AN English poet, born in Dorsetshire, of humble origin; but whose abilities raised him to a position of considerable eminence in the political world. Having attracted the regards of the Earl of Dorset, he was sent to Cambridge University, where he distinguished himself. In 1687, in conjunction with Charles Montagu, afterwards Earl of Halifax, he produced the "City Mouse and Country Mouse," a reply to Dryden's "Hind and Panther," which it is said brought tears of vexation to the eyes of Dryden. Prior was thus brought into notice, and rose to some of the most responsible posts; having been appointed successively secretary to the embassy at the Hague, secretary to the embassy at the Treaty of Ryswick, undersecretary of State, commissioner at the Board of Trade, and ultimately ambassador to France; such a career is the lot of few humble-born poets. In 1715, on his recall from France, he was arrested on a charge of high treason, but after two years' confinement was set at liberty without a trial. During his confinement he wrote his poem of "Alma;" and being now left without employment or money, he had recourse to the publication of a collected edition of his poems, which was published by subscription, and which realised about L.4000. On this he retired from public life; but died at Wimpole, the seat of the Earl of Oxford, on 18th September 1721, in his fifty-seventh year.
DID sweeter sounds adorn my flowing tongue
Than ever man pronounced, or angels sung:
Had I all knowledge, human and divine,
That thought can reach, or science can define!
And had I power to give that knowledge birth
In all the speeches of the babbling earth:
Did Shadrach's zeal my glowing breast inspire
To weary tortures and rejoice in fire:
Or had I faith like that which Israel saw
When Moses gave them miracles and law :
Yet, gracious Charity! indulgent guest,
Were not thy power exerted in my breast,
Those speeches would send up unheeded prayer,
That scorn of life would be but wild despair;
A symbol's sound were better than my voice-
My faith were form, my eloquence were noise.
Charity decent, modest, easy, kind,
Softens the high, and rears the abject mind:
Knows with just reins and gentle hand to guide
Betwixt vile shame and arbitrary pride.
Not soon provoked, she easily forgives,
And much she suffers as she much believes-
Soft peace she brings wherever she arrives,
She builds our quiet as she forms our lives:
Lays the rough path of peevish nature even,
And opens in each heart a little heaven.
Each other gift, which God on man bestows,
Its proper bounds and due restriction knows :
To one fixed purpose dedicates its power,
And finishing its act, exists no more.
Thus, in obedience to what Heaven decrees,
Knowledge shall fail and Prophecy shall cease;
But lasting Charity's more ample sway,
Nor bound by time nor subject to decay,
In happy triumph shall for ever live,
And endless good diffuse and endless praise receive.
As through the artist's intervening glass
Our eye observes the distant planets pass,
A little we discover, but allow
That more remains unseen than art can show:
So, whilst our mind its knowledge would improve,
(Its feeble eye intent on things above)
High as we may, we lift our reason up,
By faith directed, and confirmed by hope;
Yet are we able only to survey
Dawning of beams and promises of day;
Heaven's fuller effluence mocks our dazzled sight, Too great its swiftness, and too strong its light. But soon the mediate clouds shall be dispelledThe sun shall soon be face to face beheld,
In all his robes, with all his glory on,
Seated sublime on his meridian throne.
Then constant Faith and holy Hope shall die,
One lost in certainty, and one in joy.
Whilst thou, more happy power, fair Charity!
Triumphant sister, greatest of the three,
Thy office and thy nature still the same,
Lasting thy lamp, and unconsumed thy flame,
Shalt still survive-
Shalt stand before the host of heaven confest,
For ever blessing, and for ever blest.
As the Chameleon, who is known
To have no colours of his own;
But borrows from his neighbour's hue,
His white or black, his green or blue;
And struts as much in ready light,
Which credit gives him upon sight,
As if the rainbow were in tail
Settled on him and his heirs-male;
So the young squire, when first he comes
From country school to Will's or Tom's,
And equally, in truth, is fit
To be a statesman, or a wit;
Without one notion of his own,
He saunters wildly up and down,
Till some acquaintance, good or bad,
Takes notice of a staring lad,
Admits him in among the gang;
They jest, reply, dispute, harangue;
He acts and talks, as they befriend him,
Smeared with the colours which they lend him.
Thus, merely as his fortune chances,
His merit or his vice advances.
If haply he the sect pursues,
That read and comment upon news;
He takes up their mysterious face;
He drinks his coffee without lace;
This week his mimic tongue runs o'er
What they have said the week before;
His wisdom sets all Europe right,
And teaches Marlborough when to fight.
Or if it be his fate to meet
With folks who have more wealth than wit,
He loves cheap port, and double bub,
And settles in the Humdrum Club;
He learns how stocks will fall or rise;
Holds poverty the greatest vice;
Thinks wit the bane of conversation;
And says that learning spoils a nation.
But if, at first, he minds his hits,
And drinks champagne among the wits;
Five deep he toasts the towering lasses;
Repeats you verses wrote on glasses;
Is in the chair; prescribes the law;
And's loved by those he never saw.
DEAR Thomas, did'st thou never pop
Thy head into a tinman's shop?
There, Thomas, did'st thou never see
('Tis but by way of simile)
A squirrel spend his little rage,
In jumping round a rolling cage ;
The cage, as either side turned up,
Striking a ring of bells at top ?—
Moved in the orb, pleased with the chimes,
The foolish creature thinks he climbs:
But, here or there, turn wood or wire,
He never gets two inches higher.
So fares it with those merry blades,
That frisk it under Pindus' shades,
In noble song and lofty odes,
They tread on stars, and talk with gods;
Still dancing in an airy round,
Still pleased with their own verses' sound;
Brought back, how fast soe'er they go,
Always aspiring, always low.
THIS extraordinary man, more famous as a political writer than a poet, was born in Dublin in 1667. He was at first a candidate for court patronage; but being somewhat unsuccessful, he took orders in the Irish Church, where he rose to be Dean of St Patrick's, Dublin. To give even a sketch of his stirring life would exceed the limits of a simple notice. He was the idol of the Irish people, whose cause he advocated; and was a very scourge to his political adversaries, his pen being equally irresistible and unscrupulous. His "Tale of a Tub," published in 1704, created an immense sensation, and will ever be connected with his name. As a poet he never rose beyond the commonplace, his mind having little of the ideal ; but he depicts the absurdities of his times with graphic power. As the author of "Gulliver's Travels," he will ever be remembered with interest. For about three years before his death his mind began to give way. He died on 17th October 1745, and was buried in St Patrick's Cathedral, amid the universal lamentations of his countrymen.
MEANWHILE the south, rising with dabbled wings,
A sable cloud athwart the welkin flings,
Brisk Susan whips her linen from the rope,
While the first drizzling shower is borne aslope;
Not yet the dust had shunned the unequal strife,
But, aided by the wind, fought still for life,
And wafted with its foe by violent gust,
'Twas doubtful which was rain, and which was dust.
Ah! where must needy poet seek for aid,
When dust and rain at once his coat invade ?
Sole coat, where dust cemented by the rain
Erects the nap, and leaves a cloudy stain!
Now in contiguous drops the flood comes down,
Threatening with deluge this devoted town.
To shops in crowds the daggled females fly,
Pretend to cheapen goods, but nothing buy.
The Templar spruce, while every spout's a-broach,
Stays till 'tis fair, yet seems to call a coach.
The tucked-up sempstress walks with hasty strides,
While streams run down her oiled umbrella's sides.
Here various kinds, by various fortunes led,
Commence acquaintance underneath a shed.
Triumphant Tories and desponding Whigs,
Forget their feuds, and join to save their wigs.
Boxed in a chair the beau impatient sits,
While spouts run clattering o'er the roof by fits;
And ever and anon with frightful din
The leather sounds; he trembles from within.
So when Troy chairmen bore the wooden steed,
Pregnant with Greeks impatient to be freed—
Those bully Greeks, who, as the moderns do,
Instead of paying chairmen, run them through—
Laocoon struck the outside with his spear,
And each imprisoned hero quaked for fear.
A MODERN LADY.
THE modern dame is waked by noon
(Some authors say not quite so soon),
Because, though sore against her will,
She sate all night up at quadrille.
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