Priscilla Pointon

On International Women's Day, let's celebrate a literary daughter of Lichfield – not Anna Seward, the faintly absurd 'Swan of Lichfield', but another ornament of the Mercian Elightenment, Priscilla Pointon.  She was born in Lichfield around 1740, and in late childhood lost her sight, following a violent headache, and never regained it. Hoping to earn a living by her poetry, she published a first collection, Poems on Several Occasions, in 1770, attracting some 1,300 subscribers, including several from the ranks of the aristocracy.
In this more than competent poem, she writes about her blindness: 

I never tasted the Pierian spring,
Of which great Pope does with such rapture sing*.
For, since deprived from infancy of sight,
How should my muse in lofty numbers write?
Milton and Homer both, you say, were blind,
And where on earth can we their equals find?
But were they blind like me in infant state?
Or did they taste like me tenebrous fate?
No — long they lived great nature to explore,
Their minds enriching with poetic store.
Then in compassion say, ye critics, say
You'll cheer my soul with one reviving ray;
Nor frown indignant on my night-struck strain,
But for amusement bid me write again;
Yet friendly tell me, though I'm not sublimed,
My thoughts are rude, my numbers unrefined;
Since liberal pity all the wise commend,
Be then for once an helpless woman's friend!

* 'A little learning is a dangerous thing: Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring' – An Essay on Criticism.

Here is a very different kind of poem, in which Miss Pointon addresses a subject rarely mentioned in literature (though I seem to remember an instance in Penelope Fitzgerald's The Gate of Angels) – the plight of a woman in urgent need of emptying her bladder:

Address to a Bachelor, on a Delicate Occasion

You bid me write, Sir, I comply,
Since I my grave airs can’t deny.
But say, how can my Muse declare
The situation of the Fair,
That full six hours had sat, or more,                                       5
And never once been out of door?
Tea, wine, and punch, Sir, to be free,
Excellent diuretics be:
I made it so appear, it’s true,
When at your House, last night, with you:                            10
Blushing, I own, to you I said,
“I should be glad you’d call a maid.”
“The girls,” you answer’d “are from home,
Nor can I guess when they’ll return.”
Then in contempt you came to me,                                        15
And sneering cry’d, “Dear Miss, make free;
“Let me conduct you—don’t be nice—
Or if a bason is your choice,
To fetch you one I’ll instant fly.”
I blush’d, but could not make reply;                                       20
Confus’d, to find myself the joke,
I silent sat till TRUEWORTH spoke:
“To go with me, Miss, don’t refuse,
Your loss this freedom will excuse.”
To him my hand reluctant gave,                                              25
And out he led me very grave;
Whilst you and CHATFREE laugh’d aloud,
As if to dash a Maid seem’d proud.
But I the silly jest despise,
Since well I know each man that’s wise                                30
All affectation does disdain,
Since it in Prudes and Coxcombs reign:
So I repent not what I’ve done;
Adieu—enjoy your empty fun.

Trueworth and Chatfree, whose names are self-explanatory, are characters in Eliza Haywood's novel The History of Miss Betty Thoughtless. It is said that Miss Pointon's rescuer ('Trueworth') on this delicate occasion was James Pickering, a saddler from Chester, whom she subsequently married. After his death, she published a second volume of verse, Poems by Mrs Pickering (1794). 
Her verse may be forgotten now, but Priscilla Pointon surely deserves a heritage plaque in Lichfield. One did appear, on railings near Minster Pool, but apparently it was taken down because it was unauthorised. A shame.