The Poetical Works of Matthew Prior. With memoir and critical dissertation by G. Gilfillan

Front matter

THE POETICAL WOBKS OF MATTHEW PBIOR EDINEURGH ! FRISTED ET BALLAisTrNE AND COMFANY, Paul's work. THE POETICAL WORKS OF MATTHEW PRIOR. UXitl) iflemotr anti Critical Dissertation, EY THE REV. GEORGE GILFILLAN. EDINBUEGH: JAMES NICHOL, 104 HIGH STREET. LONDON : JAMES NISBET & CO. DUBLIN : W. ROBERTSON. M.DCCC.LVIII. THE LIFE OF MATTHEW PKIOR The witty and ingenious author of " Alma" and " Solomon" was born of obscure parents. His father is said to have been a joiner either in London or in Winburn ; for if seven cities contended for the honour of bearing Homer, two counties — Middlesex and Dorsetshire — have put in their claims to Prior. He was born 21st July 1664. In the College register, he is styled Filius Georgii Prior generosi — a term which would intimate that his father was in respectable circumstances.

He is supposed to have had some property in Winburn, but perhaps had lost it, and been obliged to subsist by a mecha nical profession. He died when Matthew was very young, and the boy was cast on the care of his uncle, Samuel Prior, who kept a respectable tavern near Charing Cross. His uncle treated him with much kindness, and sent him for some time to the famous Dr Busby of Westminster School. He seems to have made there considerable proficiency, but was soon taken back to his uncle's house, who proposed breeding him to his own trade. Genius has sometimes, though seldom, been developed in a tavern atmosphere — an atmosphere which, if coarse, is genial, and favourable to the observation of character in all its varieties. This, besides, was not an ordi nary inn. The annual meeting of the nobility and gentry of the parish was sometimes held at " The Bummer," which was frequented, too, by many of the leading wits and literary patrons of the day.

Among these was the Earl of Dorset, who, on one occasion, having started a question about the meaning of a passage in the Odes of Horace, a keen discus sion arose in the company. At length, a gentleman remarked, ME LIFE OF MATTHEW' PRIOR. VI " I find we are not likely to agree in our criticisms ; but if I am not mistaken, there is a young fellow in this house who is able to set us right." Prior is forthwith produced— explains the passage to the satisfaction of all present — and Dorset on the spot determines to send him to the University. He was sent to St John's College, Cambridge, and supported partly at his patron's expense. He entered College in 1682, in his eighteenth year ; he took his degree of Bachelor of Arts in 1686; and soon afterwards, having much distinguished himself, was elected a Fellow, a position he retained to the last.

Preface

. 7 not filled with a long detail of your praises, but with my Binccrcst wishes that you may deserve them. That you may employ those extraordinary parts and abilities with which heaven has blessed you, to the honour of your family, the benefit of your friends, and the good of your country ; that all your actions may be great, open, and noble, such as may tell the world whose son and whose successor you are. What I now offer to your Lordship is a collection of poetry, a kind of garland of good-will. If any verses of my writing should appear in print, under another name and patronage, than that of an Earl of Dorset, people might suspect them not to be genuine. I have attained my present end, if these poems prove the diversion of some of your youthful hours, as they have been occasionally the amusement of some of mine ; and I humbly hope, that as I may hereafter bind up my fuller sheaf, and lay some pieces of a very different nature (the product of my severer studies) at your Lordship's feet, I shall engage your more serious reflection : happy, if in all my endeavours I may contribute to your delight or to your instruction. I am, with all duty and respect, My Lord, Your Lordship's most obedient, and Most humble Servant, Mat. Pbiob.

PREFACE.

. The greatest part of what I have written having been already published, either singly or in some of the miscellanies, it would be too late for me to make any excuse for appearing in print. But a collection of poems has lately appeared under my name, though without my knowledge, in which the publisher has given me the honour of some things that did not belong to me ; and has transcribed others so imperfectly, that I hardly knew them to be mine. This has obliged me, in my own defence, to look back upon some of those lighter studies, which I ought long since to have quitted, and to publish an indifferent collection of poems, for fear of being thought the author of a worse. Thus I beg pardon of the public for reprinting some pieces, which as they came singly from their first impression, have (I fancy) lain long and quietly in Mr Tonson's shop ; and adding others to them, which were never before printed, and might have lain as quietly, and perhaps more safely, in a corner of my own study.

The reader will, I hope, make allowance for their having been written at very distant times, and on very different occasions, and take them as they happen to come : public panegyrics, amorous odes, serious reflections, or idle tales, the product of his leisure hours, who had business enough upon his hands, and was only a poet by accident. I take this occasion to thank my good friend and schoolfellow, Mr Dibben,1 for his excellent version of the Carmen Seculare,3 though my gratitude may justly carry a little envy with it ; for, I believe, the most accurate judges will find the translation exceed the original. 1 Thomas Dibben, afterwards doctor of divinity, rector of Great Fontmell, in Dorset shire, precentor of St Paul's — a man of high literary promise, who afterwards died mad. — 2 Dibben's Latin translation is not given in this edition.

I must likewise own myself obliged to Mrs Singer,1 who has given me leave to print a pastoral of her writing ; that poem having produced the verses immediately following it. I wish she might be prevailed with to publish some other pieces of that kind, in which the softness of her sex, and the fineness of her genius, conspire to give her a very distinguishing character. POSTSCRIPT. I must help my preface by a postscript, to tell the reader, that there are ten years' distance between my writing the one and the other; and that (whatever I thought then, and have somewhere said, that I would publish no more poetry) he will find several copies of verses scattered through this edition, which were not printed in the first. Those relating to the public stand in the order they did before, and according to the several years in which they were written, however the disposition of oar national affairs, the actions, or the fortunes of Borne men, and the opinions of others may have changed.

Prose, and other human things may take what turn they can ; but poetry, which pretends to have something of divinity in it, is to be more permanent. Odes once printed cannot well be altered, when the author has already said, that he expects his works should live for ever. And it had been very foolish in my friend Horace, if some years after his Exegi Monu mentum, he should have desired to see his building taken down again. The dedication, likewise, is reprinted to the Earl of Dorset, in the foregoing leaves, without any alteration ; though I had the fairest opportunity, and the strongest inclination to have added a great deal to it. The blooming hopes, which I said the world expected from my then very young patron, have been confirmed by most noble and distinguished first-fruits ; and his life is going on towards a plentiful harvest of all accumulated virtues.

He has in fact exceeded whatever the fondness of my wishes could invent in his favour : his equally good and beautiful lady enjoys in him an indulgent and obliging husband; his children, a kind and careful father; and his acquaintance, a faithful, generous, and polite friend. His fellow peers have attended to the persuasion of his eloquence; and have been convinced by the solidity of his reasoning. He has long since deserved and attained the honour of the Garter. He has managed some of the greatest charges of the kingdom with known ability; and laid them down with entire disinter estment. And as he continues the exercises of these eminent virtues (which that he may do to a very old age, shall be my perpetual wish) he may be one of the greatest men that our age, or possibly our nation has bred ; and leave materials for a panegyric, not unworthy the pen of some future Pliny.

From 60 noble a subject as the Earl of Dorset, to so mean a one as myself, is (I confess) a very Pindaric transition. I shall only say one word, and trouble the reader no farther. I published my poems formerly, as Monsieur Jourdain sold his silk : he would not be thought a tradesman, but ordered some pieces to be measured out to his particular friends. Now I give up my shop, and dispose of all my poetical goods at once : I must therefore desire, that the public would please to take them in the gross ; and that every body would turn over what he does not like.3 i Afterwards the celebrated Mrs Elizabeth Rowo. It ia said that Mr Prior, about the time this poem was written, made his addresses to this lady.— a A list of subscribers, some 2000 in number, precedes the poem in the folio edition of 171S, and appeara to include all tne most celebrated names of that time.

POEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS BY MATTHEW PRIOR. AN ODE OS EXOD. III. 14.— I AM THAT I AM. WRITTEN IN 168S, AS AN EXERCISE AT ST JOHN'S COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE. Man! foolish man! Scarce know'st thou how thyself began ; Scarce hast thou thought enough to prove thou art; Yet steeled with studied boldness, thou darest try To send thy doubting reason's dazzled eye Through the mysterious gulf of vast immensity. Much thou canst there discern, much tbence impart. Vain wretch! suppress thy knowing pride; Mortify thy learned lust! Vain are thy thoughts, while thou thyself art dust. Let Wit her sails, her oars let Wisdom lend ; The helm let politic Experience guide : Yet cease to hope thy short-lived bark shall ride Down spreading Fate's unnavigable tide. What, though still it farther tend ? Still 'tis farther from its end ; And, in the bosom of that boundless sea, Still finds its error lengthen with its way.

With daring pride and insolent delight Your doubts resolved you boast, your labours crowned And "ETPHKA ! your god, forsooth is found Incomprehensible and infinite. But is he therefore found1? vain searcher! no: Let your imperfect definition show, That nothing you, the weak definer, know. 3 Say, why should the collected main Itself within itself contain ] Why to its caverns should it sometimes creep, And with delighted silence sleep On the loved bosom of its parent deep ? 'Why should its numerous waters stay In comely discipline, and fan array, Till winds and tides exert their high command? Then prompt and ready to obey, Why do the rising surges spread Their opening ranks o'er earth's submissive head, Marching through different paths to different lands. 4 Why does the constant sun With measured steps his radiant journeys run?

Why does he order the diurnal hours To leave earth's other part, and rise on ours? Why does he wake the correspondent moon, And fill her willing lamp with liquid light, Commanding her with delegated powers To beautify the world, and bless the night? Why does each animated star Love the just hmits of its proper sphere ? Why does each consenting sign With prudent harmony combine In turns to move, and subsequent appear, To gird the globe, and regulate the year . 5 Man does with dangerous curiosity These unfathomed wonders try : AN ode. 11 With fancied rules and arbitrary laws Matter and motion he restrains ; And studied lines and fictious circles draws : Then with imagined sovereignty Lord of his new hypothesis he reigns. He reigns : how long ! till some usurper rise, And he too, mighty thoughtful, mighty wise, Studies new lines, and other circles feigns.

From this last toil again what knowledge flows . Just as much, perhaps, as shows, That all his predecessor's rules Were empty cant/ all jargon of the Schools ; That he on the other's ruin rears his throne ; And shows his friend's mistake, and thence confirms his own. On earth, in air, amidst the seas and skies, Mountainous heaps of wonders rise ; Whose towering strength will ne'er submit To Reason's batteries, or the mines of Wit : Yet still iuquiring, still mistaking man, Each hour repulsed, each hour dare onward press ; And levelling at God his wandering guess, (That feeble engine of his reasoning war, "Which guides his doubts, and combats his despair) Laws to his Maker the learn'd wTretch can give : Can bound that nature, and prescribe that will, Whose pregnant word did either ocean fill: Can tell us whence all beings are, and how they move and live.

Through either ocean, foolish man ! That pregnant word sent forth again, Might to a world extend each atom there ; For every drop call forth a sea, a heaven for every star. S Let cunning Earth her fruitful wonders hide ; And only lift thy staggering reason up To trembling Calvary's astonished top ; Then mock thy knowledge, and confound thy pride, Explaining how Perfection suffered pain, Almighty languished, and eternal died : How by her patient victor Death was skin ; And earth profaned, yet blessed with deicide. Then down with all thy boasted volumes, down ; Only reserve the sacred one : Low, reverently low, Make thy stubborn knowledge bow ; Weep out thy reason's, and thy body's eyes; Deject thyself, that thou may'st rise; To look to Heaven, be blind to all below. Then Faith, for Reason's glimmering hght, shah give Her immortal perspective ; And Grace's presence Nature's loss retrieve: Then thy enlivened soul shall see, That all the volumes of philosophy, AVith all their comments, never could invent So politic an instrument, To reach the Heaven of Heavens, the high abode, Where Moses places his mysterious God, As was that ladder which old Jacob reared, AVhen light divine had human darkness cleared ; And his enlarged ideas found the road, Which Faith had dictated, and Angels trod.

TO THE COUNTESS OF EXETER. 13 TO THE COUNTESS OF EXETER* PLAYING ON THE LUTE. What charms you have, from what high race you sprung, Have been the pleasing subjects of my song : Unskilled and young, yet something still I writ, Of Ca'ndish beauty joined to Cecil's wit. But when you please to show the labouring Muse What greater theme your music can produce, My babbling praises I repeat no more, But hear, rejoice, stand silent, and adore. The Persians thus, first gazing on the sun, Admired how high 'twas placed, how bright it shone ; 10 But, as his power was known, their thoughts were raised ; And soon they worshipped, what at first they praised. Eliza's glory lives in Spenser's song; And Cowley's verse keeps fair Orinda young. That as in birth, in beauty you excel, The Muse might dictate, and the Poet tell : Your art no other art can speak ; and you, To show how well you play, must play anew : Your music's powTer your music must disclose ; For what hght is, 'tis only light that shows. 20 Strange force of harmony, that thus controls Our thoughts, and turns and sanctifies our souls ; While with its utmost art your sex could move Our wonder only, or at best our love : You far above both these your God did place, That your high power might worldly thoughts destroy ; 1 Anne, daughter of William Earl of Devonshire, and sister to the first Duke of Devonshire, widow also to Charles Lord Rich, was married to John Cecil Lord Burleigh, afterwards Earl of Exeter.

That with your numbers you our zeal might raise, 27 And, like himself, communicate your joy. AVhen to your native Heaven you shall repair, And with your presence crown the blessings there, Your lute may wind its strings but little higher, To tune theh notes to that immortal choir. Your art is perfect here ; your numbers do, More than our books, make the rude atheist know, That there 's a Heaven, by what he hears below. As in some piece, while Luke his skill expressed, A cunning angel came, and drew the rest: So, when you play, some godhead does impart Harmonious aid, divinity helps art; Some cherub finishes what you begun, 40 And to a miracle improves a tune. To burning Rome when frantic Nero played, Viewing that face, no more he had surveyed The raging flames ; but, struck with strange surprise, Confessed them less than those of Anna's eyes : But, had he heard thy lute, he soon had found His rage eluded, and his crime atoned : Thine, like Amphion's hand, had waked the stone, And from destruction called the rising town: Malice to Music had been forced to yield; 50 Nor could he burn so fast, as thou could'st build.

PICTURE OF SENECA DYING IN A BATH. BY JORDAIN. AT THE RIGHT HON. THE EARL OF F.XETEr's AT BCRLEIGH HOCSE. AAthile cruel Nero only drains The moral Spaniard's ebbing veins, By study worn, and slack with age, How dull, how thoughtless is his rage ! AN ODE, 15 S Heightened revenge he should havo took ; He should have burnt his tutor's book ; And long have reigned supreme in vice : One nobler wretch can only rise ; 'Tis he whose fury shall deface The stoic's image in this piece. For while unhurt, divine Jordain, Thy work and Seneca's remain, He still has body, stdl has soul, And fives and speaks, restored and whole, AN ODE. 1 While blooming youth, and gay delight Sit on thy rosy cheeks confessed, Thou hast, my dear, undoubted right To triumph o'er this destined breast. My reason bends to what thy eyes ordain ; For I was born to love, and thou to reign. 2 But would you meanly thus rely On power, you know I must obey .

Exert a legal tyranny; And do an ill, because you may . Still must I thee, as atheists Heaven adore ; Not see thy mercy, and yet dread thy power 1 3 Take heed, my dear, youth flies apace ; As well as Cupid, Time is blind; Soon must those glories of thy face The fate of vulgar beauty find ; The thousand loves, that arm thy potent eye, Must drop their quivers, flag their wings, and die. Then wilt thou sigh, when in each frown A hateful wrinkle more appears; And putting peevish humours on, Seems but the sad effect of years ; Kindness itself too weak a charm will prove, To raise the feeble fires of aged love. 5 Forced compliments and formal bows AVill show thee just above neglect : The heat with which thy lover glows, AVill settle into cold respect; A talking dull platonic I shall turn ; Learn to be civil, when I cease to burn. 6 Then shun the ill, and know, my dear, Kindness and constancy will prove The only pillars fit to bear So vast a weight as that of love : If thou canst wish to make my flames endure, Thine must be very fierce, and very pure. 7 Haste, Celia, haste, while youth invites, Obey kind Cupid's present voice; Fill every sense with soft delights, And give thy soul a loose to joys; Let millions of repeated bhsses prove, That thou all kindness art, and I all love. 8 Be mine, and only mine ; take care Thy looks, thy thoughts, thy dreams to guide To me alone; nor come so far, As liking any youth beside : What men e'er court thee, fly them, and believe, They 're serpents all, and thou the tempted Eve.

AN EPISTLE TO FLEETWOOD SHEPHERD, ESQ. 9 So shall I court thy dearest truth, When beauty ceases to engage ; So thinking on thy charming youth, I '11 love it o'er again in age ; So time itself our raptures shall improve, AVhile still we wake to joy, and live to love. AN EPISTLE TO FLEETWOOD SHEPHERD,1 ESQ. BURLEIGH, MAY 14, 16S9. SIR, As once a twelvemonth to the priest, Holy at Rome, here antichrist, The Spanish king presents a jennet, To show his love ; — that 's all that 's in it : For if his holiness would thump His reverend bum 'gainst horse's rump, He might be equipped from his own stable With one more white, and eke more able. Or as with gondolas, and men, his Good excellence the Duke of Venice io (I wish, for rhyme, it had been the king) Sails out, and gives the Gulf a ring; Which trick of state, he wisely maintains, Keeps kindness up 'twixt old acquaintance : For else, in honest truth the sea Has much less need of gold, than he.

Or, not to rove, and pump one's fancy For popish similes beyond sea; As folks from mud-walled tenement Bring landlords pepper-corn for rent ; 20 1 A friend of Lord Dorset's, who introduced the poet to that Earl. B Present a turkey, or a hen 21 To those might better spare them ten ; Even so, -with all submission, I (For first men instance, then apply) Send you each year a homely letter, AVho may return me much a better. Then take it, Sir, as it was writ, To pay respect and not show wit ; Nor look askew at what it saith ; There 's no petition in it, — 'Faith. 30 Here some would scratch theh heads, and try What they should write, and how, and why ; But I conceive, such folks are quite in Mistakes, in theory of writing. If once for principle 'tis laid, That thought is trouble to the head; I annie thus : the world agrees, That he writes well who writes with ease; Then he, by sequel logical, Writes best who never thinks at all. 40 Verse comes from Heaven, like inward hght; Mere human pains can ne'er come by 't : The God, not we, the poem makes; AAre only tell folks what he speaks.

Hence when anatomists discourse, How like brutes' organs are to ours ; They grant, if higher powers think fit, A bear might soon be made a wit ; And that for any thing in nature, Pigs might squeak love-odes, dogs bark satire, so Memnon, though stone, was counted vocal ; But 'twas the God, meanwhile, that spoke all. Rome oft has heard a cross haranguing, AVith prompting priest behind the hanging : AN EPISTLE TO FLEETWOOD SHEPHERD, ESQ. The wooden head resolved the question; AATiile you and Pettis helped the jest on. E£ Your crabbed rogues, that read Lucretius, Are against gods, you know, and teach us, The God makes not the poet; but The thesis, vice-versa put, 60 Should Hebrewwise be understood ; And means, the Poet makes the God. Egyptian gardeners thus are said to Have set the leeks they after prayed to ; And Romish bakers praise the deity They chipped, whde yet in its paniety.

That when you poets swear and cry, The God inspires ; I rave, I die ; If inward wind does truly swell ye, It must be the colic in your belly; That writing is but just like dice, And lucky mains make people wise ; That jumbled words, if fortune throw 'em, Shall, well as Dryden, form a poem ; Or make a speech, correct and witty, As you know who — at the committee. 70 So atoms dancing round the centre, They urge, made all things at a venture. But granting matters should be spoke By method, rather than by luck ; This may confine their younger styles, Whom Dryden pedagogues at Will's; But never could be meant to tie 80 Authentic wits, like you and I : For as young chddren, who are tried in Go-carts, to keep their steps from sliding, AVhen members knit, and legs grow stronger, Make use of such machine no longer; But leap pro hbitu, and scout £9 On horse called hobby, or without; So when at school we first declaim, Old Busby walks us in a theme, AVhose props support our infant vein, And help the rickets in the brain ; But when our souls theh force dilate, And thoughts grow up to wit's estate, In verse or prose, we write or chat, Not six-pence matter upon what. 'Tis not how well an author says ; But 'tis how much, that gathers praise. 100 Tonson, who is himself a wit, Counts writers' merits by the sheet.

Thus each should down with all he thinks, As boys eat bread, to fill up chinks. Kind Sir, I should be glad to see you ; I hope you 're well ; so God be wi' you ; AVas all I thought at first to write ; — But things, since then, are altered quite ; Fancies flow in, and Muse flies high, So God knows when my clack wdl he; no I must, Sir, prattle on, as afore, And beg your pardon yet this half hour. So at pure barn of loud Non-con, AAHiere with my grannam I have gone, AATten Lobb had sifted all his text, And I well hoped the pudding next, Now to apply, has plagued me more Than all his villain cant before. For your religion, first, of her Your friends do savoury things aver; They say she 's honest as your claret, 120 Not soured with cant, nor stummed with merit. AN EPISTLE TO FLEETWOOD SHEPHERD, ESQ. Your chamber is the sole retreat Of chaplains every Sunday night; Of grace, no doubt, a certain sign, AVhen layman herds with man divine ; For if their fame be justly great, Who would no Popish nuncio treat ; That his is greater, we must grant, AATio will treat nuncios Protestant.

One single positive weighs more, You know, than negatives a score. 123 130 In politics, I hear, you 're stanch, Directly bent against the French ; Deny to have your free-born toe Dragooned into a wooden shoe ; Are in no plots, but fairly drive at The public welfare, in your private ; And will, for England's glory, try Turks, Jews, and Jesuits to defy, And keep your places till you die. 140 For me, whom wandering Fortune threw From what I loved, the town and you ; Let me just tell you how my time is Past in a country-life.— Imprimis, As soon as Phœbus' rays inspect us, First, Sir, I read, and then I breakfast; So on, till foresaid God does set, I sometimes study, sometimes eat. Thus, of your heroes and brave boys, With whom old Homer makes such 150 noise, The greatest actions I can find, Are, that they did their work, and dined.

The books of which I 'm chiefly fond, Are such as you have whilom conned ; That treat of China's civd law, 156 And subjects' rights in Golconda; Of highway-elephants at Ceylon, That rob in clans, like men of the Highland ; Of apes that storm, or keep a town, ieo As well almost as count Lauzun ; Of unicorns and alligators, Elks, mermaids, mummies, witches, satyrs, And twenty other stranger matters ; AATiich, though they 're things I 've no concern in, Make all our grooms admire my learning. Critics I read on other men, And hypers upon them again; From whose remarks I give opinion On twenty books, yet ne'er look in one. 170 Then all your wits, that fleer and sham, Down from Don Quixote to Tom Tram ; From whom I jests and puns purloin, And slily put them off for mine : Fond to be thought a country wit : The rest, — when fate and you think fit.

Sometimes I chmb my mare, and kick her To bottled ale and country vicar; Sometimes at Stamford take a quart, Squire Shephard's health, — with all my heart, iso Thus, without much delight, or grief, I fool away an idle life ; Till Shadwell from the town retires, (Choked up with fame and sea-coal fires,) To bless the wood with peaceful lyric ; Then hey for praise and panegyric ; Justice restored, and nations freed, And wreaths round William's glorious head. TO THE LADY DURSLEY. TO THE COUNTESS OF DORSET, WRITTEN IN HER MILTON, BY MR BRADBURY. See here how bright the first-born virgin shone, And how the first fond lover was undone. Such charming words our beauteous mother spoke, As Mdton wrote, and such as yours her look. Yours, the best copy of the original face, Whose beauty was to furnish all the race.

Such chains no author could escape but he ; There 's no way to be safe, but not to see. TO THE LADY DURSLEY1 ON THE SAME SUBJECT. Here reading how fond Adam was betrayed, And how by sin Eve's blasted charms decayed ; Our common loss unjustly you complain ; So small that part of it, which you sustain. You still, fair mother, in your offspring trace The stock of beauty destined for the race : Kind nature, forming them, the pattern took For Heaven's first work, and Eve's original look. You, happy saint, the serpent's power control: Scarce any actual guilt defiles your soul; 10 And hell does o'er that mind vain triumph boast, Which gains a Heaven, for earthly Eden lost. With virtue strong as yours had Eve been armed, In vain the fruit had blushed, or serpent charmed : Nor had our bliss by penitence been bought ; Nor had frail Adam fallen, nor Mdton wrote. 1 Elizabeth, daughter of Baptist Noel, Viscount Campden, and wife of Charles Earl of Berkeley, who had been envoy extraordinary and plenipoten tiary to the States of Holland.