A LETTER FROM ITALY.*

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE CHARLES LORD HALIFAX.

WHILE you, my lord, the rural shades admire,
And from Britannia's public posts retire,
Nor longer, her ungrateful sons to please,
For their advantage sacrifice your ease:
Me into foreign realms my fate conveys,
Through nations fruitful of immortal lays,
Where the soft season and inviting clime
Conspire to trouble your repose with rhyme.
For wheresoe'er I turn my ravish'd eyes,
Gay gilded scenes and shining prospects rise,
Poetic fields encompass me around,
And still I seem to tread on classic ground;
For here the Muse so oft her harp has strung,
That not a mountain rears its head unsung;
Renown'd in verse each shady thicket grows,
And every stream in heavenly numbers flows.
How am I pleased to search the hills and
woods

For rising springs and celebrated floods!
To view the Nar, tumultuous in his course,
And trace the smooth Clitumnus to his source;
To see the Mincio draw his watery store,
Through the long windings of a fruitful shore;
And hoary Albula's infected tide

O'er the warm bed of smoking sulphur glide.
Fired with a thousand raptures, I survey
Eridanus through flowery meadows stray,
The king of floods! that, rolling o'er the plains,
The towering Alps of half their moisture drains,
And proudly swoln with a whole winter's snows,
Distributes wealth and plenty where he flows.
Sometimes, misguided by the tuneful throng,
I look for streams immortalized in song,
That lost in silence and oblivion lie,

(Dumb are their fountains, and their channels dry,)

Yet run for ever by the Muse's skill,
And in the smooth description murmur still.
Sometimes to gentle Tiber I retire,
And the famed river's empty shores admire,
That, destitute of strength, derives its course
From thirsty urns, and an unfruitful source;
Yet sung so often in poetic lays,

With scorn the Danube and the Nile surveys;

[* Few poems have done more honour to English genius than this. There is in it a strain of political thinking that was, at the time, new in our poetry. Had the harmony of this been equal to Pope's versification, it would be incontestably the finest poem in our language; but there is a dryness in the numbers which greatly lessens the pleasure excited by the poet's judgment and imagination.-GOLDSMITH.}

So high the deathless Muse exalts her theme!
Such was the Boyne, a poor inglorious stream,
That in Hibernian vales obscurely stray'd,
And unobserved in wild meanders play'd;
Till by your lines and Nassau's sword renown'd,
Its rising billows through the world resound,
Where'er the hero's godlike acts can pierce,
Or where the fame of an immortal verse.

Oh, could the Muse my ravish'd breast inspire With warmth like yours, and raise an equal fire, Unnumber'd beauties in my verse should shine, And Virgil's Italy should yield to mine!

See how the golden groves around me smile, That shun the coast of Britain's stormy isle, Or, when transplanted and preserved with care, Curse the cold clime, and starve in northern air. Here kindly warmth their mountain juice ferments To nobler tastes, and more exalted scents: Even the rough rocks with tender myrtle bloom, And trodden weeds send out a rich perfume. Bear me, some god, to Baia's gentle seats, Or cover me in Umbria's green retreats; Where western gales eternally reside, And all the seasons lavish all their pride: Blossoms, and fruits, and flowers together rise, And the whole year in gay confusion lies.

Immortal glories in my mind revive,
And in my soul a thousand passions strive,
When Rome's exalted beauties I descry
Magnificent in piles of ruin lie.
An amphitheatre's amazing height
Here fills my eye with terror and delight,
That, on its public shows, unpeopled Rome,
And held, uncrowded, nations in its womb :
Here pillars rough with sculpture pierce the skies,
And here the proud triumphal arches rise,
Where the old Romans, deathless acts display'd,
Their base degenerate progeny upbraid:
Whole rivers here forsake the fields below,
And wondering at their height through airy chan-
nels flow.

Still to new scenes my wandering Muse retires,
And the dumb show of breathing rocks admires;
Where the smooth chisel all its force has shown,
And soften'd into flesh the rugged stone.
In solemn silence, a majestic band,
Heroes, and gods, and Roman consuls stand,
Stern tyrants, whom their cruelties renown,
And emperors in Parian marble frown; [sued,
While the bright dames, to whom they humbly
Still show the charms that their proud hearts
subdued.

Fain would I Raphael's godlike art rehearse,
And show the immortal labours in my verse,

Where from the mingled strength of shade and

light

A new creation rises to my sight,

Such heavenly figures from his pencil flow,
So warm with life his blended colours glow.
From theme to theme with secret pleasure toss'd,
Amidst the soft variety I'm lost :

Here pleasing airs my ravish'd soul confound
With circling notes and labyrinths of sound;
Here domes and temples rise in distant views,
And opening palaces invite my Muse.

How has kind Heaven adorn'd the happy land, And scatter'd blessings with a wasteful hand! But what avail her unexhausted stores,

Her blooming mountains, and her sunny shores,
With all the gifts that Heaven and earth impart,
The smiles of nature, and the charms of art,
While proud oppression in her valleys reigns,
And tyranny usurps her happy plains?
The poor inhabitant beholds in vain

The reddening orange and the swelling grain:
Joyless he sees the growing oils and wines,
And in the myrtle's fragrant shade repines:
Starves, in the midst of nature's bounty curst,
And in the loaden vineyard dies for thirst.

O Liberty, thou goddess, heavenly bright,
Profuse of bliss, and pregnant with delight!
Eternal pleasures in thy presence reign,
And smiling plenty leads thy wanton train;
Eased of her load subjection grows more light,
And poverty looks cheerful in thy sight;
Thou makest the gloomy face of nature gay,
Givest beauty to the sun, and pleasure to the day.
Thee, goddess, thee, Britannia's isle adores;
How has she oft exhausted all her stores,
How oft in fields of death thy presence sought,
Nor thinks the mighty prize too dearly bought!
On foreign mountains may the sun refine
The grape's soft juice, and mellow it to wine,
With citron groves adorn a distant soil,
And the fat olive swell with floods of oil:
We envy not the warmer clime, that lies
In ten degrees of more indulgent skies,
Nor at the coarseness of our heaven repine,
Though o'er our heads the frozen Pleiads shine;
"Tis liberty that crowns Britannia's isle,
And makes her barren rocks and her bleak moun-
tains smile.

AN ODE.

How are thy servants blest, O Lord!
How sure is their defence!
Eternal wisdom is their guide,
Their help Omnipotence.

In foreign realms, and lands remote,
Supported by thy care,

Through burning climes I pass'd unhurt,
And breathed in tainted air.

Thy mercy sweeten'd every soil,

Made every region please:
The hoary Alpine hills it warm'd,

And smoothed the Tyrrhene seas.

Think, O my soul, devoutly think,
How, with affrighted eyes,
Thou saw'st the wide-extended deep,
In all its horrors rise.

Confusion dwelt on every face,

And fear in every heart!

When waves on waves, and gulfs on gulfs, O'ercame the pilot's art.

Yet then from all my griefs, O Lord!
Thy mercy set me free;
Whilst in the confidence of prayer,

My soul took hold on thee.

For though in dreadful whirls we hung
High on the broken wave,

I knew thou wert not slow to hear,
Nor impotent to save.

The storm was laid, the winds retired, Obedient to thy will;

The sea, that roar'd at thy command,
At thy command was still.

In midst of dangers, fears, and death,
Thy goodness I'll adore;
And praise thee for thy mercies past,
And humbly hope for more.

My life, if thou preservest my life,
Thy sacrifice shall be;

And death, if death must be my doom,
Shall join my soul to thee.

PARAPHRASE ON PSALM XXIII.

THE Lord my pasture shall prepare,
And feed me with a shepherd's care;
His presence shall my wants supply,
And guard me with a watchful eye :
My noon-day walks he shall attend,
And all my midnight hours defend.

When in the sultry glebe I faint,
Or on the thirsty mountain pant;
To fertile vales and dewy meads
My weary, wandering steps he leads:
Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow,
Amid the verdant landscape flow.

Though in the paths of death I tread,
With gloomy horrors overspread,
My steadfast heart shall fear no ill,
For thou, O Lord, art with me still;
Thy friendly crook shall give me aid,
And guide me through the dreadful shade.

Though in a bare and rugged way,
Through devious, lonely wilds I stray,
Thy bounty shall my wants beguile,
The barren wilderness shall smile,
With sudden greens and herbage crown'd,
And streams shall murmur all around.

PRIOR was the nephew of the keeper of a tavern at Charing Cross, where he was found by the Earl of Dorset, and sent at his expense to be educated at Cambridge. By the same nobleman's influence he went as secretary with the Earl of Berkeley, our ambassador at the Hague, where King William was so pleased with his conduct as to appoint him one of the gentlemen of the bedchamber. In 1697 he was secretary of legation at the treaty of Ryswick, and the next year held the same office at the court of France. On his return, after having been with the king at Loo, he was made under secretary of state, and on losing his place at the Earl of Jersey's removal, he was made a commissioner of trade.

He sat in the parliament that met in 1701: but in the progress of Queen Anne's war, though he celebrated Blenheim and Ramillies as a poet, he deserted as a politician to the Tories, and accompanying Bolingbroke to Paris for pacific

objects, remained there till he rose to the rank of ambassador, the duties of which office he had for some time previously fulfilled. The vindictive Whigs committed him to custody for two years, after his return, on a charge of high treason. At fifty-three years of age he found himself, after all his important employments, with no other means of subsistence than his fel lowship at Cambridge; but the publication of his poems by subscription, and the kindness of Lord Harley, restored him to easy circumstances for the rest of his life.

Prior was one of the last of the race of poets who relied for ornament on scholastic allusion and pagan machinery; but he used them like Swift, more in jest than earnest, and with good effect. In his Alma he contrives even to clothe metaphysics in the gay and colloquial pleasantry, which is the characteristic charm of his

manner.

THE LADY'S LOOKING-GLASS.

IN IMITATION OF A GREEK IDYLLIUM.

CELIA and I the other day
Walk'd o'er the sand-hills to the sea:
The setting sun adorn'd the coast,
His beams entire, his fierceness lost:
And, on the surface of the deep,
The winds lay only not asleep:
The nymph did like the scene appear,
Serenely pleasant, calmly fair:
Soft fell her words, as flew the air.
With secret joy I heard her say,
That she would never miss one day
A walk so fine, a sight so gay.

But, O the change! the winds grow high;
Impending tempests charge the sky;
The lightning flies, the thunder roars;
And big waves lash the frighten'd shores.
Struck with the horror of the sight,
She turns her head, and wings her flight;
And, trembling, vows she'll ne'er again
Approach the shore, or view the main.

[* Prior's fictions are mythological. Venus, after the example of the Greek Epigram, asks when she was seen naked and bathing. Then Cupid is mistaken; then Cupid is disarmed; then he loses his darts to Ganymede; then Jupiter sends him a summons by Mercury. Then Cloe goes a hunting with an ivory quiver graceful at her side; Diana mistakes her for one of her nymphs, and Cupid laughs at the blunder. All this is surely despicable.JOHNSON.

Once more at least look back, said I,
Thyself in that large glass descry:
When thou art in good humour drest;
When gentle reason rules thy breast;
The sun upon the calmest sea
Appears not half so bright as thee:
"Tis then that with delight I rove
Upon the boundless depth of love:
I bless my chain; I hand my oar;
Nor think on all I left on shore.

But when vain doubt and groundless fear
Do that dear foolish bosom tear;
When the big lip and watery eye
Tell me, the rising storm is nigh;
"Tis then, thou art yon angry main,
Deform'd by winds, and dash'd by rain;
And the poor sailor, that must try
Its fury, labours less than I.

Shipwreck'd, in vain to land I make,
While love and fate still drive me back:
Forced to doat on thee thy own way,

I chide thee first, and then obey:
Wretched when from thee, vex'd when nigh,
I with thee, or without thee, die.

"When Prior wrote," says Cowper, "Venus and Cupid were not so obsolete as now. His contemporary writers, and some that succeeded him, did not think them beneath their notice. Tibullus, in reality, disbelieved their existence as much as we do; yet Tibullus is allowed to be the prince of all poetical innamaratos, though he mentions them in almost every page. There is a fashion in these things, which the Doctor seems to have forgotten.”—Letter to Unwin, January 5th, 1782.]

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AN ANSWER TO CHLOE.

DEAR Chloe, how blubber'd is that pretty face! Thy cheek all on fire, and thy hair all uncurl'd! Pr'ythee quit this caprice; and (as old Falstaff says)

Let us even talk a little like folks of this world.

How canst thou presume thou hast leave to destroy The beauties which Venus but lent to thy keeping!

Those looks were designed to inspire love and joy; More ordinary eyes may serve people for weeping. To be vex'd at a trifle or two that I writ,

Your judgment at once, and my passion you wrong:

You take that for fact which will scarce be found wit: [song? Odd's-life! must one swear to the truth of a

What I speak, my fair Chloe, and what I write, shows

The difference there is betwixt nature and art: I court others in verse; but I love thee in prose: And they have my whimsies, but thou hast my heart.

The god of us verse-men (you know, child,) the

sun,

How after his journeys he sets up his rest: If at morning o'er earth 'tis his fancy to run, At night he declines on his Thetis's breast.

So when I am wearied with wandering all day, To thee, my delight, in the evening I come; No matter what beauties I saw in my way, They were but my visits, but thou art my home.

Then finish, dear Chloe, this pastoral war,

And let us like Horace and Lydia agree; For thou art a girl as much brighter than her, As he was a poet sublimer than me.

THE REMEDY WORSE THAN THE DISEASE. I SENT for Radcliffe; was so ill,

That other doctors gave me over: He felt my pulse, prescribed his pill, And I was likely to recover.

But, when the wit began to wheeze, And wine had warm'd the politician, Cured yesterday of my disease,

I died last night of my physician.

PARTIAL FAME.

THE sturdy man, if he in love obtains,
In open pomp and triumph reigns:
The subtle woman, if she should succeed,
Disowns the honour of the deed.

Though he, for all his boast, is forced to yield,
Though she can always keep the field:
He vaunts his conquests, she conceals her shame;
How partial is the voice of fame!

SONG.

In vain you tell your parting lover-
You wish fair winds may waft him over:
Alas! what winds can happy prove,
That bear me far from what I love!
Can equal those that I sustain,
From slighted vows and cold disdain?
Be gentle, and in pity choose
To wish the wildest tempests loose,
That, thrown again upon the coast
Where first my shipwreck'd heart was lost,
I may once more repeat my pain;
Once more in dying notes complain
Of slighted vows and cold disdain.

AN EPITAPH. INTERR'D 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 pass'd, the evening came, And found this couple still the same. They walk'd, and eat, good folks: what then? Why then they walk'd and eat again; They soundly slept the night away; They did just nothing all the day: And, having buried children four, Would not take pains to try for more. Nor sister either had nor brother; They seem'd just tallied for each other. Their moral and economy Most perfectly they made agree; Each virtue kept its proper bound, Nor tresspass'd on the other's ground. Nor fame nor censure they regarded; They neither punish'd 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 fill'd his stable, And sluttish plenty deck'd 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 claim'd 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 cherish'd 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.
Each Christmas they accounts did clear,
And wound their bottom round the year.

Nor tear nor smile did they employ At news of public grief or joy.

When bells were rung and bonfires made,
If ask'd, 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 crown'd.

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 wish'd, nor car'd, nor laugh'd, nor cried:
And so they lived, and so they died.

PROTOGENES AND APELLES.

WHEN poets wrote, and painters drew,
As Nature pointed out the view;

Ere Gothic forms were known in Greece
To spoil the well-proportion'd piece;
And in our verse ere monkish rhymes
Had jangled their fantastic chimes;
Ere on the flowery lands of Rhodes
Those knights had fix'd their dull abodes,
Who knew not much to paint or write,
Nor cared to pray, nor dared to fight:
Protogenes, historians note,
Lived there, a burgess, scot and lot;
And, as old Pliny's writings show,
Apelles did the same at Co.

Agreed these points of time and place,
Proceed we in the present case.

Piqued by Protogenes's fame,
From Co to Rhodes, Apelles came,
To see a rival and a friend,
Prepared to censure, or commend;
Here to absolve, and there object,
As art with candour might direct.
He sails, he lands, he comes, he rings;
His servants follow with the things:
Appears the governante of th' house,
For such in Greece were much in use:
If young or handsome, yea or no,
Concerns not me or thee to know.

Does Squire Protogenes live here?
Yes, Sir, says she, with gracious air,
And court'sey low, but just call'd out
By lords peculiarly devout,

Who came on purpose, Sir, to borrow
Our Venus, for the feast to-morrow,
To grace the church: 'tis Venus' day:
I hope, Sir, you intend to stay,
To see our Venus; 'tis the piece
The most renown'd throughout all Greece;
So like th' original, they say;
But I have no great skill that way.
But, Sir, at six ('tis now past three)
Dromo must make my master's tea:
At six, Sir, if you please to come,
You'll find my master, Sir, at home.

Tea, says a critic, big with laughter,
Was found some twenty ages after;
Authors, before they write, should read.
'Tis very true; but we'll proceed.

And, Sir, at present, would you please To leave your name-Fair maiden, yes, Reach me that board. No sooner spoke

But done. With one judicious stroke,
On the plain ground Apelles drew
A circle regularly true:

And will you please, sweetheart, said he,
To show your master this for me?
By it he presently will know
How painters write their names at Co.
He gave the pannel to the maid.
Smiling and court'sying, Sir, she said,
I shall not fail to tell my master:
And, Sir, for fear of all disaster,
I'll keep it my ownself: safe bind,
Says the old proverb, and safe find.
So, Sir, as sure as key or lock-
Your servant, Sir,-at six o'clock.
Again at six Apelles came,
Found the same prating civil dame.
Sir, that my master has been here,
Will by the board itself appear.
If from the perfect line be found
He has presumed to swell the round,
Or colours on the draught to lay,
'Tis thus, (he order'd me to say)
Thus write the painters of this isle:
Let those of Co remark the style:

She said; and to his hand restored
The rival pledge, the missive board.
Upon the happy line were laid
Such obvious light, and easy shade,
That Paris' apple stood confest,
Or Leda's egg, or Chloe's breast.
Apelles view'd the finish'd piece:
And live, said he, the arts of Greece!
Howe'er Protogenes and I
May in our rival talents vie;
Howe'er our works may have express'd
Who truest drew, or colour'd best,
When he beheld my flowing line,
He found at least I could design;
And from his artful round, I grant
That he with perfect skill can paint.

The dullest genius cannot fail To find the moral of my tale ; That the distinguish'd part of men, With compass, pencil, sword, or pen, Should in life's visit leave their name, In characters which may proclaim That they with ardour strove to raise At once their arts, and country's praise; And in their working took great care, That all was full, and round, and fair.*

THE CAMELEON.

As the Cameleon, 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;

[* This story, which Prior took in a very plain state from Pliny and enlivened with his own exquisite humour, has been altered by Mason and weakened-it is not easy to add to Prior when he wrote in his happiost moods.]