Mary Barber Poems

Your late kind Gift let me restore;
For I must never wear it more.
My Mother cries, ``What's here to do?
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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:
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Say, my Hortensia, in this silent Hour,
When the pale Queen of Night exerts her Pow'r,
What Guardian--Angels on thy Slumbers wait,
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Not Persia's Monarch could, unmov'd, survey
Those num'rous Hosts, which Time must sweep away:
He wept Misfortunes of a distant Date;
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Thou glorious Ruler of the beauteous Day!
Have sev'nteen Years so swiftly roll'd away?
Hast thou so oft the heav'nly Circle run,
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I beg your Scholar you'll excuse,
Who dares no more debase the Muse.
My Mother says, If e'er she hears,
I write again on worthless Peers,
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My Lord of Killala, I find to my Sorrow,
I can't have the Honour I hop'd for, Tomorrow.
But why I'm so wretched, my Friend must rehearse;
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Remote from Strife, from urban Throngs, and Noise.
Here dwells my Soul amidst domestic Joys:
No ratling Coaches serious Thoughts annoy;
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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.
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How well these Laymen love to gibe,
And throw their Jests on Levi's Tribe!
Must One be toil'd to Death, they cry,
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