Yet credit but lightly what more may be said,
For we flatter ourselves, and teach marble to lie.

Yet counting as far as to fifty his years,
His virtues and vices were as other men's are ;

High hopes he conceived, and he smothered great fears,
In a life party-coloured, half pleasure, half care.

Nor to business a drudge, nor to faction a slave,
He strove to make int'rest and freedom agree;
In public employments industrious and grave,

And alone with his friends, Lord! how merry was he.

Now in equipage stately, now humbly on foot,
Both fortunes he tried, but to neither would trust;
And whirled in the round as the wheel turned about,
He found riches had wings, and knew man was but dust.
This verse, little polished, though mighty sincere,
Sets neither his titles nor merit to view;
It says that his relics collected lie here,

And no mortal yet knows too if this may be true.
Fierce robbers there are that infest the highway,
So Matt may be killed and his bones never found;
False witness at court, and fierce tempests at sea,
So Matt may yet chance to be hanged or be drowned.

If his bones lie in earth, roll in sea, fly in air,

To Fate we must yield, and the thing is the same;
And if passing thou giv'st him a smile or a tear,
He cares not-yet, prithee, be kind to his fame.

'The sculptor' was Antoine Coysevox. The bust was presented to Prior by Louis XIV.

Epitaph Extempore.

Nobles and Heralds, by your leave,

Here lies what once was Matthew Prior;

The son of Adam and of Eve,

Can Bourbon or Nassau claim higher?

Instead of being extempore, this is more probably a recollection ke Goldsmith's 'Ned Purdon.' There is an old epitaph

'Johnnie Carnegie lais heer,

Descendit of Adam and Eve,

Gif ony can gang hieher,

Ise willing gie him leave.'

An Epitaph.

Interred beneath this marble stone,
Lie sauntering Jack and idle Joan.
While rolling threescore years and one
Did round this globe their courses run,
If human things went ill or well,
If changing empires rose or fell,
The morning past, the evening came,
And found this couple still the same.
They walked and ate, good folks: What then?
Why, then they walked and ate again;
They soundly slept the night away;
They did just nothing all the day
Nor sister either had nor brother;
They seemed just tallied for each other.
Their moral and economy
Most perfectly they made agree;
Each virtue kept its proper bound,
Nor trespassed on the other's ground.
Nor fame nor censure they regarded;
They neither punished nor rewarded.
He cared not what the footman did;
Her maids she neither praised nor chid;

So every servant took his course,
And, bad at first, they all grew worse.
Slothful disorder filled his stable,
And sluttish plenty decked her table.
Their beer was strong, their wine was port;
Their meal was large, their grace was short.
They gave the poor the remnant meat,
Just when it grew not fit to eat.
They paid the church and parish rate,
And took, but read not the receipt ;
For which they claimed their Sunday's due,
Of slumbering in an upper pew.

No man's defects sought they to know,

So never made themselves a foe.
No man's good deeds did they commend,
So never raised themselves a friend.
Nor cherished they relations poor,
That might decrease their present store;
Nor barn nor house did they repair,
That might oblige their future heir.
They neither added nor confounded;
They neither wanted nor abounded
Nor tear nor smile did they employ
At news of public grief or joy.

When bells were rung and bonfires made,
If asked, they ne'er denied their aid;
Their jug was to the ringers carried,
Whoever either died or married.
Their billet at the fire was found,
Whoever was deposed or crowned.

Nor good, nor bad, nor fools, nor wise,
They would not learn, nor could advise;
Without love, hatred, joy, or fear,

They led-a kind of—as it were;

Nor wished, nor cared, nor laughed, nor cried ; And so they lived, and so they died.

To a Child of Quality (one of the Dorset House),
Five Years Old, the Author Forty. 1704.
Lords, knights, and squires, the numerous band
That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters,
Were summoned by her high command
To shew their passion by their letters.

My pen amongst the rest I took,

Lest those bright eyes that cannot read
Should dart their kindling fires, and look
The power they have to be obeyed.

Nor quality nor reputation

Forbid me yet my flame to tell.
Dear five-years-old befriends my passion,
And I may write till she can spell.

For, while she makes her silkworms beds
With all the tender things I swear ;
Whilst all the house my passion reads,
In papers round her baby's hair;

She may receive and own my flame,

For though the strictest prudes should know it, She'll pass for a most virtuous dame,

And I for an unhappy poet.

Then, too, alas! when she shall tear

The lines some younger rival sends ; She'll give me leave to write, I fear,

And we shall still continue friends.

For, as our different ages move,

'Tis so ordained (would Fate but mend it!) That I shall be past making love,

When she begins to comprehend it.

Baby in the sixteenth line is a doll. Cf. Tatler, No. 95.

Abra's Love for Solomon.

Another nymph, amongst the many fair
That made my softer hours their solemn care,
Before the rest affected still to stand,

And watched my eye, preventing my command.
Abra-she so was called-didst soonest haste
To grace my presence; Abra went the last;
Abra was ready ere I called her name;
And, though I called another, Abra came.
Her equals first observed her growing zeal,
And laughing, glossed that Abra served so well.
To me her actions did unheeded die,

Or were remarked but with a common eye;
Till, more apprised of what the rumour said,
More I observed peculiar in the maid.
The sun declined had shot his western ray,
When tired with business of the solemn day,
I purposed to unbend the evening hours,
And banquet private in the women's bowers.
I called before I sat to wash my hands-
For so the precept of the law commands-
Love had ordained that it was Abra's turn
To mix the sweets and minister the urn.
With awful homage, and submissive dread,
The maid approached, on my declining head
To pour the oils; she trembled as she poured;
With an unguarded look she now devoured
My nearer face; and now recalled her eye,
And heaved, and strove to hide, a sudden sigh.
'And whence,' said I, 'canst thou have dread or
pain?

What can thy imagery of sorrow mean?
Secluded from the world and all its care,
Hast thou to grieve or joy, to hope or fear?
For sure,' I added, 'sure thy little heart
Ne'er felt love's anger, or received his dart.'

Abashed she blushed, and with disorder spoke :
Her rising shame adorned the words it broke :
'If the great master will descend to hear
The humble series of his handmaid's care;
O! while she tells it, let him not put on

The look that awes the nations from the throne !
O! let not death severe in glory lie

In the king's frown and terror of his eye!
Mine to obey, thy part is to ordain ;
And, though to mention be to suffer pain,
If the king smile whilst I my woe recite,
If weeping, I find favour in his sight,
Flow fast my tears, full rising his delight,
O! witness earth beneath, and heaven above!
For can I hide it? I am sick of love;
If madness may the name of passion bear,
Or love be called what is indeed despair.

"Thou Sovereign Power, whose secret will controls
The inward bent and motion of our souls!
Why hast thou placed such infinite degrees
Between the cause and cure of my disease?
The mighty object of that raging fire,
In which unpitied, Abra must expire.

Had he been born some simple shepherd's heir,
The lowing herd or fleecy sheep his care,
At morn with him I o'er the hills had run,
Scornful of winter's frost and summer's sun,
Still asking where he made his flock to rest at noon;
For him at night, the dear expected guest,

I had with hasty joy prepared the feast ;
And from the cottage, o'er the distant plain,
Sent forth my longing eye to meet the swain,
Wavering, impatient, tossed by hope and fear,
Till he and joy together should appear,
And the loved dog declare his master near.
On my declining neck and open breast
I should have lulled the lovely youth to rest,
And from beneath his head, at dawning day,
With softest care bave stol'n my arm away,
To rise and from the fold release his sheep,
Fond of his flock, indulgent to his sleep.
Or if kind heaven, propitious to my flame-
For sure from heaven the faithful ardour came-
Had blest my life, and decked my natal hour
With height of title, and extent of power;
Without a crime my passion had aspired,
Found the loved prince, and told what I desired.
Then I had come, preventing Sheba's queen,
To see the comeliest of the sons of men,
To hear the charming poet's amorous song,
And gather honey falling from his tongue,
To take the fragrant kisses of his mouth,
Sweeter than breezes of her native South,
Likening his grace, his person, and his mien,
To all that great or beauteous I had seen.'.

Here o'er her speech her flowing eyes prevail.
O foolish maid! and O, unhappy tale! . . .
I saw her; 'twas humanity; it gave
Some respite to the sorrows of my slave.
Her fond excess proclaimed her passion true,
And generous pity to that truth was due.
Well I entreated her, who well deserved;
I called her often, for she always served.
Use made her person easy to my sight,
And ease insensibly produced delight.
Whene'er I revelled in the women's bowers-
For first I sought her but at looser hours-
The apples she had gathered smelt most sweet,
The cake she kneaded was the savoury meat :
But fruits their odour lost, and meats their taste,
If gentle Abra had not decked the feast.
Dishonoured did the sparkling goblet stand,
Unless received from gentle Abra's hand;
And, when the virgins formed the evening choir,
Raising their voices to the master lyre,

Too flat I thought this voice, and that too shrill,
One shewed too much, and one too little skill;
Nor could my soul approve the music's tone,
Till all was hushed, and Abra sung alone.
Fairer she seemed distinguished from the rest,
And better mien disclosed, as better drest.
A bright tiara round her forehead tied,
To juster bounds confined its rising pride.
The blushing ruby on her snowy breast
Rendered its panting whiteness more confessed;
Bracelets of pearl gave roundness to her arm,
And every gem augmented every charm.
Her senses pleased, her beauty still improved,
And she more lovely grew, as more beloved.

Written in Mezeray's History of France.
Whate'er thy countrymen have done
By law and wit, by sword and gun,
In thee is faithfully recited;
And all the living world that view
Thy work give thee the praises due,
At once instructed and delighted.

Yet for the fame of all these deeds,
What beggar in the Invalides,

With lameness broke, with blindness smitten,
Wished ever decently to die,

To have been either Mezeray

Or any monarch he has written?

It's strange, dear author, yet it true is,
That down from Pharamond to Louis,
All covet life, yet call it pain;
All feel the ill, yet shun the cure.
Can sense this paradox endure?

Resolve me, Cambray or Fontaine.

The man in graver tragic known

(Though his best part long since was done)

Still on the stage desires to tarry;

And he who played the Harlequin,
After the jest still loads the scene,

Unwilling to retire, though weary.

Cambray is, of course, Fénelon, who was Archbishop of Cambrai ; François de Eudes Mézeray (1610-83) wrote what was long the standard Histoire de France. Sir Walter Scott, about a year before his death, repeated these verses when on a Border tour with Mr Lockhart. They met two beggars, old soldiers, one of whom recognised Scott, 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 he applied them to himself was touchingly obvious.'

The Thief and the Cordelier.-A Ballad. Who has e'er been at Paris must needs know the Grève, The fatal retreat of the unfortunate brave; Where honour and justice most oddly contribute To ease heroes' pains by a halter and gibbet.

Derry down, down, hey derry down.

There death breaks the shackles which force had put on, And the hangman completes what the judge but begun ; There the 'squire of the pad, and the knight of the post, Find their pains no more balked, and their hopes no

'What frightens you thus, my good son?' says the

priest;

'You murdered, are sorry, and have been confessed.' 'O father! my sorrow will scarce save my bacon; For 'twas not that I murdered, but that I was taken.' Derry down, &c.

'Pooh, prithee ne'er trouble thy head with such fancies; Rely on the aid you shall have from St Francis ; If the money you promised be brought to the chest, You have only to die; let the church do the rest.' Derry down, &c.

'And what will folks say if they see you afraid? It reflects upon me, as I knew not my trade. Courage, friend; to-day is your period of sorrow; And things will go better, believe me, to-morrow.' Derry down, &c.

'To-morrow!' our hero replied in a fright;

'He that 's hanged before noon ought to think of to-night.' 'Tell your beads,' quoth the priest,' and be fairly trussed up, For you surely to-night shall in paradise sup.'

Derry down, &c.

'Alas!' quoth the 'squire, howe'er sumptuous the treat, Parbleu! I shall have little stomach to eat ;

I should therefore esteem it great favour and grace,
Would you be so kind as to go in my place.'
Derry down, &c.

'That I would,' quoth the father, 'and thank you to boot;
But our actions, you know, with our duty must suit;
The feast I proposed to you I cannot taste,
For this night by our order is marked for a fast.'

Derry down, &c.

Then turning about to the hangman, he said: 'Despatch me, I prithee, this troublesome blade; For thy cord and my cord both equally tie, And we live by the gold for which other men die.' Derry down, &c.

Ode to a Lady:

She refusing to continue a Dispute with me, and leaving me in the Argument.

Spare, generous victor, spare the slave,
Who did unequal war pursue;
That more than triumph he might have
In being overcome by you!

In the dispute whate'er I said,

My heart was by my tongue belied;
And in my looks you might have read

How much I argued on your side.

You, far from danger as from fear,
Might have sustained an open fight;
For seldom your opinions err,

Your eyes are always in the right.

Why, fair one, would you not rely

On reason's force with beauty's joined?

Could I their prevalence deny,

I must at once be deaf and blind.

Alas! not hoping to subdue,

I only to the fight aspired; To keep the beauteous foe in view, Was all the glory I desired.

But she, howe'er of victory sure,

Contemns the wreath too long delayed; And, armed with more immediate power, Calls cruel silence to her aid.

Deeper to wound she shuns the fight;

She drops her arms to gain the field: Secures her conquest by her flight;

And triumphs when she seems to yield.

So when the Parthian turned his steed,

And from the hostile camp withdrew, With cruel skill the backward reed He sent, and as he fled he slew.

Theory of the Mind.

I say, whatever you maintain

Of Alma in the heart or brain,

The plainest man alive may tell ye

Her seat of empire is the belly.

From hence she sends out those supplies
Which make us either stout or wise: . .
Your stomach makes your fabric roll
Just as the bias rules the bowl.
That great Achilles might employ
The strength designed to ruin Troy,
He dined on lion's marrow, spread
On toasts of ammunition bread;
But, by his mother sent away
Amongst the Thracian girls to play,
Effeminate he sat and quiet-

Strange product of a cheese-cake diet!...
Observe the various operations

Of food and drink in several nations.
Was ever Tartar fierce or cruel
Upon the strength of water-gruel?
But who shall stand his rage or force
If first he rides, then eats his horse?
Salads, and eggs, and lighter fare
Tune the Italian spark's guitar;
And, if I take Dan Congreve right,
Pudding and beef make Britons fight.
Tokay and coffee cause this work
Between the German and the Turk :

From that which simply points the hour;
For though these gimcracks were away-
Quare would not swear, but Quare would say -
However more reduced and plain,

The watch would still a watch remain :
But if the horal orbit ceases,

The whole stands still or breaks to pieces,

Is now no longer what it was,

And you may e'en go sell the case.

So if unprejudiced you scan
The goings of this clockwork, man,
You find a hundred movements made
By fine devices in his head;

But 'tis the stomach's solid stroke
That tells his being what 's o'clock.
If you take off his rhetoric trigger,
He talks no more in trope and figure;
Or clog his mathematic wheel,
His buildings fall, his ship stands still;
Or, lastly, break his politic weight,
His voice no longer rules the state:
Yet, if these finer whims are gone,

Your clock, though plain, will still go on.

But spoil the organ of digestion,

And you entirely change the question,
Alma's affairs no power can mend ;

The jest, alas! is at an end;

Soon ceases all the worldly bustle,

And you consign the corpse to Russel.

(From Alma.)

Alma here symbolises the mind; Quare was a noted watchmaker of the day; Russel, an undertaker, mentioned in Garth's Dispensary.

The best edition of Prior's Poems is by Mr Brimley Johnson (2 vols. 1892), and there is a good selection by Mr Austin Dobson (1889). See also articles in the Contemporary Review for May 1890, and the Quarterly Review for October 1899.

T

HE death of Dryden in 1700 and the appearance of Thomson's Winter in 1726 make the best boundary-marks for the so-called Augustan age of English literature, which is likewise styled the age of Queen Anne, although it really includes also the reign of George I. It is true that the activity and influence of the greatest poet of the period extended far beyond the latter limit, for Pope lived on till near the middle of the century, and his Dunciad, Essay on Man, and Satires were all produced during the reign of George II. The same is true in a measure of Swift, who died a month after the battle of Prestonpans, as well as of some minor men like Gay, whose Fables and Beggar's Opera in their dates of publication just overpass the line here drawn. Yet that line seems on the whole as little arbitrary as possible, since the appearance of Thomson marks the beginning of the slow return to nature in poetry, which, despite its lingering conventionalism, shows a nascent reaction against the limited ideals of correctness associated with the name of Pope. Moreover, the great bulk of the definitely Augustan literature had been produced before the end of 1726. All the work of Addison and Steele, and all the greatest work of Swift from the Tale of a Tub down to Gulliver's Travels, as well as Pope's Essay on Criticism, Rape of the Lock, and Homer, were given to the world within what is roughly the first quarter of the eighteenth century; and the same holds good of the novels of Defoe. It is perhaps not insignificant that the dividing line thus drawn in literature may be traced also in the sphere of public affairs, for in the few years before 1726 the generation of statesmen which had flourished under Queen Anne made way for their successors. Stanhope, Sunderland, Marlborough, and Cowper had died between 1720 and 1723: in that latter year Atterbury was exiled, and Bolingbroke extinguished by pardon and return from banishment, while Oxford ended his days in 1724. The close of the first twenty-six years of the eighteenth century may be said, indeed, to coin

cide with the critical point of the transition from Pope and Swift to Thomson and Richardson and Fielding, and also from the contemporaries of Harley and St John to those of Walpole and the Pelhams.

The epithet Augustan, so often applied to the period of Queen Anne, suggests a parallel with the age of Virgil and Horace which can only partially be justified. Assuredly there was no Virgil among the poets of eighteenth-century England, and if Pope may be accepted as all we have for an English Horace, he must be taken as but a maimed one at the best. With a sharper satiric genius than the Roman, and almost as shrewd a knowledge of human life and character, he has none of the geniality that delights us in the Epistles, and as little of the lyric charm that gives immortality to the Odes. The Horatian quality in the age of Queen Anne is to be sought rather in the work of Addison, and not in Addison's verse but in his prose. The papers of the Spectator, in their delightful and always genial mingling of humour, satire, and observation, show all the best of Horace's traits, except of course the purely poetical, while at the same time they are absolutely unstained by the characteristically Horatian blots. As for the sinister and solitary genius of Swift, there is no parallel to that in any literary age whatever. In the creator of the Struldbrugs and the Yahoos there was certainly little of that urbanity which is reckoned as a specially Augustan trait; and indeed the literary urbanity of the age of Anne is to be found less in the gracious tone of a polished civilisation than in an absorption in the artificial life of what had come to be called 'the town.' Virgil and Horace are always at home-and even most at home-in the country; but it is not so with Swift or Pope, or even, despite his Shepherd's Week of pastorals, with Gay. Here again, however, an exception must be made for Addison, who is as much at his ease in Worcestershire as in the Strand, and whose portrait of Sir Roger de Coverley recalls Horace's pictures of the farmers among the Samnite hills.

On the other hand, there are one or two