To The Right Honourable The Earl Of Thomond, At Bath

Obrian, were in Story told,
Thy Ancestors wore Crowns of old:
In fair Hibernia's Isle they reign'd;
A Country, by their Sons disdain'd!
Too apt to charge their Native Isle
With ev'ry Vice of Speech and Style:
Yet thy Eliza, great and good,
Of Seymour's, and of Piercy's Blood,
(Whose Ancestors, to Fame well known,
When injur'd, shook the British Throne
Will not thy native Isle deride,
Tho' to an higher Crown ally'd.
And shall Hibernia fear Disgrace,
From Thomond, of Milesian Race?
It ill becomes thee thus to treat
Thy Family's Imperial Seat.

Great Boiroimke! look down and see
This Change in thy Posterity;
Who quit all Titles to thy Throne,

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poem by Mary Barber
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An Apology For My Son To His Master, For Not Bringing An Exercise On The Coronation Day.

Why are we Scholars plagu'd to write,
On Days devoted to Delight?
In Honour of the King, I'd play
Upon his Coronation Day:
But as for Loyalty in Rhyme,
Defer that to another Time.

Now to excuse this to my Master--
(This Want of Rhyme's a sad Disaster)
Sir, we confess you take great Pains,
And break your own, to mend our Brains.
You strive to make us learn'd, and wise;
But to what End? -- We shall not rise:
In vain should at Preferment aim,
Whilst Strangers make their happier Claim.
Why should we labour to excel,
Doom'd in Obscurity to dwell?
Then, since our Welfare gives you Pain,
(And yet your Toil may prove in vain)
I wish, for your, and for our Ease,

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poem by Mary Barber
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To A Lady In The Spleen

Why, lovely Lelia, so depress'd?
With wonted Smiles your Eyes adorn;
Drive gloomy Sorrow from your Breast,
And shine out, beauteous, as the Morn.

The fair Pendarvis bid me try,
For you to tune my Lyre again;
To your lov'd Presence instant fly,
And sooth you with some joyous Strain.

But if Pendarvis, born to please,
Does in her native Province fail,
Nor can your anxious Bosom ease;
Alas! how should my Muse prevail?

Shall Heav'n, that form'd thee wond'rous fair,
Behold thee thus repining lie?
Dependent on that Guardian Care,
To blissful Prospects turn your Eye.

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poem by Mary Barber
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To The Honourable Mrs. Spencer, On Her Removing From Windsor To Rookly In Hampshire.

Where--e'er you go, some Actions still we hear,
Which make the Goodness of your Mind appear.
Hibernia early saw those Seeds of Worth,
In your fair Breast, which now shoot nobly forth;
Foresaw the Hopes you gave, matur'd by Time,
And griev'd to yield you to a happier Clime.
Tho' to the Height of all your Wishes bless'd,
Yet still your Sighs can rise for the Distress'd:
So young, so good! Georgina, 'tis thy Fate,
To be admir'd, and lov'd in ev'ry State.

How does thy Manner to thy Words impart
Some won'drous Pow'r to gain upon the Heart,
Engaging All!--Beneficence we see,
Tho' fair Herself, yet owing Charms to Thee:
O fitted Thou for Spencer's Race, who scorn
To think they only for Themselves were born!

poem by Mary Barber
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To A Gentleman, Who Had Abus'd Waller.

I grieve to think that Waller's blam'd,
Waller, so long, so justly, fam'd.
Then own your Verses writ in Haste,
Or I shall say, you've lost your Taste.

Perhaps your loyal Heart disdains
A Poet, who could take such Pains,
To tune his sweet, immortal Lays
To an usurping Tyrant's Praise:
And, where you hate the Man, I see,
You never like his Poetry.
The Truth of this your Verse discovers;
So you abus'd the Conscious Lovers.

Tho' in your Principles you glory,
The Muses are nor Whig nor Tory:
So from your Sentence they appeal,
Nor will be judg'd by Party Zeal.
Whene'er a Poet's to be try'd,
Let Pope hereafter be your Guide.

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poem by Mary Barber
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On Sending My Son, As A Present, To Dr. Swift, Dean Of St. Patrick's, On His Birth--Day.

A Curious Statue, we are told,
Is priz'd above its Weight in Gold;
If the fair Form the Hand confess
Of Phidias, or Praxiteles:
But if the Artist could inspire
The smallest Spark of heav'nly Fire,
Tho' but enough to make it walk,
Salute the Company, or talk;
This would advance the Price so high,
What Prince were rich enough to buy?
Such if Hibernia could obtain,
She sure would give it to the Dean:
So to her Patriot should she pay
Her Thanks upon his natal Day.

A richer Present I design,
A finish'd Form, of Work divine,
Surpassing all the Power of Art,
A thinking Head, and grateful Heart,
An Heart, that hopes, one Day, to show

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poem by Mary Barber
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To Sophronia.

Sophronia, all the World agree,
The Soul of Friendship dwells in Thee:
Let Envy other Gifts dispute,
Since here the Fury must be mute.
Without one vain, one venal View,
The Muse inscribes these Lines to you.
Tho' I thy Favour shall not share,
Thy Worth I'm destin'd to revere;
And in Sophronia must commend
The firm, disinterested Friend:
To Virtue I this Homage pay,
Rewarded, tho' you slight the Lay.

Those who thy Favour once obtain,
Need not sollicit thee again;
Nor ever at Neglect repine:
Their Wishes and their Cares are thine:
Nor at the Grave thy Friendship ends;
But to Posterity descends.

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poem by Mary Barber
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To The Right Honourable The Lady Elizabeth Boyle On Her Birth—Day

May each new Year some new Perfection give,
Till all the Mother in the Daughter live!
May'st Thou her Virtues to the World restore!
And be what Henrietta was before!
And when revolving Years mature thy Charms,
When Pride of Conquest thy fair Bosom warms,
May some great Youth, for ev'ry Grace renown'd,
With Taste and Science bless'd, by Virtue crown'd;
By Virtue guarded from Ambition's Wiles,
Superior both to Fortune's Frowns and Smiles;
Who wears the Honours of a glorious Name,
Yet to Distinction bears a nobler Claim;
Like a new Star, in native Lustre bright,
That boasts no Radiance from reflected Light:
Allow'd the rising Genius of his Age;
By ev'ry Excellence thy Heart engage;
Like Him who bless'd thy Mother's Nuptial State;
But O! may Heav'n give Thine a longer Date.

poem by Mary Barber
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Written for my Son ... upon his Master's First Bringing in a Rod

OUR master, in a fatal hour,
Brought in this Rod, to shew his pow'r.
O dreadful birch ! O baleful tree !
Thou instrument of tyranny !
Thou deadly damp to youthful joys !
The sight of thee our peace destroys.
Not Damocles, with greater dread,
Beheld the weapon o'er his head.

That sage was surely more discerning,
Who taught to play us into learning,
By graving letters on the dice :
May heav'n reward the kind device,
And crown him with immortal fame,
Who taught at once to read and game !

Take my advice ; pursue that rule ;
You'll make a fortune by your school.
You'll soon have all the elder brothers,
And be the darling of the mothers.

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poem by Mary Barber
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Written At Bath To A Young Lady

You us'd me ill, and I withdrew,
Intent on satirizing you.
The Muses to my Aid I call;
They came; and told me, one and all,
That I mistook their Province quite,
They never sully'd what was bright;
And said, If Satire was my Aim,
I ought to chuse another Theme.

I heard with Anger, and Surprize;
Begg'd they'd inspire, and not advise.
In vain I begg'd--they all withdrew;
When to my Aid a Phantom flew,
And vow'd she'd give my Satire Stings,
And whisper'd some resentful Things--
Said, You delighted, all your Days,
To torture her a thousand Ways:
Bid me revenge her Cause, and mine,
And blacken you in ev'ry Line.

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poem by Mary Barber
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