil concludes, with pain began;
That his high destiny he might discern,
And in misfortune's school this lesson learn ....
Pleasure's the portion of the inferior kind;
But glory, virtue, Heaven for Man designed.
What atom-forms of insect life appear!
And who can follow Nature's pencil here?
Their wings with azure, green and purple glossed,
Studded with coloured eyes, with gems embossed,



Inlaid with pearl, and marked with various stains
Of lively crimson through their dusky veins.
Some shoot like living stars athwart the night,
And scatter from their wings a vivid light,
To guide the Indian to his tawny loves,
As through the woods with cautious step he moves.
See the proud giant of the beetle race;
What shining arms his polished limbs enchase!
Like some stern warrior formidably bright,
His steely sides reflect a gleaming light:



On his large forehead spreading horns he wears,
And high in air the branching antlers bears:
O'er many an inch extends his wide domain,
And his rich treasury swells with hoarded grain.
Thy friend thus strives to cheat the lonely hour,
With song or paint, an insect or a flower:--
Yet if Amanda praise the flowing line,
And bend delighted o'er the gay design,
I envy not nor emulate the fame
Or of the painter's or the poet's name:



Could I to both with equal claim pretend,
Yet far, far dearer were the name of Friend.

Anna Lætitia Barbauld

To Mr. Barbauld, November 14, 1778 - Anna Lætitia Barbauld


1 Come, clear thy studious looks awhile,
2 'T is arrant treason now
3 To wear that moping brow,
4 When I, thy empress, bid thee smile.

5 What though the fading year
6 One wreath will not afford
7 To grace the poet's hair,
8 Or deck the festal board;

9 A thousand pretty ways we'll find
10 To mock old Winter's starving reign;
11 We'll bid the violets spring again,
12 Bid rich poetic roses blow,
13 Peeping above his heaps of snow;
14 We'll dress his withered cheeks in flowers,
15 And on his smooth bald head
16 Fantastic garlands bind:
17 Garlands, which we will get
18 From the gay blooms of that immortal year,
19 Above the turning seasons set,
20 Where young ideas shoot in Fancy's sunny bowers.

21 A thousand pleasant arts we'll have
22 To add new feathers to the wings of Time,
23 And make him smoothly haste away:
24 We'll use him as our slave,
25 And when we please we'll bid him stay,
26 And clip his wings, and make him stop to view
27 Our studies, and our follies too;
28 How sweet our follies are, how high our fancies climb.

29 We'll little care what others do,
30 And where they go, and what they say;
31 Our bliss, all inward and our own,
32 Would only tarnished be, by being shown.
33 The talking restless world shall see,
34 Spite of the world we'll happy be;
35 But none shall know
36 How much we're so,
37 Save only Love, and we.

Anna Lætitia Barbauld

To a Little Invisible Being Who is Expected Soon to Become Visible - Anna Lætitia Barbauld


Germ of new life, whose powers expanding slow
For many a moon their full perfection wait,--
Haste, precious pledge of happy love, to go
Auspicious borne through life's mysterious gate.

What powers lie folded in thy curious frame,--
Senses from objects locked, and mind from thought!
How little canst thou guess thy lofty claim
To grasp at all the worlds the Almighty wrought!

And see, the genial season's warmth to share,
Fresh younglings shoot, and opening roses glow!
Swarms of new life exulting fill the air,--
Haste, infant bud of being, haste to blow!

For thee the nurse prepares her lulling songs,
The eager matrons count the lingering day;
But far the most thy anxious parent longs
On thy soft cheek a mother's kiss to lay.

She only asks to lay her burden down,
That her glad arms that burden may resume;
And nature's sharpest pangs her wishes crown,
That free thee living from thy living tomb.

She longs to fold to her maternal breast
Part of herself, yet to herself unknown;
To see and to salute the stranger guest,
Fed with her life through many a tedious moon.

Come, reap thy rich inheritance of love!
Bask in the fondness of a Mother's eye!
Nor wit nor eloquence her heart shall move
Like the first accents of thy feeble cry.

Haste, little captive, burst thy prison doors!
Launch on the living world, and spring to light!
Nature for thee displays her various stores,
Opens her thousand inlets of delight.

If charmed verse or muttered prayers had power,
With favouring spells to speed thee on thy way,
Anxious I'd bid my beads each passing hour,
Till thy wished smile thy mother's pangs o'erpay.

Anna Lætitia Barbauld

To A Lady - Anna Lætitia Barbauld


FLOWERS to the fair : To you these flowers I bring,
And strive to greet you with an earlier spring.
Flowers sweet, and gay, and delicate like you ;
Emblems of innocence, and beauty too.
With flowers the Graces bind their yellow hair,
And flowery wreaths consenting lovers wear.

Flowers, the sole luxury which nature knew,
In Eden's pure and guiltlese garden grew.
To loftier forms are rougher tasks assign'd ;
The sheltering oak resists the stormy wind,
The tougher yew repels invading foes,
And the tall pine for future navies grows ;
But this soft family, to cares unknown,
Were born for pleasure and delight alone.
Gay without toil, and lovely without art,
They spring to cheer the sense, and glad the heart.
Nor blush, my fair, to own you copy these ;
Your best, your sweetest empire is---to please.

Anna Lætitia Barbauld

The Origin Of Song Writing - Anna Lætitia Barbauld


WHEN Cupid, wanton boy, was young,
His wings unfledg'd, and rude his tongue,

He loiter'd in Arcadian bowers,
And hid his bow in wreaths of flowers ;
Or pierc'd some fond unguarded heart,
With now and then a random dart ;
But heroes scorned the idle boy,
And love was but a shepherd's toy :
When Venus, vex'd to see her child
Amidst the forests thus run wild,
Would point him out some nobler game,
Gods, and godlike men to tame.
She seiz'd the boy's reluctant hand,
And led them to the virgin band,
Where the sister muses round
Swell the deep majestic sound ;
And in solemn strains unite,
Breathing chaste, severe delight :
Songs of chiefs, and heroes old,
In unsubmitting virtue bold ;

Of even valour's temperate heat,
And toils to stubborn patience sweet ;
Of nodding plumes, and burnish'd arms,
And glory's bright terrific charms.

The potent sounds like light'ning dart
Resistless thro' the glowing heart ;
Of power to lift the fixed soul
High o'er fortune's proud controul ;
Kindling deep, prophetic musing ;
Love of beauteous death infusing ;
Scorn, and unconquerable hate
Of tyrant pride's unhallow'd state.
The boy abash'd, and half afraid,
Beheld each chaste immortal maid :
Pallas spread her Egis there ;
Mars stood by with threat'ning air ;

And stern Diana's icy look
With sudden chill his bosom struck.

Daughters of Jove receive the child,
The queen of beauty said, and smil'd :
(Her rosy breath perfum'd the air,
And scatter'd sweet contagion there ;
Relenting nature learnt to languish,
And sicken'd with delightful anguish
Receive him, artless yet and young ;
Refine his air and smooth his tongue ;
Conduct him thro' your fav'rite bowers,
Enrich'd with fair perennial flowers,
To solemn shades and springs that lie
Remote from each unhallow'd eye ;
Teach him to spell those mystic names
That kindle bright immortal flames ;

And guide his young unpractis'd feet
To reach coy learning's lofty seat.

Ah, luckless hour ! mistaken maids !
When Cupid sought the Muses shades :
Of their sweetest notes beguil'd,
By the sly insidious child,
Now of power his darts are found
Twice ten thousand times to wound.
Now no more the slacken'd strings
Breathe of high immortal things,
But Cupid tunes the Musis lyre,
To languid notes of soft desire :
In every clime, in every tongue,
'Tis love inspires the poet's song.
Hence Sappho's soft infectious page ;
Monimia's woe ; Othello's rage ;
Abandon'd Dido's fruitless prayer ;

And Eloisa's long despair ;
The garland bless'd with many a vow,
For haughty Sacharissa's brow ;
And wash'd with tears the mournful verse
That Petrarch laid on Laura's herse.

But more than all the sister quire,
Music confess'd the pleasing fire.
Here sovereign Cupid reign'd alone ;
Music and song were all his own.
Sweet as in old Arcadian plains,
The British pipe has caught the strains :
And where the Tweed's pure current glides,
Or Lissy rolls her limpid tides,
Or Thames his oozy waters leads
Thro' rural bowers or yellow meads,
With many an old romantic tale
Has cheer'd the lone sequester'd vale;

With many a sweet and tender lay
Deceiv'd the tiresome summer-day.

'Tis yours to cull with happy art
Each meaning verse that speaks the heart ;
And fair array'd, in order meet,
To lay the wreath at beauty's feet.

Anna Lætitia Barbauld

The Mouse's Petition - Anna Lætitia Barbauld


OH ! hear a pensive captive's prayer,
For liberty that sighs ;
And never let thine heart be shut
Against the prisoner's cries.

For here forlorn and sad I sit,
Within the wiry grate ;
And tremble at th' approaching morn,
Which brings impending fate.

If e'er thy breast with freedom glow'd,
And spurn'd a tyrant's chain,
Let not thy strong oppressive force
A free-born mouse detain.

Oh ! do not stain with guiltless blood
Thy hospitable hearth ;
Nor triumph that thy wiles betray'd
A prize so little worth.

The scatter'd gleanings of a feast
My scanty meals supply ;
But if thine unrelenting heart
That slender boon deny,

The chearful light, the vital air,
Are blessings widely given ;
Let nature's commoners enjoy
The common gifts of heaven.

The well taught philosophic mind
To all compassion gives ;
Casts round the world an equal eye,
And feels for all that lives.

If mind, as ancient sages taught,
A never dying flame,
Still shifts thro' matter's varying forms,
In every form the same,

Beware, lest in the worm you crush
A brother's soul you find ;
And tremble lest thy luckless hand
Dislodge a kindred mind.

Or, if this transient gleam of day
Be all of life we share,
Let pity plead within thy breast,
That little all to spare.

So may thy hospitable board
With health and peace be crown'd ;
And every charm of heartfelt ease
Beneath thy roof be found.

So when unseen destruction lurks,
Which men like mice may share,
May some kind angel clear thy path,
And break the hidden snare.

Anna Lætitia Barbauld

The Invitation - Anna Lætitia Barbauld


HEALTH to my friend, and long unbroken years,
By storms unruffled and unstain'd by tears :
Wing'd by new joys may each white minute fly ;
Spring on her cheek, and sunshine in her eye :
O'er that dear breast, where love and pity springs,
May peace eternal spread her downy wings :

Sweet beaming hope her path illumine still,
And fair ideas all her fancy fill.
From glittering scenes which strike the dazzled sight
With mimic grandeur and illusive light,
From idle hurry, and tumultuous noise,
From hollow friendships, and from sickly joys,
Will DELIA, at the muse's call retire
To the pure pleasures rural scenes inspire ?
Will she from crowds and busy cities fly,
Where wreaths of curling smoke involve the sky,
To taste the grateful shade of spreading trees,
And drink the spirit of the mountain breeze?

When winter's hand the rough'ning year deforms,
And hollow winds foretel approaching storms,
Then Pleasure, like a bird of passage, flies
To brighter climes, and more indulgent skies ;
Cities and courts allure her sprightly train,

From the bleak mountain and the naked plain ;
And gold and gems with artificial blaze,
Supply the sickly sun's declining rays :
But soon returning on the western gale
She seeks the bosom of the grassy vale ;
There, wrapt in careless ease, attunes the lyre
To the wild warblings of the woodland quire ;
The daisied turf her humble throne supplies,
And early primroses around her rise.
We'll follow where the smiling goddess leads,
Thro' tangled forests or enamel'd meads ;
O'er pathless hills her airy form we'll chase,
In silent glades her fairy footsteps trace :
Small pains there needs her footsteps to pursue,
She cannot fly from friendship, and from you.
Now the glad earth her frozen zone unbinds,
And o'er her bosom breathe the western winds :
Already now the snow-drop dares appear,

The first pale blossom of th' unripen'd year ;
As FLORA's breath, by some transforming power,
Had chang'd an icicle into a flower :
Its name, and hue, and scentless plant retains,
And winter lingers in its icy veins.
To these succeed the violet's dusky blue,
And each inferior flower of fainter hue ;
Till riper months the perfect year disclose,
And FLORA cries exulting, See my Rose!

The Muse invites, my DELIA haste away,
And let us sweetly waste the careless day.
Here gentle summits lift their airy brow ;
Down the green slope here winds the labouring plow ;
Here bath'd by frequent show'rs cool vales are seen,
Cloath'd with fresh verdure, and eternal green ;
Here smooth canals, across th' extended plain,
Stretch their long arms, to join the distant main :

The sons of toil with many a weary stroke
Scoop the hard bosom of the solid rock ;
Resistless thro' the stiff opposing clay
With steady patience work their gradual way ;
Compel the genius of th' unwilling flood
Thro' the brown horrors of the aged wood ;
Cross the lone waste the silver urn they pour,
And chear the barren heath or sullen moor :
The traveller with pleasing wonder sees
The white sail gleaming thro' the dusky trees ;
And views the alter'd landscape with surprise,
And doubts the magic scenes which round him rise.
Now, like a flock of swans, above his head
Their woven wings the flying vessels spread ;
Now meeting streams in artful mazes glide,
While each unmingled pours a separate tide ;
Now through the hidden veins of earth they flow,
And visit sulphurous mines and caves below ;

The ductile streams obey the guiding hand,
And social plenty circles round the land.

But nobler praise awaits our green retreats ;
The Muses here have fixt their sacred seats.
Mark where its simple front yon mansion rears,
The nursery of men for future years :
Here callow chiefs and embryo statesmen lie,
And unfledg'd poets short excursions try :
While Mersey's gentle current, which too long
By fame neglected, and unknown to song,
Between his rushy banks, (no poet's theme)
Had crept inglorious, like a vulgar stream,
Reflects th' ascending seats with conscious pride,
And dares to emulate a classic tide.
Soft music breathes along each op'ning shade,
And sooths the dashing of his rough cascade.
With mystic lines his sands are figur'd o'er,

And circles trac'd upon the letter'd shore,
Beneath his willows rove th' inquiring youth,
And court the fair majestic form of truth.
Here nature opens all her secret springs,
And heav'n-born science plumes her eagle wings :
Too long had bigot rage, with malice swell'd,
Crush'd her strong pinions, and her flight witheld ;
Too long to check her ardent progress strove :
So writhes the serpent round the bird of Jove ;
Hangs on her flight, restrains her tow'ring wing,
Twists its dark folds, and points its venom'd sting.
Yet still (if aught aright the Muse divine)
Her rising pride shall mock the vain design ;
On sounding pinions yet aloft shall soar,
And thro' the azure deep untravel'd paths explore.
Where science smiles, the Muses join the train ;
And gentlest arts and purest manners reign.
Ye generous youth who love this studious shade,

How rich a field is to your hopes display'd !
Knowledge to you unlocks the classic page ;
And virtue blossoms for a better age.
Oh golden days! oh bright unvalued hours !
What bliss (did ye but know that bliss) were yours?
With richest stores your glowing bosoms fraught,
Perception quick, and luxury of thought ;
The high designs that heave the labouring soul,
Panting for fame, impatient of controul ;
And fond enthusiastic thought, that feeds
On pictur'd tales of vast heroic deeds ;
And quick affections, kindling into flame
At virtue's, or their country's honour'd name ;
And spirits light to every joy in tune ;
And friendship ardent as a summer's noon ;
And generous scorn of vice's venal tribe ;
And proud disdain of interest's sordid bribe ;
And conscious honour's quick instinctive sense ;

And smiles unforc'd ; and easy confidence ;
And vivid fancy, and clear simple truth ;
And all the mental bloom of vernal youth.

How bright the scene to fancy's eye appears,
Thro' the long perspective of distant years,
When this, this little group their country calls
From academic shades and learned halls,
To fix her laws, her spirit to sustain,
And light up glory thro' her wide domain !
Their various tastes in different arts display'd,
Like temper'd harmony of light and shade,
With friendly union in one mass shall blend,
And this adorn the state, and that defend.
These the sequester'd shade shall cheaply please,
With learned labour and inglorious ease :
With those, impell'd by some resistless force,
O'er seas and rocks shall urge their vent'rous course ;


Rich fruits matur'd by glowing suns behold,
And China's groves of vegetable gold ;
From every land the various harvest spoil,
And bear the tribute to their native soil :
But tell each land (while every toil they share,
Firm to sustain, and resolute to dare,)
MAN is the nobler growth our realms supply,
And SOULS are ripen'd in our northern sky.

Some pensive creep along the shelly shore ;
Unfold the silky texture of a flower ;
With sharpen'd eyes inspect an hornet's sting,
And all the wonders of an insect's wing.
Some trace with curious search the hidden cause
Of nature's changes, and her various laws ;
Untwist her beauteous web, disrobe her charms,
And hunt her to her elemental forms :
Or prove what hidden powers in herbs are found


To quench disease and staunch the burning wound ;
With cordial drops the fainting head sustain,
Call back the flitting soul, and still the throbs of pain.

The patriot passion this shall strongly feel,
Ardent, and glowing with undaunted zeal ;
With lips of fire shall plead his country's cause,
And vindicate the majesty of laws.
This cloath'd with Britain's thunder, spread alarms
Thro' the wide earth, and shake the pole with arms.
That to the sounding lyre his deeds rehearse,
Enshrine his name in some immortal verse,
To long posterity his praise consign,
And pay a life of hardships by a line.
While others, consecrate to higher aims,
Whose hallow'd bosoms glow with purer flames,
Love in their heart, persuasion in their tongue,
With words of peace shall charm the list'ning throng,


Draw the dread veil that wraps th' eternal throne,
And launch our souls into the bright unknown.

Here cease my song. Such arduous themes require
A master's pencil, and a poet's fire :
Unequal far such bright designs to paint,
Too weak her colours, and her lines too faint,
My drooping Muse folds up her fluttering wing,
And hides her head in the green lap of spring.

Anna Lætitia Barbauld

The Groans Of The Tankard - Anna Lætitia Barbauld


OF strange events I sing, and portents dire ;
The wond'rous themes a reverent ear require ;
Tho' strange the tale, the faithful Muse believe,
And what she says with pious awe receive.

'Twas at the solemn, silent, noon-tide hour,
When hunger rages with despotic power,
When the lean student quits his Hebrew roots
For the gross nourishment of English fruits,
And throws unfinish'd airy systems by
For solid pudding and substantial pye,

When hungry poets the glad summons own,
And leave spare fast to dine with Gods alone ;
Our sober meal dispatch'd with silent haste,
The decent grace concludes the short repast :
Then urg'd by thirst we cast impatient eyes
Where deep, capacious, vast, of ample size,
The tankard stood, replenish'd to the brink
With the cool beverage blue-ey'd Naiads drink.
But lo ! a sudden prodigy appears,
And our chill'd hearts recoil with startling fears ;
Its yawning mouth disclos'd the deep profound,
And in low murmurs breath'd a sullen sound ;
Cold drops of dew did on the sides appear ;
No finger touch'd it, and no hand was near ;
At length th' indignant vase its silence broke,
First heav'd deep hollow groans, and then distinctly spoke.

"How chang'd the scene ! for what unpardon'd crimes
"Have I surviv'd to these degenerate times ?

"I, who was wont the festal board to grace,
"And midst the circle lift my honest face,
"White o'er with froth, like Etna crown'd with snow,
"Which mantled o'er the brown abyss below,
"Where Ceres mingled with her golden store
"The richer spoils of either India's shore,
"The dulcet reed the Western islands boast,
"And spicy fruit from Banda's fragrant coast.
"At solemn feasts the nectar'd draught I pour'd,
"And often journey'd round the ample board :
"The portly Alderman, the stately Mayor,
"And all the furry tribe my worth declare ;
"And the keen Sportsman oft, his labours done,
"To me retreating with the setting sun,
"Deep draughts imbib'd, and conquere'd land and sea,
"And overthrew the pride of France by me.

"Let meaner clay contain the limpid wave,
"The clay for such an office nature gave ;

"Let China's earth, enrich'd with colour'd stains,
"Pencil'd with gold, and streak'd with azure veins,
"The grateful flavour of the Indian leaf,
"Or Mocho's sunburnt berry glad receive ;
"The nobler metal claims more generous use,
"And mine should flow with more exalted juice.
"Did I for this my native bed resign,
"From the dark bowels of Potosi's mine ?
"Was I for this with violence torn away,
"And drag'd to regions of the upper day ?
"For this the rage of torturing furnace bore,
"From foreign dross to purge the bright'ning ore ?
"For this have I endur'd the fiery test,
"And was I stamp'd for this with Britain's lofty crest ?

"Unblest the day, and luckless was the hour
"Which doom'd me to a Presbyterian's power ;
"Fated to serve the Puritanick race,

"Whose slender meal is shorter than their grace ;
"Whose moping sons no jovial orgies keep ;
"Where evening brings no summons but to sleep ;
"No Carnival is even Christmas here,
"And one long Lent involves the meagre year.
"Bear me, ye pow'rs ! to some more genial scene,
"Where on soft cushions lolls the gouty Dean,
"Or rosy Prebend, with cherubic face,
"With double chin, and paunch of portly grace,
"Who lull'd in downy slumbers shall agree
"To own no inspiration but from me.
"Or to some spacious mansion, Gothic, old,
"Where Comus sprightly train their vigils hold ;
"There oft exhausted, and replenish'd oft,
"Oh ! let me still supply th' eternal draught ;
"Till care within the deep abyss be drown'd,
"And thought grows giddy at the vast profound."

More had the goblet spoke, but lo ! appears
An ancient Sybil furrow'd o'er with years ;
Her aspect sour, and stern ungracious look
With sudden damp the conscious vessel struck ;
Chill'd at her touch its mouth it slowly clos'd,
And in long silence all its griefs repos'd :
Yet still low murmurs creep along the ground,
And the air vibrates with the silver sound.

Anna Lætitia Barbauld