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So when I am wearied with wandering all day,
To thee, my delight, in the evening I come;
They were but my visits, but thou art my home. To Chloe was inscribed his ' Henry and Emma,' a poem upon the model of the · Nut-brown Maid ;' but Prior, in discarding the rude simplicity of the original, sacrificed a great portion of its charm.
The works of Prior range over a variety of styles and subjectsodes, songs, epistles, epigrams, and tales. His longest poem, Solomon,' is of a serious character, and was considered by its author 10 be his best production, in which opinion he is supported by Cowper. It is the most moral, and perbaps the most correctly written; but the tales and lighter pieces of Prior are undoubtedly his lappiest efforts. In these he displays that charming ease' with which Cowper says he embellished all his poems, added to the lively illusiration and colloquial humour of his master, Horace. No poet ever possessed in greater perfection the art of graceful and fluent versification. His narratives flow on like a clear stream, without break or fall, and interest us by their perpetual good-humour and vivacity, even when they wander into metaphysics, as in ‘Alma,' or into licentiousness, as in his tales. His expression was choice and studied, abounding in classical allusions and images—which were then the fashion of the day, but without any air of pedantry or constraint. Like Swift, he loved to versify the common occurrences of life, and relate his personal feelings and adventures. He had, however, no portion of the dean's bitterness or misanthropy, and employed no stronger weapons of satire than raillery and arch allusion. He sported on the surface of existence, noting its foibles, its pleasures, and eccentricities, but without the power of penetrating into its recesses, or evoking the higher passions of our nature. He was the most natural of artificial poets-a seeming paradox, yet as true as the old maxim, that the perfection of art is the art of concealing it.
For My Own Monument.
alth, of his tomb-stone took care :
Matt, alive and in
Now in equipage stately, now hambly on foot,
Here lies what once was Matthew Prior,
Can Stuart or Nassau claim higher ?
An Epitaph. Interred beneath this marble stone, Just when it grew not fit to cat. Lie sauntering Jack and idle Joan. They paid the church and parish rate, While rolling threescore years and one And took, but read not the receipt ; Did round this globe their courses run; For which they claimed their Sunday's If human things went ill or well,
due, If changing empires rose or fell,
Of slumbering in an upper pew. The morning past, the evening came, No man's defects sought they to know, And found this couple just the same. So never made themselves a foe. They walked and ate, good folks : What No man's good deeds did they commend, then ?
So never raised themselves a friend. Why, then they walked and ate again; Nor cherished they relations poor, They soundly slept the night away ; That might decrease their present store; They did just nothing all the day. Nor barn nor house did they repair, Nor sister either had nor brother; That might oblige their future heir. They seemed just tallied for each other. They neither added nor confounded ; Their moral apd economy
They neither wanted nor abounded. Most perfectly they made agree;
Nor tear nor smile did they employ Each virtue kept its proper bound, At news of public grief or joy. Nor trespassed on the other's ground. When bells were rung and bonfires made, Nor fame nor censure they regarded ; If asked, they ne'er denied their aid ; They neither punished nor rewarded. Their jug was to the ringers carried, He cared not what the footman did ; Whoever either died or married. Her maids she neither praised nor chid: Their billet at the fire was found, So every servant took his course,
Whoever was deposed or crowned. And, bad at first, they all grew worse. Nor good, nor bad, nor fools, nor wise, Slothful disorder filled his stable,
They would not learn, uor could advise; And sluttish plenty decked her table, Without love, hatred, joy, or fear, Their beer was strong, their wine was They led--a kind of—as it were ; port;
Nor wished, nor cared, por laughed, nor Their meal was large, their grace was
cried ; short.
And so they lived, and so they died. They gave the poor the remnant monto
To a Child of Quality, Five Years Old, 1704, the Author then Forty. Lords, knights, and squires, the nomer- Whilst all the house my passion reads, ous band
In papers round her baby's hair; That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters, Were summoned by her high command She may receive and own my lame, To shew their passion by their lettere. For though the strictest prudes should
know it, My pen amongst the rest I took,
She'll pass for a most virtnous dame, Lest those bright eyes that cannot read And I for an unhappy poet. Should dart their kindling fires, and look The power they have to be obeyed. Then, too, alas ! when she shall hear
The lines some younger rival sends; Nor quality nor reputation
She'll give me leave to write, I fear, Forbid me yet my flame to tell.
And we shall still continue friends. Dear five-years-old befriends my passion, And I may write till she can spell. For, as our different ages move,
'Tis so ordained (would Fate but mend For, while she makes her silkworms' beds it!) With all the tender things I swear;
That I shall be past making love,
When she begins to comprehend lite
A bushed she blues, aud with disorder spoke;
• If the great master will descend to hear
O! while she tells it, let Lim uot put or
The look that awes the nations from the throne I
Thou Sovereign Power, whose secret will controls
Here o'er her speech her fowing eyes prevail.
The apples she had gathered smelt most sweet,
Written in Mezeray's History of France.
All covet life, yet call it pain : And all the living world that view Al feel the ill, get shun tke cure. Thy work, give thee the praises dae. Can sepse this paradox endure ? At once instructed and delighted
Resolve me, Cambray, or Fontaine. Yet for the fame of all these deeds, The man in graver tragic known What beggar in the Invalides,
(Though bis best part long since was With lameness broke, with blindness done) smitten,
Still on the stage desires to tarry; Wished ever decently to die,
And he who played the Harlequin, To have been either Mezeray
After the jest still loads the scene,
and the ‘Abbot of Canterbury.'
Derry down, down, hey derty down.
Derry down, &c.
* Sir Walter Scott. abouta year before his death, repeated the above when on a Bor. der tour wiih Mr. Lockhart. They inet two beggars, old soldiers, one of whom recog. nised the baronet, and bade God bless him. The mendicants went on their way and we stood breathing on the knoll. Sir Walter followed them with his eye, and. planting his stick firmly on the sod, repeated without break or hesitation Prior's verses to the historian Mezeray. That be applied them to bimself was touchingly obvious.