Matthew Prior - Poems
Total Page:16
File Type:pdf, Size:1020Kb
Classic Poetry Series Matthew Prior - poems - Publication Date: 2004 Publisher: Poemhunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive Matthew Prior(1664 - 1721) Matthew Prior, poet and diplomat, was born near Wimborne Minster, Dorset. His family moved to London while he was still a child. He was educated at Westminister School, but was taken out when his father died and apprenticed to his uncle, a tavern-keeper. In 1680 he went to Cambridge on a scholarship from the Earl of Dorset and while there he co-wrote with Charles Montague, The Hind and the Panther Transversed to the Story of the Country and City Mouse (1687), a burlesque on Dryden's Hind and the Panther which cuts it down to size by making it absurd. Prior held various diplomatic posts, and in 1700 entered parliament with the Tories. He was Ambassador at Paris when he was recalled at the death of Queen Anne in 1715, and imprisoned for two years. During his time in prison he composed Alma or the Progress of the Mind (1715), a sceptical and humorous poem for which he is best known today. A folio edition of his work was published in 1719 and secured him a profit of 4000 guineas. He died in 1921 in Down Hall which he had purchased two years previously. At its best his work stands alongside Swift, and was admired by Samuel Johnson and William Cowper. He is buried in Poets' Corner in Westminster Abbey. www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 1 A Better Answer Dear Cloe, 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 Falstaf says) Let us e'en talk a little like folks of this world. How can'st thou presume, thou hast leave to destroy The beauties, which Venus but lent to thy keeping? Those looks were design'd to inspire love and joy: More ord'nary eyes may serve people for weeping. To be vexed 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: Od's Life! must one swear to the truth of a song? What I speak, my fair Cloe, and what I write, shews The diff'rence 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 reclines on his Thetis's breast. So when I am weary'd with wand'ring 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 Cloe, 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. Matthew Prior www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 2 A Dutch Proverb Fire, Water, Woman, are Man's Ruin; Says wise Professor Vander Bruin. By Flames a House I hir'd was lost Last Year: and I must pay the Cost. This Spring the Rains o'erflow'd my Ground: And my best Flanders Mare was drown'd. A Slave I am to Clara's Eyes: The Gipsey knows her Pow'r, and flies. Fire, Water, Woman, are My Ruin: And great Thy Wisdom, Vander Bruin. Matthew Prior www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 3 A Flower. Painted By Simon Varelst When famed Varelst this little wonder drew, Flora vouchsafed the growing works to view; Finding the painter's science at a stand, The goddess snatch'd the pencil from his hand, And finishing the piece, she smiling said, Behold one work of mine that ne'er shall fade. Matthew Prior www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 4 A Letter To Lady Margaret Cavendish Holles-Harley, When A Child 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 duty say your prayer: Our Father first, then Notre Pere. And, dearest child, along the day, In every thing 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. Matthew Prior www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 5 A Letter To Monsieur Boileau Despreaux, Occasioned By The Victory At Blenheim Since hired for life, thy servile Muse must sing Successive conquests and a glorious King; Must of a man immortal vainly boast, And bring him laurels whatsoe'er they cost, What turn wilt thou employ, what colours lay, On the event of that superior day, In which one English subject's prosperous hand (So Jove did will, so Anna did command) Broke the proud column of thy master's praise, Which sixty winters had conspired to raise? From the lost field a hundred standards brought Must be the work of Chance, and Fortune's fault. Bavaria's stars must be accused, which shone, That fatal day the mighty work was done, With rays oblique upon the Gallic sun. Some demon envying France misled the sight, And Mars mistook, though Louis order'd right. When thy young Muse invoked the tuneful Nine, To say how Louis did not pass the Rhine, What work had we with Wageninghen, Arnheim, Places that could not be reduced to rhyme? And though the poet made his last efforts, Wurts -- who could mention in heroic -- Wurts? But, tell me, hast thou reason to complain Of the rough triumphs of the last campaign? The Danube rescued and the Empire saved, Say, is the majesty of verse retrieved? And would it prejudice thy softer vein To sing the princes Louis and Eugene? Is it too hard in happy verse to place The Vans and Vanders of the Rhine and Maese? Her warriors Anna sends from Tweed and Thames, That France may fall by more harmonious names. Canst thou not Hamilton or Lumley bear? Would Ingoldsby or Palmes offend thy ear? And is there not a sound in Marlbro's name Which thou and all thy brethren ought to claim, www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 6 Sacred to verse, and sure of endless fame? Cutts is in metre something harsh to read; Place me the valiant Gouram in his stead; Let the intention make the number good; Let generous Sylvius speak for honest Wood, And though rough Churchill scarce in verse will stand, So as to have one rhyme at his command. With ease the bard reciting Blenheim's plain, May close the verse, remembering but the Dane. I grant, old friend, old foe, (for such we are Alternate as the chance of peace and war) That we poetic folks, who must restrain Our measured sayings in an equal chain, Have troubles utterly unknown to those Who let their fancy loose in rambling prose. For instance, now, how hard is it for me To make my matter and my my verse agree? In one great day, on Hochstets fatal plain, French and Bavarians twenty thousand slain; Push'd through the Danube to the shores of Styx Squadrons eighteen, battalions twenty-six; Officers captive made, and private men, Of these twelve hundred, of those thousands ten; Tents, ammunition, colours, carriages, Cannons, and kettle-drums, -- sweet numbers these But is it thus you English bards compose? With Runic lays thus tag insipid prose? And when you should your hero's deeds rehearse Give us a commissary's list in verse? Why, faith, Despreaux, there's sense in what you say; I told you where my difficulty lay: So vast, so numerous, were great Blenheim's spoils, They scorn the bounds of verse, and mock the muse's toils. To make the rough recital aptly chime, Or bring the sum of Gallia's loss to rhyme, 'Tis mighty hard: what poet would essay To count the streamers of my Lord Mayor's day? To number all the several dishes dress'd By honest Lamb last coronation-feast? Or make arithmetic and epic meet, And Newton's thoughts in Dryden's style repeat? O Poet, had it been Apollo's will www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 7 That I had shared a portion of thy skill; Had this poor breast received the heavenly beam, Or could I hope my verse might reach my theme; Yet, Boileau, yet the labouring muse should strive Beneath the shades of Marlbro's wreaths to live; Should call aspiring gods to bless her choice, And to their favourite's strain exalt her voice, Arms and a Queen to sing, who, great and good, From peaceful Thames to Danube's wondering flood, Sent forth the terror of her high commands, To save the nations from invading hands, To prop fair Liberty's declining cause, And fix the jarring world with equal laws. The queen should sit in Windsor's sacred grove Attended by the gods of War and Love; Both should with equal zeal her smiles implore, To fix her joys, or to extend her Power. Sudden the Nymphs and Tritons should appear And as great Anna smiles dispel their fear; With active dance should her observance claim: With vocal shell should sound her happy name; Their master Thames should leave the neigh'bring shore By his strong anchor known and silver oar; Should lay his ensigns at his sovereign's feet, And audience mild with humble grace entreat.