You write of belles and beaux that there

appear,

And gilded coaches, such as glitter here;
For gilded coaches, each estated clown
That gravely slumbers on the bench has one;
But beaux ! they're young attorneys sure you mean,
Who thus appear to your romantic brain.
Alas! no mortal there can talk to you,
That love, or wit, or softness ever knew;
All they can speak of 's capias and law,
And writs to keep the country fools in awe.
And if to wit, or courtship they pretend,
'Tis the same way that they a cause defend;
In which they give of lungs a vast expence,
But little passion, thought, or eloquence:
Bad as they are, they'll soon abandon you,
And gain and clamour in the town pursue.
So haste to town, if even such fools you prize,
O haste to town! and bless the longing eyes
Of your CONSTANTIA.

Poems by Mrs. Barber were published in 1734, prefaced by a letter from Swift to John, Earl of Orrery. She was the wife of a tradesman in Dublin.

On sending my Son as a Present to Dr. SWIFT,
Dean of St. Patrick's, on his Birthday.

A CURIOUS Statue, we are told,
Is priz'd above its weight in gold;
If the fair form the hand confess
Of Phidias, or Phraxiteles:

But if the artist could inspire
The smallest spark of heavenly fire,
Tho' but enough to make it walk,
Salute the company, or talk,

This would advance the prize 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.

M

A richer present I design, A finish'd form, of work divine, Surpassing all the power of art, A thinking head, and grateful heart: A heart that hopes, one day, to show How much we to the Drapier owe. Kings could not send a nobler gift, A meaner were unworthy Swift.

ELIZABETH ROWE,

Born 1674, died 1736,

Was the daughter of Mr. Walter Singer, a gentleman of good family. In her twenty-second year she published a volume of Poems. In 1710 she married Mr. Thomas Rowe, a person of no mean literary acquirements, who, 66 some considerable time after his marriage, addressed to her, under the name of Delia, a very tender ode:" he died in 1715, in his twenty-eighth year. After his death, she retired to Frome, in the neighbourhood of which she possessed a paternal estate, and there composed her once celebrated work, Letters from the Dead to the Living.

She was warmly admired by Prior, among whose Poems will be found an "Answer to Mrs. Singer's Pastoral on Love and Friendship."

Despair.

OH! lead me to some solitary gloom,

Where no enlivening beams, nor cheerful echoes

come;

But silent all, and dusky let it be,

Remote, and unfrequented but by me;
Mysterious, close, and sullen as that grief,
Which leads me to its covert for relief.

Far from the busy world's detested noise,
Its wretched pleasures, and distracted joys;
Far from the jolly fools, who laugh and play,
And dance, and sing, impertinently gay,
Their short, inestimable hours away;
Far from the studious follies of the great,
The tiresome farce of ceremonious state.
There, in a melting, solemn, dying strain,
Let me all day upon my lyre complain,
And wind up all its soft harmonious strings,
To noble, serious, melancholy things.
And let no human foot, but mine, e'er trace
The close recesses of the sacred place:
Nor let a bird of cheerful note come near,
To whisper out his airy raptures herc.
Only the pensive songstress of the grove,
Let her, by mine, her mournful notes improve;
While drooping winds among the branches sigh,
And sluggish waters heavily roll by.

Here, to my fatal sorrows let me give

The short remaining hours I have to live.

Then, with a sullen, deep-fetch'd groan expire,

And to the grave's dark solitude retire.