Written For My Son, Upon Lady Santry's Coming To School, To See Her Son, And Getting The Scholars A Play--Day.
So Ceres, lovely and divine,
Eager to see her Proserpine,
Blessing the Nations as she pass'd,
Reach'd the fell Tyrant's Court at last;
Around her shot a Gleam of Light,
Diffusing Joy, dispelling Night;
And, whilst she gilds the dismal Gloom,
The Damn'd a--while forget their Doom;
The Danaids no longer fill;
And Sisyphus's Stone stood still;
Ixion wonders why he strove,
With impious Arts, to rival Fove;
Grim Pluto smil'd; all Hell look'd gay;
Happy, as we were Yesterday.
poem by Mary Barber
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To His Grace The Duke Of Chandos.
Were Princes grac'd with Souls like thine,
Princes had still been deem'd divine.
Such Merit as we find in thee,
First introduc'd Idolatry;
When an excelling Form and Mind,
Delighting, had misled Mankind;
Inspiring with an awful Sense
Of infinite Beneficence.
Were Kings elective, Realms would sue,
Contending to be sway'd by you.
Yet, tho' no regal Throne is thine,
Thou hast no Reason to repine;
Since Heav'n, that gave the Monarch's Heart,
Bestow'd thee far the nobler Part.
poem by Mary Barber
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Written For My Son, In A Bible Which Was Presented To Him.
Welcome, thou sacred, solemn Guest,
Who com'st to guide me to the Blest.
O Fountain of eternal Truth,
Thou gracious Guardian of my Youth!
True Wisdom to my Soul dispense,
That I may learn thy Will from hence:
Still let me make thy Word my Rule,
And still despise the scorning Fool.
Inspir'd from thence, my Verse shall soar,
Till Time itself shall be no more.
Alas, my Soul! and whar is great,
In Glory of a mortal Date?
Henceforth this vain Ambition spare,
And be Eternity thy Care.
poem by Mary Barber
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Written at Tunbridge--Wells
These Plains, so joyous once to me,
Now sadly chang'd appear:
Hortensia I no more can see,
Who patroniz'd me here.
Fair Excellence, where--e'er you go,
May Kindred Angels wait,
To guard you thro' this Vale of Woe,
To your celestial Seat.
Sage Boerhaave! now exert your Art,
New Medicines explore:
A purer, or a nobler Heart,
Ne'er sought thy Aid before.
Your choicest Springs, Germania, give:
Goddess of Health, attend:
Long, long, and happy may she live,
The lonely Stranger's Friend.
poem by Mary Barber
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Sincerity
Sincerity, what are thy Views;
No more my Breast attend.
By thee, alas! we often lose,
But seldom gain a Friend.
No more with dang'rous Zeal presume
To warn whom you esteem:
Be wise, or I foresee your Doom;
Impertinence you'll seem.
A thousand Ills from thee I've found;
A thousand more I fear.
In Worlds like this, should you abound?
What Bus'ness have you here?
But if you still must haunt my Breast,
To Desarts we'll repair;
Or seek the Mansions of the Blest;
They know your Value there.
poem by Mary Barber
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To Mrs. S---. Written In My Sickness.
Dear Psyche, come, with chearful Face,
And bless this desolated Place.
O come! my sickly Couch attend,
And ease the Anguish of your Friend.
Thy Soul, with ev'ry Grace supply'd,
Thy gen'rous Soul, in Friendship try'd,
With Wit, and nervous Sense delights;
And steals away the tardy Nights.
Whilst others to Diversions fly,
You watch the Sleep--forsaken Eye:
To Thee was giv'n the won'drous Pow'r,
To gild the melancholy Hour,
To sooth the long--distracted Brain,
And conquer ev'n the Tyrant Pain.
poem by Mary Barber
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Stella And Flavia.
Stella and Flavia, ev'ry Hour,
Unnumber'd Hearts surprize:
In Stella's Soul lies all her Pow'r,
And Flavia's, in her Eyes.
More boundless Flavia's Conquests are,
And Stella's more confin'd:
All can discern a Face that's fair,
But few a lovely Mind.
Stella, like Britain's Monarch, reigns
O'er cultivated Lands;
Like Eastern Tyrants, Flavia deigns
To rule o'er barren Sands.
Then boast, fair Flavia, boast your Face,
Your Beauty's only Store:
Your Charms will ev'ry Day decrease,
Each Day gives Stella more.
poem by Mary Barber
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Sent As From A School--Fellow To My Son
I grieve to see you waste your Time,
And turn your Thoughts so much to Rhyme,
Be wise--your useless Views resign,
And fly the fair, delusive Nine.
I know, they try their wonted Art,
To win your easy, youthful Heart;
They talk of an immortal Name,
And promise you the Realms of Fame:
A mighty Empire, Con. 'tis true,
But wondrous small the Revenue!
They'll tell you too, to gain their Ends,
That Verse will raise you pow'rful Friends.
Believe me, Youth, this is not true:
The Great think ev'ry Thing their Due.
poem by Mary Barber
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An Apology To The Earl Of Orrery
Not Persia's Monarch could, unmov'd, survey
Those num'rous Hosts, which Time must sweep away:
He wept Misfortunes of a distant Date;
I mourn the Rigour of my instant Fate:
The dreaded Hour approaching fast I see,
When you, alas! will all be dead to me.
Then cease to wonder, if my Bosom rise,
And Tears, unbidden, rush into my Eyes;
'Tis thus, and only thus, a grateful Breast
Pours out those Thanks, which cannot be express'd:
For, O Hibernia! when I quit thy Coast,
Such Friends I leave, as few could ever boast.
poem by Mary Barber
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To Mrs. Armine Cartwright, At Bath.
Lovely Armina, o'er her Books reclin'd,
Impairs her Body, to improve her Mind:
Of Wisdom fond, as others are of Wealth,
In that Pursuit will sacrifice her Health:
Then, Miser--like, when she has gain'd the Prize,
Hides both Herself, and Treasure, from our Eyes.
In this alone, Armina, you're to blame,
Regardless of your Health, or Friendship's Claim:
A giddy, thoughtless World your Aid require;
And Ignorance prevails, when You retire.
Why, Form'd to please! and why, Improv'd with Care!
Is there no End, in being Wise, and Fair?
poem by Mary Barber
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