Poetry By English Women

by R. E. ; Pritchard

  Like some tall oak, behold his branches shoot!

  No tender scions springing at the root.

  While lofty Pope erects his laurelled head,

  No lays, like mine, can live beneath his shade. [10]

  Nothing but weeds, and moss, and shrubs are found.

  Cut, cut them down, why cumber they the ground?

  And yet you’d have me write! – For what? for whom?

  To curl a fav’rite in a dressing-room?

  To mend a candle when the snuff’s too short?

  Or save rappee for chamber-maids at Court?

  Glorious ambition! noble thirst of fame! –

  No, but you’d have me write – to get a name.

  Alas! I’d live unknown, unenvied too;

  ’Tis more than Pope, with all his wit can do. [20]

  ’Tis more than you, with wit and beauty joined,

  A pleasing form, and a discerning mind.

  The world and I are no such cordial friends;

  I have my purpose, they their various ends.

  I say my prayers, and lead a sober life,

  Nor laugh at Cornus, or at Cornus’ wife.

  What’s fame to me, who pray, and pay my rent?

  If my friends know me honest, I’m content.

  Well, but the joy to see my works in print!

  My self too pictured in a mezzo-tint! [30]

  The Preface done, the Dedication framed,

  With lies enough to make a Lord ashamed!

  Thus I step forth; an auth’ress in some sort.

  My patron’s name? ‘O choose some Lord at Court.

  ‘One that has money which he dares not use,

  ‘One you may flatter much, that is, abuse.

  ‘For if you’re nice, and cannot change your note,

  ‘Regardless of the trimmed, or untrimmed coat;

  ‘Believe me, friend, you’ll ne’er be worth a groat.’ […]

  Well then, to cut this mighty matter short, [40]

  I’ve neither friend, nor interest at Court.

  Quite from St. James’s to thy stairs, Whitehall,

  I hardly know a creature, great or small,

  Except one Maid of Honour, worth ’em all.

  I have no business there. Let those attend

  The courtly Levee, or the courtly friend,

  Who more than fate allows them, dare to spend.

  Or those whose avarice, with much, craves more,

  The pensioned beggar, or the titled poor.

  These are the thriving breed, the tiny great! [50]

  Slaves! wretched slaves! the journeymen of State!

  Philosophers! who calmly bear disgrace,

  Patriots! who sell their country for a place! […]

  After the Small Pox

  When skilful traders first set up,

  To draw the people to their shop,

  They straight hang out some gaudy sign,

  Expressive of the goods within.

  The vintner has his boy and grapes,

  The haberdasher thread and tapes,

  The shoemaker exposes boots,

  And Monmouth Street old tattered fruits.

  So fares it with the nymph divine;

  For what is beauty but a sign? [10]

  A face hung out, through which is seen

  The nature of the goods within.

  Thus the coquet her beau ensnares

  With studied smiles, and forward airs;

  The graver prude hangs out a frown

  To strike th’audacious gazer down;

  But she alone, whose temp’rate wit

  Each nicer medium can hit,

  Is still adorned with ev’ry grace,

  And wears a sample in her face. [20]

  What though some envious folks have said,

  That Stella now must hide her head,

  That all her stock of beauty’s gone,

  And ev’n the very sign took down:

  Yet grieve not at the fatal blow;

  For if you break a while, we know,

  ’Tis bankrupt like, more rich to grow.

  A fairer sign you’ll soon hang up,

  And with fresh credit open shop:

  For nature’s pencil soon shall trace, [30]

  And once more finish off your face,

  Which all your neighbours shall out-shine,

  And of your mind remain the sign.

  Soliloquy on an empty Purse

  Alas! my Purse! how lean and low!

  My silken purse! what art thou now!

  Once I beheld – but stocks will fall –

  When both thy ends had wherewithal.

  When I within thy slender fence

  My fortune placed, and confidence;

  A poet’s fortune! – not immense:

  Yet mixed with keys, and coins among,

  Chinked to the melody of song.

  Canst thou forget when, high in air, [10]

  I saw thee flutt’ring at a fair?

  And took thee, destined to be sold,

  My lawful purse, to have and hold?

  Yet used so often disembogue,

  No prudence could thy fate prorogue.

  Like wax thy silver melted down,

  Touch but the brass, and lo! ’twas gone:

  And gold would never with thee stay,

  For gold had wings, and flew away.

  Alas, my purse! yet still be proud, [20]

  For see the virtues round thee crowd!

  See, in the room of paltry wealth,

  Calm temp’rance rise, the nurse of health;

  And self-denial, slim and spare,

  And fortitude, with look severe;

  And abstinence, to leanness prone,

  And patience, worn to skin and bone:

  Prudence, and foresight on thee wait,

  And poverty lies here in state!

  Hopeless her spirits to recruit, [30]

  For ev’ry virtue is a mute.

  Well then, my purse, thy sabbath keep;

  Now thou art empty, I shall sleep.

  No silver sounds shall thee molest,

  Nor golden dreams disturb my breast.

  Safe shall I walk the streets along,

  Amidst temptations thick and strong,

  Catched by the eye, no more shall stop

  At Wildey’s toys, or Pinchbeck’s shop;

  Nor, cheap’ning Payne’s ungodly books, [40]

  Be drawn aside by pastry cooks:

  But fearless now we both may go

  Where Ludgate’s mercers bow so low;

  Beholding all with equal eye,

  Nor moved at – ‘Madam, what d’ye buy?’

  Away, far hence each worldly care!

  Nor dun, nor pick-purse shalt thou fear,

  Nor flatt’rer base annoy my ear.

  Snug shalt thou travel through the mob,

  For who a poet’s purse will rob? [50]

  And softly sweet, in garret high,

  Will I thy virtues magnify,

  Out-soaring flatt’rers’ stinking breath,

  And gently rhyming rats to death.

  ANNA LAETITIA BARBAULD 1743–1825

  Born in Leicestershire, the eldest child of Jane (Jennings) and John Aikin, a prominent Nonconformist clergyman and schoolteacher, who encouraged her education. Her first volume appeared in 1773; next year she married Revd Rochemont Barbauld, of Huguenot stock, with whom she set up a school (though she declined to set up a college for young ladies, as being unsuitable for their sex); after some years’ instability, he died insane in 1808. She had many literary acquaintances, including members of the Bluestocking circle; entered into public debate, supporting Wilberforce and the Slavery Abolition Bill; published devotional pieces, and essays on Akenside and Collins, edited Richardson’s letters, and collections of British Novelists (in fifty volumes). Her writing is manifestly sensible, imaginative and good-humoured.

  Poems (London, 1773); The Works of Anna Laetitia Barbauld, with a Memoir by L
ucy Aikin, 2 vols (London: Longman, 1825); Betsy Rodgers, Georgian Chronicle: Mrs. Barbauld and her Family (London: Methuen, 1968).

  On a Lady’s Writing

  Her even lines her steady temper show,

  Neat as her dress, and polished as her brow;

  Strong as her judgement, easy as her air;

  Correct though free, and regular though fair:

  And the same graces o’er her pen preside,

  That form her manners and her footsteps guide.

  Tomorrow

  See where the falling day

  In silence steals away

  Behind the western hills withdrawn:

  Her fires are quenched, her beauty fled,

  While blushes all her face o’erspread

  As conscious she had ill fulfilled

  The promise of the dawn.

  Another morning soon shall rise,

  Another day salute our eyes,

  As smiling and as fair as she, [10]

  And make as many promises:

  But do not thou

  The tale believe,

  They’re sisters all,

  And all deceive.

  Washing-Day*

  … and their voice

  Turning again towards childish treble, pipes

  And whistles in its sound …

  The Muses are turned gossips; they have lost

  The buskined step, and clear high-sounding phrase,

  Language of gods. Come then, domestic Muse,

  In slipshod measure loosely prattling on

  Of farm or orchard, pleasant curds and cream,

  Or drowning flies, or shoe lost in the mire

  By little whimpering boy, with rueful face;

  Come, Muse, and sing the dreaded Washing-Day.

  Ye who beneath the yoke of wedlock bend,

  With bowed soul, full well ye ken the day [10]

  Which week, smooth sliding after week, brings on

  Too soon; – for to that day nor peace belongs

  Nor comfort; – ere the first grey streak of dawn,

  The red-armed washers come and chase repose.

  Nor pleasant smile, nor quaint device of mirth,

  E’er visited that day: the very cat,

  From the wet kitchen scared and reeking hearth,

  Visits the parlour, – an unwonted guest.

  The silent breakfast-meal is soon despatched;

  Uninterrupted, save by anxious looks [20]

  Cast at the lowering sky, if sky should lower.

  From that last evil, O preserve us heavens!

  For should the skies pour down, adieu to all

  Remains of quiet: then expect to hear

  Of sad disasters, – dirt and gravel stains

  Hard to efface, and loaded lines at once

  Snapped short, – and linen-horse by dog thrown down,

  And all the petty miseries of life.

  Saints have been calm while stretched upon the rack,

  And Guatimozin smiled on burning coals; [30]

  But never yet did housewife notable

  Greet with a smile a rainy washing-day.

  – But grant the welkin fair, require not thou

  Who call’st thyself perchance the master there,

  Or study swept, or nicely dusted coat,

  Or usual ’tendance; – ask not, indiscreet,

  Thy stockings mended, though the yawning rents

  Gape wide as Erebus; nor hope to find

  Some snug recess impervious; shouldst thou try

  The ’customed garden walks, thine eye shall rue [40]

  The budding fragrance of thy tender shrubs,

  Myrtle or rose, all crushed beneath the weight

  Of coarse checked apron, – with impatient hand

  Twitched off when showers impend: or crossing lines

  Shall mar thy musings, as the wet cold sheet

  Flaps in thy face abrupt. Woe to the friend

  Whose evil stars have urged him forth to claim

  On such a day the hospitable rites!

  Looks, blank at best, and stinted courtesy,

  Shall he receive. Vainly he feeds his hopes [50]

  With dinner of roast chicken, savoury pie,

  Or tart or pudding: – pudding he nor tart

  That day shall eat; nor, though the husband try,

  Mending what can’t be helped, to kindle mirth

  From cheer deficient, shall his consort’s brow

  Clear up propitious: – the unlucky guest

  In silence dines, and early slinks away.

  I well remember, when a child, the awe

  This day struck into me; for then the maids,

  I scarce knew why, looked cross, and drove me from them; [60]

  Nor soft caress could I obtain, nor hope

  Usual indulgencies; jelly or creams,

  Relic of costly suppers, and set by

  For me their petted one; or buttered toast,

  When butter was forbid; or thrilling tale

  Of ghost or witch, or murder – so I went

  And sheltered me beside the parlour fire:

  There my dear grandmother, eldest of forms,

  Tended the little ones, and watched from harm,

  Anxiously fond, though oft her spectacles [70]

  With elfin cunning hid, and oft the pins

  Drawn from her ravelled stocking, might have soured

  One less indulgent. –

  At intervals my mother’s voice was heard,

  Urging dispatch: briskly the work went on,

  All hands employed to wash, to rinse, to wring,

  To fold, and starch, and clap, and iron, and plait.

  Then would I sit me down, and ponder much

  Why washings were. Sometimes through hollow bowl

  Of pipe amused we blew, and sent aloft [80]

  The floating bubbles; little dreaming then

  To see, Montgolfier, thy silken ball

  Ride buoyant through the clouds – so near approach

  The sports of children and the toils of men.

  Earth, air, and sky, and ocean, hath its bubbles,

  And verse is one of them – this most of all.

  The Rights of Woman*

  Yes, injured Woman! rise, assert thy right!

  Woman! too long degraded, scorned, oppressed;

  O born to rule in partial Law’s despite,

  Resume thy native empire o’er the breast!

  Go forth arrayed in panoply divine,

  That angel pureness which admits no stain;

  Go, bid proud Man his boasted rule resign

  And kiss the golden sceptre of thy reign.

  Go, gird thyself with grace, collect thy store

  Of bright artillery glancing from afar; [10]

  Soft melting tones thy thundering cannon’s roar,

  Blushes and fears thy magazines of war.

  Thy rights are empire: urge no meaner claim, –

  Felt, not defined, and if debated, lost;

  Like sacred mysteries, which withheld from fame,

  Shunning discussion are revered the most.

  Try all that wit and art suggest to bend

  Of thy imperial foe the stubborn knee;

  Make treacherous Man thy subject, not thy friend;

  Thou mayst command, but never canst be free. [20]

  Awe the licentious and restrain the rude;

  Soften the sullen, clear the cloudy brow:

  Be, more than princes’ gifts, thy favours sued; –

  She hazards all, who will the least allow.

  But hope not, courted idol of mankind,

  On this proud eminence secure to stay;

  Subduing and subdued, thou soon shalt find

  Thy coldness soften, and thy pride give way.

  Then then abandon each ambitious thought;

  Conquest or rule thy heart shall feebly move, [30]

  In Nature’s school, by her soft maxims taught

  That separat
e rights are lost in mutual love.

  ANNA SEWARD 1742–1809

  Known as ‘the Swan of Lichfield’, she was probably the most praised woman poet of her time. Born in Derbyshire, eldest child of Revd Thomas Seward, later Canon at Lichfield, and Elizabeth (Hunter), daughter of the headmaster of Lichfield School. Several poems express her affection for, and grief at the early death of her adopted sister, Honora Sneyd; never married, despite various proposals; a friend of the ‘Ladies of Llangollen’ (her volume, Llangollen Vale, with Other Poems, published 1796); poems also appeared in the Batheaston Miscellany of Lady Anna Riggs Miller (satirized in Pickwick Papers as authoress of ‘Ode to an Expiring Frog’). Her poetry on public themes expresses liberal, patriotic values, while she also elaborated (the right word for her style) elegiac themes, especially on young women.

  Walter Scott (ed.), The Poetical Works of Anna Seward, 3 vols (Edinburgh and London, 1810); Hesketh Pearson, The Swan of Lichfield (London: Hamish Hamilton, 1936); Ruth Avaline Hesselgrave, Lady Miller and the Batheaston Literary Circle (New Haven: Yale UP, 1927).

  Verses Inviting Mrs. C — to Tea on a public Fast-day During the American War*

  Dear Stella, ’mid the pious sorrow

  Our monarch bids us feel to-morrow,

  The ahs! and ohs! supremely triste,

  The abstinence from beef, and whist;

  Wisely ordained to please the Lord,

  And force him whet our edgeless sword,

  Till, shipping o’er the Atlantic rill,

  We cut provincial throats at will;

  ’Midst all the penitence we feel

  For merry sins, – ’midst all the zeal [10]

  For vengeance on the saucy foe,

  Who lays our boasted legions low;

  I wish, when sullen evening comes,

  That you, to gild its falling glooms,

  Would, without scruple cold, agree

  Beneath these walls to sip your tea.

  From the chaste, fragrant, Indian weed

  Our sins no pampering juices feed;

  And though the hours, with contrite faces,

  May banish the ungodly aces, [20]

  And take of food a sparing bit,