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Forced by reflective reason, I confess

That human science is uncertain guess.

Alas! we grasp the clouds and beat the air,
Vexing that spirit we intend to clear.

Can thought beyond the bounds of matter climb
Or who shall tell me what is space or time?

In vain we lift up our presumptuous eyes

To what our Maker to their ken denies :

The searcher follows fast; the object faster flies.
The little which imperfectly we find

Seduces only the bewildered mind

To fruitless search of something left behind.
Various discussions tear our heated brain ;
Opinions often turn, still doubts remain ;
And who indulges thought increases pain.

The same serious moral note often recurs in Prior's lighter and more familiar verse.

Montague, he says:

Writing to Charles

Our hopes, like towering falcons, aim

At objects in an airy height :
The little pleasure of the game
Is from afar to view the flight.

Our anxious pains we all the day

In search of what we like employ :
Scorning at night the worthless prey,
We find the labour gave the joy.

At distance through an artful glass

To the mind's eye things will appear :
They lose their forms, and make a mass
Confused and black, if brought too near.

If we see right we see our woes;
Then what avails it to have eyes?
From ignorance our comfort flows;
The only wretched are the wise.

We wearied should lie down in death;
This cheat of life too soon would fade;
If you thought fame an empty breath,
I Phyllis but a perjured jade.

Prior's mirth, therefore, has in it a strong vein of melancholy, but his philosophical conclusion is to find cheerfulness in action; a moral which he may even have

commended to himself by the more solemn aspiration with which he closes his Solomon :—

Now, Solomon, remembering who thou art,
Act through thy remnant life the decent part.
Go forth be strong with patience and with care
Perform, and suffer to thyself severe,
Gracious to others, thy desires suppressed,
Diffused thy virtues: first of men, be best.
Thy sum of duty let two words contain,
(O may they graven in thy heart remain !)
Be humble and be just.

Supreme, all wise, eternal Potentate!
Sole Author, sole Dispenser of our fate!
Enshrined in light and immortality,

Whom no man fully sees, and none can see!
Original of beings! Power Divine!
Since that I live and that I think is thine!
Benign Creator! let thy plastic hand
Dispose its own effect; let thy command
Restore, great Father, thy instructed son;
And in my act let Thy great will be done.

Reading these lines, evidently written with emotion, we seem to feel the sincerity of the simple and pious verses to Lady Margaret Cavendish Holles Harley in her childhood:

My noble, lovely, little Peggy,

Let this, my first epistle, beg ye,
At dawn of morn and close of even,
To lift your heart and hands to Heaven.

In double beauty say your prayer :
Our Father first, then Notre Père :
And, dearest child, along the day
In everything you do and say,
Obey and please my lord and lady,
So God shall love, and angels aid ye.

If to these precepts you attend,

No Second-Letter need I send,

And so I rest your constant friend.

But though, for the purpose of discovering the true character of his poetical genius, it is certainly necessary to study his serious as well as his lighter verse, injustice is

done him by subjecting his poetry to solemn canons of criticism, whether applied for the purpose of blame or praise. An example of the former kind of injustice remains in Johnson's judgment on Henry and Emma:

The greatest of all his amorous essays is Henry and Emma, a dull and tedious dialogue which excites neither esteem for the man nor tenderness for the woman. The example of Emma, who resolves to follow an outlawed murderer wherever fear and guilt shall drive him, deserves no imitation; and the experiment by which Henry tries the lady's constancy is such as must end either in infamy to her, or in disappointment to himself.1

Here it is evident that Johnson is judging by a moral and not by a poetical law. But Cowper, in defending Prior on poetical grounds, does not greatly improve the cause of his client. He says of Johnson's criticism:

But what shall we say of his old, fusty, rusty remarks upon Henry and Emma? I agree with him that, morally considered, both the knight and his lady are bad characters, and that each exhibits an example which ought not to be followed. The man dissembles in a way that would have justified the woman had she renounced him; and the woman resolves to follow him at the expense of delicacy, propriety, and even modesty itself. But when the critic calls it a dull dialogue, who but a critic will believe him? There are few readers of poetry, of either sex, in the country who cannot remember how that enchanting piece has bewitched them-who do not know that, instead of finding it tedious, they have been so delighted with the romantic turn of it as to have overlooked all its defects, and to have given it a consecrated place in their memories without ever feeling it a burden.2

As Spenser says, "Thoughts of men do as themselves decay." While probably almost all modern readers will agree with Johnson's low estimate of Henry and Emma rather than with Cowper's, they will certainly dissent from the grounds of the former's judgment. Prior's error was one not so much of morals as of taste. Fancying that he could improve the ballad of The Nut-brown Maid, he endeavoured to rationalise and, as he thought, to harmonise one of the most artlessly beautiful and melodious 2 Letter to Unwin, January 5, 1782.

1 Lives of the Poets: Prior.

VOL. V

I

poems in the English language, by tacking a narrative on to the dialogue, and translating the latter into the rhetorical diction appropriate to the heroic couplet. The old author of the ballad had no object of the kind that Johnson and Cowper imagine: his purpose, as he shows us, was simply to defend women against the charge of being fickle in their affections, and this he does in the directest way by a kind of "Tenson," after the Provençal manner. The reader may judge of the desecration of the original in Prior's version by comparing a question and answer in the ancient and modern form.

(THE NUT-BROWN MAID)

A

Nay, nay, not so; ye shall not go, and I shall tell you why:
Your appetyght is to be lyght of love, I well espy;

For lyke as ye have sayed to me, in lykewyse hardely

Ye would answère, whosoever it were, in way of company.

It is sayd of old-" Sone hote, sone cold"; and so is a womàn : For I must to the grene wode go, alone, a banyshed man.

B

Yf ye take hede, it is no nede such wordes to say by me ;
For oft ye prayed and long assayed, or I you loved pardè:
And though that I of ancestry a baron's daughter be,
Yet have ye proved how I you loved, a squyer of lowe degre;
And ever shall, whatso befall; to dy therefore anone ;
For in my mynde of all mankynde I love but you alone.

(PRIOR) HENRY

O wildest thoughts of an abandoned mind !
Name, habits, parents, woman, left behind,
Ev'n honour dubious, thou prefer'st to go
Wild to the woods with me!-Said Emma so?
Or did I dream what Emma never said ?

O guilty error! and O wretched maid!

Whose roving fancy would resolve the same

With him who next should tempt her easy fame;

And blow with empty words the susceptible flame :
Now why should doubtful terms thy mind perplex?
Confess thy frailty, and avow thy sex.

No longer loose desire for constant love

Mistake: but say 'tis man with whom thou long'st to rove.

EMMA

Are there not poisons, racks, and flames, and swords,
That Emma thus must die by Henry's words?
Yet what can swords, or poisons, racks, or flame,
But mangle and disjoint the brittle frame?

More fatal Henry's words: they mangle Emma's fame.
And fall these sayings from that gentle tongue,
Where civil speech and soft persuasion hung;
Whose artful sweetness and harmonious strain,
Courting my grace, yet courting it in vain,
Called sighs, and tears, and wishes to its aid;
And whilst it Henry's glowing love conveyed,
Still blamed the coldness of the Nut-brown Maid?
Let envious jealousy, and cankered spite,
Produce my actions to severest light,
And tax my open day or secret night.
Did e'er my tongue speak my unguarded heart
The least inclined to play the wanton's part?
Did e'er my eye one inward thought reveal,
Which angels might not hear and angels tell?
And hast thou, Henry, in my conduct known
One fault, but that which I must never own,

That I of all mankind have loved but thee alone.

When Johnson, fixing his attention exclusively on this and other serious poems of Prior, goes on to criticise the latter's diction, his remarks inevitably raise a smile :

His diction is more his own than that of any among the successors of Dryden; he borrows no lucky turns or commodious modes of language from his predecessors. His phrases are original, but they are sometimes harsh; as he inherited no elegances, none has he bequeathed. His expression has every mark of laborious study: the line seldom seems to have been formed at once; the words did not come till they were called, and were then put by constraint into their places, where they do their duty, but do it sullenly.1

On this Cowper remarks with perfect justice and great felicity:

By your leave, most learned Doctor, this is the most disingenuous remark I ever met with, and would have come with a better grace from Curll or Dennis. Every man conversant

1 Lives of the Poets: Prior.

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