nobler motive kept them from transgressing. A century and a half ago, however, the risk of being banished from the boudoir for over-plain speaking, and for double entendre, was a very slight risk indeed, and Prior's contemporaries and immediate successors in composing occasional verses, were more gross, and far less felicitous. Gay and Somerville, for instance, are often coarser than Prior, but they are by no means so sparkling. Pope, the greatest poet of the age, transgresses in a manner more offensive than witty, and Swift, who possessed “the best brains in the nation," wrote the nastiest verses to be found in our language.

But it is time to give an illustration or two of Prior's sportive ease and grace as a lyric poet. Thomas Moore, writing to Lord Lansdowne, alludes to one of Prior's pieces, and observes that nothing could be more gracefully light and gallant. No wonder that it pleased the Irish poet, for the conceit in it is so like some of his own that anyone ignorant of the authorship would at once credit Moore with the production. Listen only to the three last stanzas:

"The god of us versemen, 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."

In an ode to a lady who declines to dispute any longer with the poet, and "leaves him in the argument," he sings in language which is as free from an antique flavour, as if it had been produced yesterday:

"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.

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 too 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."

The qualities of vivacity and ease are well displayed in the following description of A Lover's Anger':

"As Chloe came into the room t'other day,

I peevish began, 'Where so long could you stay?
In your lifetime you never regarded your hour;
You promised at two, and (pray look, child) 'tis four.
A lady's watch needs neither figures nor wheels;
'Tis enough that 'tis loaded with baubles and seals.
A temper so heedless no mortal can bear.-'
Thus far I went on with a resolute air.

'Lord bless me !' said she; let a body but speak;
Here's an ugly hard rose-bud tall'n into my neck;
It has hurt me and vexed me to such a degree-
See here! for you never believe me; pray see,
On the left side my breast what a mark it has made!'
So saying, her bosom she careless displayed:
That seat of delight I with wonder surveyed,
And forgot every word I designed to have said."

As a song-writer Prior never excels, and sometimes fails ignominiously. He wrote twenty-eight songs, of which the greater number were " set to music by the most eminent masters." They are sad rubbish, although now and then a happy phrase or ingenious fancy reminds us that they are not the compositions of a commonplace writer. If Dr. Johnson had been thinking of these pieces when he wrote of Prior's amorous poems as the "dull exercises of a skilful versifier," we should not quarrel with his judgment, although we might complain of his indifference and forgetfulness in estimating the

poet's love-verses by the least significant productions of his pen. From the context, however, it is evident he had in his mind certain of the love-pieces which do not rank under the category of songs, and he hits, as an adverse critic naturally would do, on some which are over-weighted with mythological imagery. Prior had, no doubt, as we have before observed, the poetical disease of the day, but he took it in a mild form, and manages in one or two cases, which unfortunately we cannot quote, to turn this sort of machinery to skilful account. Throughout the criticism on Prior it seems to us that Johnson dispenses his praise as well as his blame wrongly. He cannot see the consummate charm of many of Prior's occasional verses, and he praises as "eminently beautiful" a watery paraphrase of St. Paul's noble utterances upon charity. Imagine a reader turning from the 13th chapter of 1 Corinthians to find beauty in lines like these:

"Each other gift which God on man bestows,
Its proper bounds and due restriction knows;
To one fixt purpose dedicates its power,
And finishing its act, exists no more.
Thus, in obedience to what Heaven decrees,
Knowledge shall fail, and prophecy shall cease;
But lasting Charity's more ample sway,
Nor bound by time nor subject to decay,
In happy triumph shall for ever live,

And endless good diffuse, and endless praise receive."

How differently the poet could write when he found a congenial topic may be seen from the bright and graceful lines he addresses 'To a Child of Quality.' In reading them it may be well to remember the report that has been handed down to us of Prior's genial nature, and how when staying in Lord Oxford's house he made himself beloved by every living thing-master, child, servants; human creature, or animal. When the poem was written, the child was five years old and the author forty.

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

My pen among 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.