are the apprehensions which her admirer represents her as entertaining, that hereafter
He might neglect, or quench, or hate the flame,
Whose smoke too long obscur'd his rising fame.
Chloe, who reigned in her stead, but whose empire became more extensive and durable than that of her predecessor, far from enacting the part of a coy charmer, interested by her ingenuousness and constancy.
Fair Thames she haunts; and every neighbouring grove,
Sacred to soft recess, and gentle love!
It is to this lady that the world is indebted for the revival of the "Nut-brown Maid," in the poem of "Henry and Emma." The introductory lines, addressed to her, beautifully express the ardour and permanency of affection. A fault, common to men of his temperament, Prior certainly displayed; that of impotently courting those smiles, which he no longer possessed the power to attract. Love had ejected him from his ranks, before he could consent to withdraw from the service.
The following lines present a portraiture of his favourite Nymph:
In ringlets rather dark than fair,
Does down her ivory bosom roll;
And, hiding half, adorns the whole.
In her high forehead's fair half round,
Love sits in open triumph crown'd:
He in the dimple of her chin,
In private state, by friends is seen.
Her eyes are neither black nor grey,
Nor fierce nor feeble is their ray;
Their dubious lustre seems to show
Something that speaks nor yes nor no.
Her lips
Old Homer only could endite
Their fragrant grace, and soft delight:
They stand recorded in his book,
When Helen smil'd, and Hebe spoke !
Prior had some failings, but they were counterbalanced with many excellencies. To considerable genius for poetry, he united the industry necessary for business. He was sociable, friendly, grateful. Though volatile, he was not inconstant; though gay, he was not radically licentious,
WHILE from our looks, fair Nymph, you guess
The secret passions of our mind;
My heavy eyes, you say, confess
A heart to love and grief inclin’d.
There needs, alas! but little art
To have this fatal secret found;
With the same ease you threw the dart,
'Tis certain you can show the wound.
How can I see you, and not love,
While you as opening east are fair?
While cold as northern blasts you prove,
How can I love, and not despair?
The wretch, in double fetters bound,
Your potent mercy may release:
Soon, if my love but once were crown'd,
Fair Prophetess! my grief would cease.
THE merchant, to secure his treasure,
Conveys it in a borrow'd name;
Euphelia serves to grace my measure,
But Chloe is my real flame.
My softest verse, my darling lyre,
Upon Euphelia's toilet lay,
When Chloe noted her desire
That I should sing, that I should play.
My lyre I tune, my voice I raise,
But with my numbers mix my sighs;
And whilst I sing Euphelia's praise,
I fix my soul on Chloe's eyes!
Fair Chloe blush'd-Euphelia frown'd!
I sung, and gaz'd, I play'd, I trembled:
And Venus, to the Loves around,
Remark'd how ill we all dissembled.
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?
Alas! what dangers on the main
Can equal those that I sustain,
From slighted vows and cold disdain?
Be gentle, and in pity choose
To wish the wildest tempest 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 !
THE pride of every grove I chose,
The violet sweet, and lily fair,
The dappled pink, and blushing rose,
To deck my charming Chloe's hair.
At morn the Nymph vouchsaf'd to place
Upon her brow the various wreath ;
The flowers less blooming than her face,
The scent less fragrant than her breath :
The flowers she wore along the day;
And every nymph and shepherd said
That in her hair they look'd more gay,
Than glowing in their native bed.
Undrest, at evening when she found
Their odours lost, their colours past,
She chang'd her look; and on the ground
Her garland and her eye she cast.
That eye dropt sense distinct and clear
As any Muse's tongue could speak,
When from its lid a pearly tear
Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek.
Dissembling what I knew too well,
"My love, my life!" said I, explain
This change of humour? pry'thee tell,
That falling tear-what does it mean?"
She sigh'd, she smil'd; and to the flow'rs
Pointing, the lovely moralist said—
See, friend, in some few fleeting hours,
See yonder what a change is made!
Ah, me! the blooming pride of May,
And that of Beauty are but one;
At morn, both flourish bright and gay;
Both fade at evening, pale and gone.
At dawn poor Stella danc'd and sung, The' amorous youth around her bow'd; At night her fatal knell was rung,
I saw and kiss'd her in her shroud!
Such as she is, who died to-day,
Such I, alas! may be to-morrow;
Go, Damon! bid thy Muse display
The justice of thy Chloe's sorrow.
WRITTEN BY PRIOR, AS FROM HIS CHLOE.
WHEN in my glass I chance to look,
Of Venus what do I implore?-
That every grace, which thence I took,
Should know to charm my Damon more.
Reading thy verse-" who heeds," said I,
"If here or there his glances flew ?
O, free for ever be his eye,
Whose heart to me is always true!"
Ten thousand trifles, light as these,
Nor can my rage, nor anger move :
She should be humble, who would please;
And she must suffer, who can love.
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