Verses Occasion'd By The Sickness Of Mrs. Anne Donnellan.
Goddess of Health, where--e'er you dwell,
To Philomela fly;
O hasten from your rural Cell,
Nor let the Fair one die.
Again her Voice divine restore,
And give her Eyes their Fire;
So shall a World thy Pow'r adore,
And raise thy Altars higher.
poem by Mary Barber
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An Epitaph On The Late Lord Mount--Cashel.
Children are snatch'd away sometimes,
To punish Parents for their Crimes.
Thy Mother's Merit was so great,
Heav'n hasten'd thy untimely Fate,
To make her Character complete.
Tho' many Virtues fill'd her Breast,
'Twas Resignation crown'd the rest.
poem by Mary Barber
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To a Lady
WELL you Sincerity display,
A virtue wond'rous rare !
Nor value, tho' the world should say,
You're rude, so you're sincere.
To be sincere, then, give me leave ;
And I will frankly own,
Since you but this one virtue have,
'Twere better you had none.
poem by Mary Barber
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Written For My Son To His Master, On The Anniversary Of The Battle Of The Boyne.
Is what we owe great William then
Forgotten by ungrateful Men?
And has His Fame run out its Date,
Who snatch'd us from the Brink of Fate?
Else, why should Scholars, Sir, I pray,
Be Prisners on this glorious Day;
When Nassau's Arms, by Heav'n's Decree,
Devoted it to Liberty?
poem by Mary Barber
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To Dr. Mead, On His Cape Wine.
Your Wine, by Southern Suns refin'd,
Is a just Emblem of your Mind:
Like You, the gen'rous Juice displays
Its Influence a thousand Ways;
Like You, it raises sinking Hearts,
Inspiring, and rewarding Arts;
Dispels the Spleen, and conquers Pain,
Calls back departing Life again.
poem by Mary Barber
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On The Dutchess Of Newcastle's Picture.
Say, Worsdcal, where you learn'd the Art
To paint the Goodness of the Heart
The flatt'ring Teint let others prize;
You call the Soul into the Eyes:
There we the various Virtues trace
Of Churchil's, and Godolphin's Race.
Thrice happy Pelham, to whose Arms
Were destin'd never--fading Charms!
poem by Mary Barber
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An Epigram On The Same Occasion.
So little giv'n at Chapel Door!--
This People doubtless must be poor:
So much at Gaming thrown away!--
No Nation sure so rich as they.
Britons, 'twere greatly for your Glory,
Should those, who shall transmit your Story,
Their Notions of your Grandeur frame,
Not as you give, but as you game.
poem by Mary Barber
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To Mrs. Frances--Arabella Kelly, With A Present Of Fruit.
Tho' the Plumb, and the Peach, with Apollo conspire,
To present you their Softness, and Sweetness, and Fire;
Their Aid is in vain; for what can they do,
But blush, and confess them selves vanquish'd by you?
Where Virtue and Wit with such Qualities blend,
What Mortal, what Goddess, would dare to contend?
poem by Mary Barber
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To The Honble. Miss Carteret, Now Countess Of Dysert.
Fair Innocence, the Muses lovelicst
On Acts of Mercy sound thy rising Fame.
Let others from frail Beauty hope Applause:
Plead thou the Fatherless, and Widow's Cause.
Fly to your Mother; let each winning Grace
Engage Compassion for my helpless Race.
So shall the wond'ring World be taught from thence,
Beauty is but your second Excellence.
poem by Mary Barber
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To Robert Barber Esq; Deputy To The Treasurer's Remembrancer In The Court Of Exchequer
Whilst Gay's unhappy Fate thy Ear attends,
Thy Heart, indignant, scorns his faithless Friends;
Thy gen'rous Heart, which never learnt the Way,
A Friend or to deceive, or to betray:
With Honour and Integrity so blest,
Not Law, infectious, can pollute thy Breast:
With Justice and Humanity endow'd,
You shine, distinguish'd, 'midst a venal Croud.
poem by Mary Barber
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