An Irishwoman of extraordinary erudition. says Mrs. Barber, "at the age of 27, and was allowed, long before, to be an excellent scholar, not only in Greek and Roman literature, but in history, divinity, philosophy, and mathematics. She gave a proof of her knowledge in the Latin tongue, by her dedication of the Dublin edition of Tacitus to the Lord Carteret, and by that of Terence to his son, to whom she likewise wrote a Greek epigram." Mrs. Pilkington informs us, that she was also mistress of Hebrew-that her parents were poor, illiterate, country people—and that, when questioned how she had acquired such learning, she said she had received some little instruction from the minister of the parish, when she could spare time from her needlework, to which she was closely kept by her mother.' Her poems were published with those of Mrs. Barber.
To Miss LETITIA VAN LEWEN (afterwards Mrs. PILKINGTON), at a Country Assize.
THE fleeting birds may soon in ocean swim,
And northern whales thro' liquid azure skim;
The Dublin ladies their intrigues forsake,
To dress and scandal an aversion take;
When you can in the lonely forest walk,
And with some serious matron gravely talk
Of possets, poultices, and waters still'd,
And monstrous casks with mead and cider fill'd;
How
many hives of bees she has in store,
And how much fruit her trees this summer bore;
Or, home returning, in the yard can stand,
And feed the chickens from your bounteous hand:
Of each one's top-knot tell, and hatching pry,
Like Tully waiting for an augury.
When night approaches, down to table sit
With a great crowd, choice meat, and little wit;
What horse won the last race, how mighty Tray,
At the last famous hunting, caught the prey;
Surely you can't but such discourse despise,
Methinks I see displeasure in your eyes:
O my Lætitia! stay no longer there,
You'll soon forget that you yourself are fair;
Why will you keep from us, from all that's gay,
There in a lonely solitude to stay?
Where not a mortal through the year you view,
But bob-wigg'd hunters, who their game pursue
With so much ardour, they'd a cock or hare,
To thee in all thy blooming charms prefer.
You write of belles and beaux that there
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.
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.
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