“For you, my love, is all my fear!
Hark, how the drums do rattle!
Alas, Sir! what should you do here,
In dreadful day of battle?
"Let little Orange stay and fight,
For danger's his diversion;
The wise will think you in the right,
Not to expose your person.
"Nor vex your thoughts how to repair The ruins of your glory;
You ought to leave so mean a care
To those who pen your story.
“Are not Boileau and Corneille paid
For panegyric writing?
They know how heroes may be made
Without the help of fighting.
"When foes too saucily approach,
'Tis best to leave them fairly ;
Put six good horses to your coach,
And carry me to Marly.
"Let Bouflers, to secure your fame,
Go take some town or buy it ;
Whilst you, great Sir, at Nôtre Dame
Te Deum sing in quiet."
Phillis is my only joy,
Faithless as the winds or seas;
Sometimes coming, sometimes coy,
Yet she never fails to please.
If with a frown, I am cast down;
Phillis smiling, and beguiling,
Makes me happier than before.
Though, alas! too late I find
Nothing can her fancy fix;
Yet the moment she is kind,
I forgive her all her tricks,
Which, though I see, I can't get free ;
She deceiving, I believing;
What need lovers wish for more?
1664-1721] MATTHEW PRIOR.
"One Prior!" And is this all the fame,
The poet from the historian can claim?
No, Prior's verse posterity shall quote,
When 'tis forgot one Burnet ever wrote.
DODSLEY.
HIS OWN EPITAPH.
Nobles and heralds, by your leave,
Here lies what once was Matthew Prior,
The son of Adam and of Eve;
Can Bourbon or Nassau claim higher?
From SOLOMON. Book II.
Abra was ready ere I called her name,
And when I called another, Abra came.
The merchant, to secure his treasure,
Conveys it in a borrowed name;
Euphelia serves to grace my measure,
But Cloe is my real flame.
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 mountains 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 pains beguile :
The barren wilderness shall smile,
With sudden greens and herbage crowned,
And streams shall murmur all around.
'Tis not in mortals to command success,
But we'll do more, Sempronius; we'll deserve it.
The spacious firmament on high,
With all the blue ethereal sky,
And spangled Heavens, a shining frame,
Their great Original proclaim.
The unwearied Sun from day to day
Does his Creator's power display ;
And publishes to every land
The work of an almighty hand.
Soon as the evening shades prevail,
The Moon takes up the wondrous tale;
And nightly, to the listening Earth,
Repeats the story of her birth;
Whilst all the stars that round her burn,
And all the planets, in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,
And spread the truth from pole to pole.
What though, in solemn silence, all
Move round the dark terrestrial ball;
What though no real voice, nor sound,
Amidst their radiant orbs be found;
In reason's ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice;
For ever singing as they shine,
"The hand that made us is divine."
When all thy mercies, O my God,
My rising soul surveys,
Transported with the view, I'm lost
In wonder, love, and praise.
Ten thousand thousand precious gifts
My daily thanks employ;
Nor is the least a cheerful heart,
That tastes these gifts with joy.
Lovely, lasting peace of mind! Sweet delight of human kind! Heavenly born and bred on high, To crown the favourites of the sky.
Lovely, lasting peace appear!
This world itself, if thou art here,
Is once again with Eden blest,
And man contains it in his breast.
My days have been so wondrous free,
The little birds, that fly
With careless ease from tree to tree,
Were but as blessed as I.
Ask gliding waters if a tear
Of mine increased their stream;
Or ask the flying gales if e'er
I lent one sigh to them.
From A NIGHT-PIECE ON DEATH.
Death's but a path that must be trod, If man would ever pass to God.
|