Classic Poem

A Mother, who vast Pleasure finds
In modelling her Childrens Minds;
With whom, in exquisite Delight,
She passes many a Winter Night;
Mingles in every 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 cou'd 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, blest, the Draper'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, wrote 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 wrote 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 shou'd find.
But I am barr'd by Fortune's Frowns,
From the best Privilege of Crowns;
The glorious, God-like 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 .