A True TALE. Mary Barber Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T42622 519 p. 45 Barber, Mary, ca. 1690-1757. Poems on Several Occasions [poems only]. London Printed for C. Rivington, at the Bible and Crown in St. Paul's Church-Yard 1734 pp. 7-12. xlviii,283,[7]p.; 8⁰.

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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 ; Mingles in ev'ry Play , to find What Byass Nature gave the Mind ; Resolving thence to take her Aim , To guide them to the Realms of Fame ; And wisely make those Realms their Way To Regions of eternal Day ; Each boist'rous Passion to controul , And early humanize the Soul ; In simple Tales , beside the Fire , The noblest Notions would inspire : Her Children , conscious of her Care , Transported , hung around her Chair . Of Scripture-Heroes she would tell , Whose Names they lisp'd , ere they could spell : The Mother then , delighted , smiles ; And shews the Story on the Tiles . At other Times , her Themes would be The Sages of Antiquity ; Who left immortal Names behind , By proving Blessings to their Kind . Again , she takes another Scope , And tells of Addison , and Pope . Studious to let her Children know The various Turns of Things below ; — How Virtue here was oft oppress'd , To shine more glorious with the Bless'd ; Told Tully's and the Gracchi's Doom , The Patriots , and the Pride of Rome . Then bless'd the Drapier's happier Fate , Who sav'd , and lives to guard the State . Some Comedies gave great Delight , And entertain'd them many a Night : Others could no Admittance find , Forbid , as Poison to the Mind : Those Authors Wit and Sense , said she , But heighten their Impiety . This happy Mother met , one Day , The Book of Fables , writ by Gay ; And told her Children , Here's a Treasure , A Fund of Wisdom , and of Pleasure ! Such Morals , and so finely writ ; Such Decency , good Sense , and Wit ! Well has the Poet found the Art , To raise the Mind , and mend the Heart . Her fav'rite Son the Volume seiz'd ; And , as he read , seem'd highly pleas'd ; Made such Reflections ev'ry Page ; The Mother thought above his Age ; Delighted read , but scarce was able To finish the concluding Fable . What ails my Child ? the Mother cries : Whose Sorrows now have fill'd your Eyes ? O dear Mamma , can he want Friends , Who writes for such exalted Ends ? O base , degen'rate human Kind ! Had I a Fortune to my Mind , Should Gay complain ? But now , alas ! Thro' what a World am I to pass ? Where Friendship is an empty Name , And Merit scarcely paid in Fame ? Resolv'd to lull his Woes to Rest , She tells him , He should hope the best : This has been yet Gay's Case , I own ; But now his Merit's amply known . Content that tender Heart of thine : He'll be the Care of Caroline . Who thus instructs the royal Race , Must have a Pension , or a Place . Mamma , if you were Queen , says he , And such a Book were writ for me , I find 'tis so much to your Taste , That Gay would keep his Coach at least . My Son , what you suppose , is true : I see its Excellence in you . Poets who write to mend the Mind , A royal Recompence should find . But I am barr'd by Fortune's Frowns , From the best Privilege of Crowns ; The glorious , godlike Pow'r to bless , And raise up Merit in Distress . But , dear Mamma , I long to know , Were you the Queen , what you'd bestow . What I'd bestow , says she , my Dear ? At least , a thousand Pounds a Year .