The Lives of the Poets of Great Britain and Ireland (1753) Volume IV Part 5

Sir, either is a good a.s.sistant, Said one, who sat a little distant: Truth decks our speeches, and our books, And modesty adorns our looks: But farther progress we must take; Not only born to look and speak, The man must act. The Stagyrite Says thus, and says extremely right; Strict justice is the sovereign guide, That o'er our actions should preside; This queen of virtue is confess'd To regulate and bind the rest.

Thrice happy, if you can but find Her equal balance poise your mind: All diff'rent graces soon will enter, Like lines concurrent to their center.

'Twas thus, in short, these two went on, With yea and nay, and pro and con, Thro' many points divinely dark, And Waterland a.s.saulting Clarke; 'Till, in theology half lost, Damon took up the Evening-Post; Confounded Spain, compos'd the North, And deep in politics held forth.

Methinks, we're in the like condition, As at the treaty of part.i.tion; That stroke, for all King William's care, Begat another tedious war.

Matthew, who knew the whole intrigue, Ne'er much approv'd that mystic league; In the vile Utrecht treaty too, Poor man! he found enough to do.

Sometimes to me he did apply; But downright Dunstable was I, And told him where they were mistaken, And counsell'd him to save his bacon: But (pa.s.s his politics and prose) I never herded with his foes; Nay, in his verses, as a friend, I still found something to commend.

Sir, I excus'd his Nut-brown maid; Whate'er severer critics said: Too far, I own, the girl was try'd: The women all were on my side.

For Alma I return'd him thanks, I lik'd her with her little pranks; Indeed, poor Solomon, in rhime, Was much too grave to be sublime.

Pindar and Damon scorn transition, So on he ran a new division; 'Till, out of breath, he turn'd to spit: (Chance often helps us more than wit) T'other that lucky moment took, Just nick'd the time, broke in, and spoke.

Of all the gifts the G.o.ds afford (If we may take old Tully's word) The greatest is a friend, whose love Knows how to praise, and when reprove; From such a treasure never part, But hang the jewel on your heart: And pray, sir (it delights me) tell; You know this author mighty well-- Know him! d'ye question it? ods fish!

Sir, does a beggar know his dish?

I lov'd him, as I told you, I Advis'd him--here a stander-by Twitch'd Damon gently by the cloke, And thus unwilling silence broke: Damon, 'tis time we should retire, The man you talk with is Matt. Prior.

Patron, thro' life, and from thy birth my friend, Dorset, to thee this fable let me send: With Damon's lightness weigh thy solid worth; The foil is known to set the diamond forth: Let the feign'd tale this real moral give, How many Damons, how few Dorsets live!

Mr. Prior, after the fatigue of a length of years past in various services of action, was desirous of spending the remainder of his days in rural tranquility, which the greatest men of all ages have been fond of enjoying: he was so happy as to succeed in his wish, living a very retired, and contemplative life, at Downhall in Ess.e.x, and found, as he expressed himself, a more solid, and innocent satisfaction among woods, and meadows, than he had enjoyed in the hurry, and tumults of the world, the courts of Princes, or the conducting foreign negotiations; and where as he melodiously sings,

The remnant of his days he safely past, Nor found they lagg'd too slow, nor flew too fast; He made his wish with his estate comply, Joyful to live, yet not afraid to die.

This great man died on the 18th of September, 1721, at Wimple in Cambridgshire, the seat of the earl of Oxford, with whose friendship he had been honoured for some years. The death of so distinguished a person was justly esteemed an irreparable loss to the polite world, and his memory will be ever dear to those, who have any relish for the muses in their softer charms. Some of the latter part of his life was employed in collecting materials for an History of the Transactions of his own Times, but his death unfortunately deprived the world of what the touches of so masterly a hand, would have made exceeding valuable.

Mr. Prior, by the suffrage of all men of taste, holds the first rank in poetry, for the delicacy of his numbers, the wittiness of his turns, the acuteness of his remarks, and, in one performance, for the amazing force of his sentiments. The stile of our author is likewise so pure, that our language knows no higher authority, and there is an air of original in his minutest performances.

It would be superfluous to give any detail of his poems, they are in the hands of all who love poetry, and have been as often admired, as read. The performance however, for which he is most distinguished, is his Solomon; a Poem in three Books, the first on Knowledge, the second on Pleasure, and the third on Power. We know few poems to which this is second, and it justly established his reputation as one of the best writers of his age.

This sublime work begins thus,

Ye sons of men, with just regard attend, Observe the preacher, and believe the friend, Whose serious muse inspires him to explain, That all we act, and all we think is vain: That in this pilgrimage of seventy years, O'er rocks of perils, and thro' vales of tears Destin'd to march, our doubtful steps we tend, Tir'd of the toil, yet fearful of its end: That from the womb, we take our fatal shares, Of follies, fashions, labours, tumults, cares; And at approach of death shall only know, The truths which from these pensive numbers flow, That we pursue false joy, and suffer real woe.

After an enquiry into, and an excellent description of the various operations, and effects of nature, the system of the heavens, &c. and not being fully informed of them, the first Book concludes,

How narrow limits were to wisdom given?

Earth she surveys; she thence would measure Heav'n: Thro' mists obscure, now wings her tedious way; Now wanders dazl'd, with too bright a day; And from the summit of a pathless coast Sees infinite, and in that sight is lost.

In the second Book the uncertainty, disappointment, and vexation attending pleasure in general, are admirably described; and in the character of Solomon is sufficiently shewn, that nothing debases majesty, or indeed any man, more than ungovernable pa.s.sion.

When thus the gath'ring storms of wretched love In my swoln bosom, with long war had strove; At length they broke their bounds; at length their force Bore down whatever met its stronger course: Laid all the civil bounds of manhood waste.

And scatter'd ruin, as the torrent past.

The third Book treats particularly of the trouble and instability of greatness and power, considers man through the several stages and conditions of life, and has excellent reasoning upon life and death.

On the last are these lines;

Cure of the miser's wish, and cowards fear, Death only shews us, what we knew was near.

With courage therefore view the 'pointed hour; Dread not death's anger, but expect its power; Nor nature's laws, with fruitless sorrow mourn; But die, O mortal man! for thou wast born.

The poet has likewise these similies on life;

As smoke that rises from the kindling fires Is seen this moment, and the next expires: As empty clouds by rising winds are tost, Their fleeting forms no sooner found than lost: So vanishes our state; so pa.s.s our days; So life but opens now, and now decays; The cradle, and the tomb, alas! so nigh; To live is scarce distinguished from to die.

We shall conclude this account of Mr. Prior's life with the following copy of verses, written on his Death by Robert Ingram, esq; which is a very successful imitation of Mr. Prior's manner.

1.

Mat. Prior!--(and we must submit) Is at his journey's end; In whom the world has lost a wit, And I, what's more, a friend.

2.

Who vainly hopes long here to stay, May see with weeping eyes; Not only nature posts away, But e'en good nature dies!

3.

Should grave ones count these praises light, To such it may be said: A man, in this lamented wight, Of business too is dead.

4.

From ancestors, as might a fool!

He trac'd no high-fetch'd stem; But gloriously revers'd the rule, By dignifying them.

5.

O! gentle Cambridge! sadly say, Why fates are so unkind To s.n.a.t.c.h thy giant sons away, Whilst pigmies stay behind?

6.

Horace and he were call'd, in haste, From this vile earth to heav'n; The cruel year not fully past, aetatis, fifty seven.

7.

So, on the tops of Lebanon, Tall cedars felt the sword, To grace, by care of Solomon, The temple of the Lord.

8.

A tomb amidst the learned may The western abbey give!

Like theirs, his ashes must decay, Like theirs, his fame shall live.

9.

Close, carver, by some well cut books, Let a thin busto tell, In spite of plump and pamper'd looks, How scantly sense can dwell!

10.

No epitaph of tedious length Should overcharge the stone; Since loftiest verse would lose its strength, In mentioning his own.

11.

At once! and not verbosely tame, Some brave Laconic pen Should smartly touch his ample name, In form of--O rare Ben!