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Yet it must not be passed by without a few words of comment, seeing that it has been warmly praised by intelligent judges. The ballad of the Nut-Brown Maid, upon which Prior founded his poem, describes a jealous or curious lover who tests the fidelity of his lady-love by telling her that he is a banished man, that if she flies with him she will be regarded as a wanton; and when these statements fail to daunt her, he adds that he has another lady in the woods whom he loves more than her. But even this revelation does not disturb her constancy; whereupon the lover, having tested her affection sufficiently, tells the Nut-Brown Maid that he is neither banished for his crimes nor false in his love, that he is, moreover, an earl's son, and is ready to marry her "as shortly as he can." The old ballad does not disturb one's sense of fitness like the modern version, partly, no doubt, owing to its antique flavour, and partly from the lightness and beauty of the story, which is told with the utmost simplicity. Prior's Henry, on the contrary, an unpleasant and suspicious lover of the eighteenth century, labours so hard to prove himself a scoundrel, that when at last he invokes "solemn Jove" and "conscious Venus," and beseeches the "bright maid" to believe him whilst he swears that he is no banished man or perjured knight, and asks her to excuse a trial, in the course of which he has accused her of gross immodesty, one feels vexed that Emma does not indignantly reject him instead of eagerly accepting his overtures. Not a word of reproof does she utter for his unmanly conduct, but sees in him the lord of her desire, declares that his will must dictate her fate, and asks to be allowed to employ her life subservient to his joy. The whole poem is unsatisfactory and even offensive from Henry's want of manliness, and from the lack in Emma of maidenly dignity, and we find it hard to say which of the lovers we like the least. The diction of the piece, moreover, is entirely conventional, the construction palpably mechanical, and it would be difficult to compress within an equal number of lines more wretched balderdash than Prior has written on the last page of his poem. The Queen of Beauty, so says the poet (with a fine sense of congruity which must strike every reader), being proud and pleased to hear the vow of Henry and Emma, stopped her bridled doves and called upon Mars to let Fame extol her favourite Anna's wondrous reign, and the unwearied toils of Marlborough, and afterwards, Gaul being thrice vanquished, to record, "with second breath," the triumphs of Venus, who is to be as faithful as Emma, while Mars is to copy the fidelity of Henry.

And when thy tumults and thy fights are past,
And when thy laurels at my feet are cast,
Faithful mayst thou, like British Henry, prove,
And Emma-like, let me return thy love.

After this the Cyprian deity requests the "great god of days and verse" that one day may be set apart yearly for sports and floral play in honour of the true lover and the Nut-Brown Maid. What a passage

is this, and how flatly it falls upon modern ears! The vivid imagination of Keats gave new life to the old mythology, but to the Queen Anne men it was for the most part mere dead lumber, and Prior, though he turns it to clever if not poetical uses elsewhere, has failed to catch from it the slightest inspiration in this poem.

We do not like to part from Prior in a mood of disparaging criticism. Like all poets, he has his weak side. No admirer of Milton or of Wordsworth would care to dwell on their pitiful attempts at humour. Spenser is not famous for wit, or Butler for pathos. We go to Shelley, and not to Crabbe, for splendid bursts of imagination; we do not expect (M. Taine notwithstanding) an accurate description of natural objects from Pope, nor do we look to Thomson for fine satire. In the poetry of Prior there is much that had its day and its meaning which is now meaningless and dead. Few, except curious students, will read his Alma, still fewer his Solomon, although in Wesley's opinion it contains some of the finest verses that ever appeared in the English tongue; and in spite of Cowper's admiration we venture to say that not one youth or maiden in this kingdom will ever again commit to memory his Henry and Emma. But if we sweep away as refuse a great deal that was once admired, and admired, perhaps, not altogether unreasonably, enough remains to give Matthew Prior a high position among the poets whose bright wit and fertile fancy have been expended on occasional verses, and to justify the opinion of Mr. Thackeray that his lyrical poems are "amongst the easiest, the richest, the most charmingly humorous" in the English language.

J. D.

88

Alone in London.

By her fault or by ill fate
Left in great London desolate
Of helpers and of comforters;
Without one heart to beat with hers;
Without one hand in tenderness
And sympathy her hand to press ;
A lone soul left, dispassionate,
Without one link of love or hate.

From her lodging, poor and bare,
And high up in the smoke-dim air,
With cheerless heart, with aimless feet,
She descended to the street,

Where the people, coming, going,

Ceaseless as a river's flowing,

Seemed as imperturbable,

As though no heart-warm tear could well

Into those dry eyes; no sob

Ever could those set lips rob

Of their sternness. With blind stare,

They pass a woman in despair.

With hopeless heart, with weary feet,

She wandereth on from street to street,

Restless as a withered leaf

Fallen from its parent tree,

Goaded by a sleepless grief,

Dogged by dull perplexity;

Fassing along, in dumb despair,

Deserted street and silent square.

[graphic][subsumed]

FLINGING HIMSELF FROM HIS HORSE, HE TOOK THE BRIDLE IN HIS HAND AND TURNED TOWARDS HOME.

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