His tales, he observes, replying seriatim to the criticisms of Johnson, In this criticism Cowper has hit upon the most striking charac- | 66 t 1 coarser than Prior, but they are by no means so sparkling. Pope, the greatest poet of the age, transgresses in a manner more offensive than witty, and Swift, who possessed "the best brains in the nation," wrote the nastiest verses to be found in our language. But it is time to give an illustration or two of Prior's sportive ease and grace as a lyric poet. Thomas Moore, writing to Lord Lansdowne, alludes to one of Prior's pieces, and observes that nothing could be more gracefully light and gallant. No wonder that it pleased the Irish poet, for the conceit in it is so like some of his own that anyone ignorant of the authorship would at once credit Moore with the production. Listen only to the two last stanzas : The god of us versemen (you know, child), the sun, So, when I am wearied with wandering all day, They were but my visits, but thou art my home. In an ode to a lady who declines to dispute any longer with the poet, and "leaves him in the argument," he sings in language which is as free from an antique flavour, as if it had been produced yesterday : In the dispute, whate'er I said, My heart was by my tongue belied; Alas! not hoping to subdue, I only to the fight aspired; But she, howe'er of victory sure, Contemns the wreath too long delayed; 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. The qualities of vivacity and ease are well displayed in the following description of A Lover's Anger :— As Cloe came into the room t'other day, I peevish began, "Where so long could you stay? As a song-writer Prior never excels, and sometimes fails ignominiously. He wrote twenty-eight songs, of which the greater number were "set to music by the most eminent masters." They are sad rubbish, although now and then a happy phrase or lively fancy reminds us that they are not the compositions of a commonplace writer. If Dr. Johnson had been thinking of these pieces when he wrote of Prior's amorous poems as the "dull exercises of a skilful versifier," we should not quarrel with his judgment, although we might complain of his indifference and forgetfulness in estimating the poet's love-verses by the least significant productions of his pen. From the context, however, it is evident he had in his mind certain of the love-pieces which do not rank under the category of songs, and he hits, as an adverse critic naturally would do, on some which are over-weighted with mythological imagery. Prior had, no doubt, as we have before observed, the poetical disease of the day, but he took it in a mild form, and manages in one or two cases, which unfortunately we cannot quote, to turn this sort of machinery to skilful account. Throughout the criticism on Prior it seems to us that Johnson dispenses his praise as well as his blame wrongly. He cannot see the consummate charm of many of Prior's occasional verses, and he praises as "eminently beautiful" a watery paraphrase of St. Paul's noble utterances upon charity. Imagine any reader turning from the 13th chapter of 1 Corinthians to find beauty in lines like these: Each other gift which God on man bestows, Thus, in obedience to what Heaven decrees, Nor bound by time nor subject to decay, In happy triumph shall for ever live, And endless good diffuse, and endless praise receive. How differently the poet could write when he found a congenial topic may be seen from the bright and graceful lines he addresses To a Child of Quality. In reading them it may be well to remember the report that has been handed down to us of Prior's genial nature, and how when staying in Lord Oxford's house he made himself beloved by every living thing-master, child, servants; human creature or animal. When the poem was written, the child was five years old and the author forty. Lords, knights, and squires, the numerous band That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters, My pen among the rest I took, Lest those bright eyes that cannot read Nor quality nor reputation Forbid me yet my flame to tell; For while she makes her silkworms beds She may receive and own my flame, For, though the strictest prudes should know it, Then, too, alas! when she shall tear The lines some younger rival sends, For as our different ages move, 'Tis so ordain'd (would Fate but mend it!) That I shall be past making love When she begins to comprehend it. This is not richly imaginative verse, but of its kind it is perfect; nothing could be more felicitous in feeling or in phrase, and there are few readers that will not appreciate its charm. "Prior's serious poetry," says Hazlitt, "is as heavy as his familiar style was light and agreeable." No doubt he was more of a wit than a poet, and his happiest pieces are epigrams and society verses. Many of these read as if they had been composed impromptu; and that the poet had this readiness in composition we know from the fact that in a company of Frenchmen he produced on one occasion some pretty extempore lines in French. No notice of Prior can be satisfactory without a specimen or two of his craft as an epigrammatist. Here is a picce entitled The Remedy worse than the Disease: I sent for Ratcliffe; was so ill That other doctors gave me over; But when the wit began to wheeze, I died last night of my physician. If Prior owes the suggestion of the following to a far greater epigrammatist, it must be allowed that he puts the thought suggested by the Latin poet into admirable shape : : To John I owed great obligation, But John unhappily thought fit To publish it to all the nation; Sure John and I are more than quit. And here is one expressed with similar felicity:-- Yes, every poet is a fool; By demonstration Ned can show it; Prove every fool to be a poet. The following, written in a lady's copy of Milton, is also good, and has received high praise-higher, perhaps, than it merits : With virtue strong as yours had Eve been armed, In vain the fruit had blushed, or serpent charmed; Take another, not a little severe upon Pope's friend, Atterbury, who, it may be remembered, was accused, probably with injustice, of infidelity. The lines refer to the funeral of the Duke of Buckingham, at which the Bishop officiated :— "I have no hopes," the duke he says, and dies; The duke he stands an infidel confest, "He's our dear brother," quoth the lordly priest; The duke, though knave, still "brother dear," he cries; And who can say the reverend prelate lies? The Rev. Henry Dodd, in his valuable work The Epigrammatists, has made two mistakes with regard to Prior. He observes that he ranks "among the greater poets," which is assuredly not true; and that "with a few exceptions his epigrams are of the very lowest type," which we venture to think is a blunder also. Most readers will prefer Mr. Thackeray's judgment that they have "the genuine sparkle." A fine specimen of Prior's skill as a poetical wit is the famous burlesque on Boileau's ode on Namur, and that he does sometimes succeed in grave and thoughtful verse is proved by his ode addressed to the Hon. Charles Montagu, a poem highly praised by Warton. Warton finds also much tenderness and pathos in Prior's Henry and Emma, a poem which strikes us as false in conception and feeble and verbose in execution. |