a poem upon the model of the Nut-brown Maid; but Prior, in discarding the rude simplicity of the original, sacrificed a great portion of its charm.

The works of Prior range over a variety of styles and subjects-odes, songs, epistles, epigrams, and tales. His longest poem, Solomon, is of a serious character, and was considered by its author to be his best production, in which opinion he is supported by Cowper. It is the most moral, and perhaps the most correctly written; but the tales and lighter pieces of Prior are undoubtedly his happiest efforts. In these he displays that 'charming ease' with which Cowper says he embellished all his poems, added to the lively illustration and colloquial humour of his master, Horace. No poet ever possessed in greater perfection the art of graceful and fluent versification. His narratives flow on like a clear stream, without break or fall, and interest us by their perpetual good-humour and vivacity, even when they wander into metaphysics, as in Alma, or into licentiousness, as in his tales. His expression was choice and studied, abounding in classical allusions and imageswhich were then the fashion of the day-but without any air of pedantry or constraint. Like Swift, he loved to versify the common occurrences of life, and relate his personal feelings and adventures. He had, however, no portion of the dean's bitterness or misanthropy, and employed no stronger weapons of satire than raillery and arch allusion. He sported on the surface of existence, noting its foibles, its pleasures, and eccentricities, but without the power of penetrating into its recesses, or evoking the higher passions of our nature. He was the most natural of artificial poets a seeming paradox, yet as true as the old maxim, that the perfection of art is the art of concealing it.

Fierce robbers there are that infest the highway,
So Matt may be killed, and his bones never found;
False witness at court, and fierce tempests at sea,
So Matt may yet chance to be hanged or be drowned.
If his bones lie in earth, roll in sea, fly in air,
To Fate we must yield, and the thing is the same;
And if passing thou giv'st him a smile or a tear,
He cares not-yet, prithee, be kind to his fame.

Epitaph Extempore.

Nobles and heralds, by your leave,

Here lies what once was Matthew Prior, The son of Adam and of Eve; Can Stuart or Nassau claim higher ?

An Epitaph.

Interred beneath this marble stone,
Lie sauntering Jack and idle Joan.
While rolling threescore years and one
Did round this globe their courses run;
If human things went ill or well,
If changing empires rose or fell,
The morning past, the evening came,
And found this couple just the same.

They walked and ate, good folks: What then?
Why, then they walked and ate again;
They soundly slept the night away;
They did just nothing all the day.
Nor sister either had nor brother;
They seemed just tallied for each other.
Their moral and economy
Most perfectly they made agree;
Each virtue kept its proper bound,
Nor trespassed on the other's ground.
Nor fame nor censure they regarded;
They neither punished nor rewarded.
He cared not what the footman did;
Her maids she neither praised nor chid:
So every servant took his course,
And, bad at first, they all grew worse.
Slothful disorder filled his stable,
And sluttish plenty decked her table.
Their beer was strong, their wine was port;
Their meal was large, their grace was short.
They gave the poor the remnant meat,
Just when it grew not fit to eat.
They paid the church and parish rate,
And took, but read not the receipt;

For which they claimed their Sunday's due,
Of slumbering in an upper pew.

No man's defects sought they to know,
So never made themselves a foe.
No man's good deeds did they commend,
So never raised themselves a friend.
Nor cherished they relations poor,
That might decrease their present store;
Nor barn nor house did they repair,
That might oblige their future heir.
They neither added nor confounded;
They neither wanted nor abounded.
Nor tear nor smile did they employ
At news of public grief or joy.
When bells were rung and bonfires made,
If asked, they ne'er denied their aid;
Their jug was to the ringers carried,
Whoever either died or married.
Their billet at the fire was found,
Whoever was deposed or crowned.
Nor good, nor bad, nor fools, nor wise,
They would not learn, nor could advise ;
Without love, hatred, joy, or fear,
They led-a kind of as it were;

Nor wished, nor cared, nor laughed, nor cried;
And so they lived, and so they died.

To a Child of Quality, Five Years Old, 1704, the
Author then Forty.

Lords, knights, and squires, the numerous band
That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters,
Were summoned by her high command
To shew their passion by their letters.

My pen amongst the rest I took,

Lest those bright eyes that cannot read Should dart their kindling fires, and look The power they have to be obeyed.

Nor quality nor reputation

Forbid me yet my flame to tell.
Dear five-years-old befriends my passion,
And I may write till she can spell.

For, while she makes her silkworms' beds
With all the tender things I swear;
Whilst all the house my passion reads,
In papers round her baby's hair;

She may receive and own my flame,

For though the strictest prudes should know it, She'll pass for a most virtuous dame,

And I for an unhappy poet.

Then, too, alas! when she shall hear

The lines some younger rival sends ; She'll give me leave to write, I fear,

And we shall still continue friends.

For, as our different ages move,

'Tis so ordained (would Fate but mend it!) That I shall be past making love, When she begins to comprehend it.

Abra's Love for Solomon.

Another nymph, amongst the many fair,
That made my softer hours their solemn care,
Before the rest affected still to stand,

And watched my eye, preventing my command.
Abra-she so was called-did soonest haste
To grace my presence; Abra went the last;
Abra was ready ere I called her name;
And, though I called another, Abra came.
Her equals first observed her growing zeal,
And laughing, glossed that Abra served so well.
To me her actions did unheeded die,

Or were remarked but with a common eye;
Till, more apprised of what the rumour said,
More I observed peculiar in the maid.
The sun declined had shot his western ray,
When tired with business of the solemn day,
I purposed to unbend the evening hours,
And banquet private in the women's bowers.
I called before I sat to wash my hands-
For so the precept of the law commands-
Love had ordained that it was Abra's turn
To mix the sweets, and minister the urn.
With awful homage, and submissive dread,
The maid approached, on my declining head
To pour the oils; she trembled as she poured;
With an unguarded look she now devoured
My nearer face; and now recalled her eye,
And heaved, and strove to hide, a sudden sigh.
'And whence,' said I, 'canst thou have dread or
pain?

What can thy imagery of sorrow mean?
Secluded from the world and all its care,
Hast thou to grieve or joy, to hope or fear?
For sure,' I added, ' sure thy little heart
Ne'er felt love's anger, or received his dart.'

Abashed she blushed, and with disorder spoke : Her rising shame adorned the words it broke :

'If the great master will descend to hear
The humble series of his handmaid's care;
O! while she tells it, let him not put on
The look that awes the nations from the throne !
O! let not death severe in glory lie

In the king's frown and terror of his eye!
Mine to obey, thy part is to ordain;
And, though to mention be to suffer pain,
If the king smile whilst I my wo recite,
If weeping, I find favour in his sight,
Flow fast my tears, full rising his delight,
O! witness earth beneath, and heaven above!
For can I hide it? I am sick of love;
If madness may the name of passion bear,
Or love be called what is indeed despair.

"Thou Sovereign Power, whose secret will controls

The inward bent and motion of our souls!
Why hast thou placed such infinite degrees
Between the cause and cure of my disease?
The mighty object of that raging fire,
In which unpitied, Abra must expire.
Had he been born some simple shepherd's heir,
The lowing herd or fleecy sheep his care,
At morn with him I o'er the hills had run,
Scornful of winter's frost and summer's sun,

Still asking where he made his flock to rest at

noon;

For him at night, the dear expected guest,

I had with hasty joy prepared the feast;
And from the cottage, o'er the distant plain,
Sent forth my longing eye to meet the swain,
Wavering, impatient, tossed by hope and fear,
Till he and joy together should appear,
And the loved dog declare his master near.
On my declining neck and open breast

I should have lulled the lovely youth to rest,
And from beneath his head, at dawning day,
With softest care have stol'n my arm away,
To rise, and from the fold release his sheep,
Fond of his flock, indulgent to his sleep.
Or if kind heaven, propitious to my flame-
For sure from heaven the faithful ardour came-
Had blest my life, and decked my natal hour
With height of title, and extent of power;
Without a crime my passion had aspired,
Found the loved prince, and told what I desired
Then I had come, preventing Sheba's queen,
To see the comeliest of the sons of men,
To hear the charming poet's amorous song,
And gather honey falling from his tongue,
To take the fragrant kisses of his mouth,
Sweeter than breezes of her native South,
Likening his grace, his person, and his mien,
To all that great or beauteous I had seen.'

Here o'er her speech her flowing eyes prevail.
O foolish maid! and oh, unhappy tale!
I saw her; 'twas humanity; it gave
Some respite to the sorrows of my slave.
Her fond excess proclaimed her passion true,
And generous pity to that truth was due.
Well I entreated her, who well deserved;
I called her often, for she alway served.
Use made her person easy to my sight,
And ease insensibly produced delight.
Whene'er I revelled in the women's bowers-
For first I sought her but at looser hours-
The apples she had gathered smelt most sweet,
The cake she kneaded was the savoury meat:
But fruits their odour lost, and meats their taste,
If gentle Abra had not decked the feast.
Dishonoured did the sparkling goblet stand,
Unless received from gentle Abra's hand;
And, when the virgins formed the evening choir,
Raising their voices to the master lyre,
Too flat I thought this voice, and that too shrill,
One shewed too much, and one too little skill;

Nor could my soul approve the music's tone,
Till all was hushed, and Abra sung alone.
Fairer she seemed distinguished from the rest,
And better mien disclosed, as better drest.
A bright tiara round her forehead tied,
To juster bounds confined its rising pride.
The blushing ruby on her snowy breast
Rendered its panting whiteness more confessed;
Bracelets of pearl gave roundness to her arm,
And every gem augmented every charm.
Her senses pleased, her beauty still improved,
And she more lovely grew, as more beloved.

Written in Mezeray's History of France.
Whate'er thy countrymen have done
By law and wit, by sword and gun,
In thee is faithfully recited;
And all the living world that view
Thy work, give thee the praises due,
At once instructed and delighted.

Yet for the fame of all these deeds,

What beggar in the Invalides,

With lameness broke, with blindness smitten,

Wished ever decently to die,

To have been either Mezeray

Or any monarch he has written?

It's strange, dear author, yet it true is, That down, from Pharamond to Louis,

All covet life, yet call it pain; All feel the ill, yet shun the cure. Can sense this paradox endure?

Resolve me, Cambray, or Fontaine.

The man in graver tragic known

(Though his best part long since was done)
Still on the stage desires to tarry;
And he who played the Harlequin,
After the jest still loads the scene,
Unwilling to retire, though weary.*

The Thief and the Cordelier.-A Ballad.

To the tune of King John and the Abbot of Canterbury.
Who has e'er been at Paris, must needs know the
Grève,

The fatal retreat of th' unfortunate brave;
Where honour and justice most oddly contribute
To ease heroes' pains by a halter and gibbet.

Derry down, down, hey derry down.

There death breaks the shackles which force had put on,

And the hangman completes what the judge but begun;

There the 'squire of the pad, and the knight of the post,

Find their pains no more balked, and their hopes no more crossed.

Derry down, &c.

Sir Walter Scott, about a year before his death, repeated the above when on a Border tour with Mr Lockhart. They met two beggars, old soldiers, one of whom recognised the baronet, and bade God bless him. The mendicants went on their way, and we stood breathing on the knoll. Sir Walter followed them with his eye, and, planting his stick firmly on the sod, repeated without break or hesitation Prior's verses to the historian Mezeray. That he applied them to himself was touchingly obvious.'

"What frightens you thus, my good son?' says the priest;

'You murdered, are sorry, and have been confessed.' 'O father! my sorrow will scarce save my bacon; For 'twas not that I murdered, but that I was taken.' Derry down, &c.

'Pooh, prithee ne'er trouble thy head with such fancies;

Rely on the aid you shall have from St Francis ;
If the money you promised be brought to the chest,
You have only to die; let the church do the rest.'

Derry down, &c.

'That I would,' quoth the father, 'and thank you to boot;

But our actions, you know, with our duty must suit ;
The feast I proposed to you, I cannot taste,
For this night by our order, is marked for a fast.'
Derry down, &c.

Then turning about to the hangman, he said:
'Despatch me, I prithee, this troublesome blade;
For thy cord and my cord both equally tie,
And we live by the gold for which other men die.'
Derry down, &c.

Ode to a Lady: She refusing to Continue a Dispute with me, and leaving me in the Argument.

Spare, generous victor, spare the slave,
Who did unequal war pursue;

That more than triumphs he might have
In being overcome by you!

In the dispute, whate'er I said,

My heart was by my tongue belied; And in my looks you might have read How much I argued on your side.

You, far from danger as from fear,
Might have sustained an open fight;
For seldom your opinions err,
Your eyes are always in the right.

Why, fair one, would you not rely
On reason's force with beauty's joined?
Could I their prevalence deny,

I must at once be deaf and blind.

Alas! not hoping to subdue,

I only to the fight aspired;
To keep the beauteous foe in view,
Was all the glory I desired.

But she, howe'er of victory sure,

Contemns the wreath so long delayed; And, armed with more immediate power, Calls cruel silence to her aid.

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.

So when the Parthian turned his steed,
And from the hostile camp withdrew,
With cruel skill, the backward reed
He sent, and as he fled he slew.

Theory of the Mind.-From 'Alma.

I say, whatever you maintain
Of Alma1 in the heart or brain,
The plainest man alive may tell ye
Her seat of empire is the belly.

From hence she sends out those supplies
Which make us either stout or wise:
Your stomach makes the fabric roll
Just as the bias rules the bowl.
The great Achilles might employ
The strength designed to ruin Troy;
He dined on lion's marrow, spread
On toasts of ammunition bread;
But, by his mother sent away
Amongst the Thracian girls to play,
Effeminate he sat and quiet-
Strange product of a cheese-cake diet!
Observe the various operations

Of food and drink in several nations.
Was ever Tartar fierce or cruel
Upon the strength of water-gruel?
But who shall stand his rage or force
If first he rides, then eats his horse?
Salads, and eggs, and lighter fare,
Tune the Italian spark's guitar;
And, if I take Dan Congreve right,
Pudding and beef make Britons fight.
Tokay and coffee cause this work
Between the German and the Turk :
And both, as they provisions want,
Chicane, avoid, retire, and faint.

As, in a watch's fine machine,
Though many artful springs are seen;
The added movements, which declare
How full the moon, how old the year,
Derive their secondary power

From that which simply points the hour;
For though these gimcracks were away—

Quare' would not swear, but Quare would say—
However more reduced and plain,

The watch would still a watch remain :

But if the horal orbit ceases,

The whole stands still, or breaks to pieces,

Is now no longer what it was,

And you may e'en go sell the case.

So, if unprejudiced you scan

The goings of this clockwork, man,

You find a hundred movements made
By fine devices in his head;

But 'tis the stomach's solid stroke
That tells his being what's o'clock.
If you take off this rhetoric trigger,
He talks no more in trope and figure;
Or clog his mathematic wheel,
His buildings fall, his ship stands still;
Or, lastly, break his politic weight,
His voice no longer rules the state :
Yet, if these finer whims are gone,
Your clock, though plain, will still go on:
But, spoil the organ of digestion,

And you entirely change the question;
Alma's affairs no power can mend ;
The jest, alas! is at an end;
Soon ceases all the worldly bustle,
And you consign the corpse to Russel.1

REV. JAMES BRAMSTON.

Two satirical poems by the Rev. JAMES BRAMSTON (circa 1694-1744), included in Dodsley's Collection, were much admired in their day. These are: The Art of Politics; in imitation of Horace's Art of Poetry, 1729; and The Man of Taste; occasioned by Pope's Epistle on that Subject, 1731. Bramston also wrote an imitation of Philips's Splendid Shilling, entitled The Crooked Sixpence. In 1708, Bramston was admitted at Westminster School; in 1713, he was elected to a studentship at Christ Church, Oxford, and in 1725 he became vicar of Harting, in Sussex. His two principal poems are good imitations of the style of Young's and Pope's satires. The following is the conclusion of his Art of Politics:

Parliamenteering is a sort of itch,

That will too oft unwary knights bewitch.
Two good estates Sir Harry Clodpole spent ;
Sate thrice, but spoke not once, in Parliament.
Two good estates are gone-who'll take his word?
Oh, should his uncle die, he'll spend a third ;
He'd buy a house his happiness to crown,
Within a mile of some good borough-town;
Tag-rag and bobtail to Sir Harry's run,

Men that have votes, and women that have none;
Sons, daughters, grandsons, with his Honour dine;
He keeps a public-house without a sign.
Cobblers and smiths extol th' ensuing choice,
And drunken tailors boast their right of voice.
Dearly the free-born neighbourhood is bought,
They never leave him while he's worth a groat;
So leeches stick, nor quit the bleeding wound,
Till off they drop with skinfuls to the ground.
In The Man of Taste he thus ironically expatiates:
Swift's whims and jokes for my resentment call,
For he displeases me that pleases all.
Verse without rhyme I never could endure,
Uncouth in numbers, and in sense obscure.
To him as nature, when he ceased to see,
Milton 's an universal blank to me.
Confirmed and settled by the nation's voice,
Rhyme is the poet's pride and people's choice,
Always upheld by national support,

Of market, university, and court:

Thomson, write blank; but know that for that reason,
These lines shall live when thine are out of season.

Rhyme binds and beautifies the poet's lays,

As London ladies owe their shape to stays.

JONATHAN SWIFT.

JONATHAN SWIFT, one of the most remarkable men of the age, was born in Dublin, November 30, 1667. He was of English parentage-a fact

An undertaker.