Complete Works of Matthew Prior

by Matthew Prior

  Nor need we, in this close retirement, fear,

  Lest any swain our am’rous secrets hear.

  SILVIA.

  To ev’ry shepherd I would mine proclaim;

  Since fair Aminta is my softest theme: 10

  A stranger to the loose delights of love,

  My thoughts the nobler warmth of friendship prove:

  And, while its pure and sacred fire I sing,

  Chaste goddess of the groves, thy succour bring.

  AMARYLLIS.

  Propitious God of Love, my breast inspire

  With all thy charms, with all thy pleasing fire:

  Propitious God of Love, thy succour bring;

  Whilst I thy darling, thy Alexis sing.

  Aloxis, as the opening blossoms fair,

  Lovely as light, and soft as yielding air. 20

  For him each virgin sighs; and on the plains

  The happy youth above each rival reigns.

  Nor to the echoing groves, and whisp’ring spring,

  In sweeter strains does artful Conon sing,

  When loud applauses fill the crowded groves;

  And Phoebus the superior song approves.

  SILVIA.

  Beauteous Aminta is as early light,

  Breaking the melancholy shades of night.

  When she is near, all anxious trouble flies;

  And our reviving hearts confess her eyes. 30

  Young love, and blooming joy, and gay desires,

  In ev’ry breast the beauteous nymph inspires:

  And on the plain when she no more appears,

  The plain a dark and gloomy prospeet wears.

  In vain the streams roll on: the eastern breeze

  Dances in vain among the trembling trees.

  In vain the birds begin their ev’ning song,

  And to the silent night their notes prolong:

  Nor groves, nor crystal streams, nor verdant field

  Does wonted pleasure in her absence yield. 40

  AMARYLLIS.

  And in his absence, all the pensive day,

  In some obscure retreat I lonely stray;

  All day to the repeating eaves complain,

  In mournful accents, and a dying strain.

  Dear lovely youth, I cry to all around:

  Dear lovely youth, the flattering vales resound.

  SILVIA.

  On flow’ry banks, by ev’ry murm’ring stream,

  Aminta is my Muse’s softest theme:

  ’Tis she that docs my artful notes refine:

  With fair Aminta’s name my noblest verse shall shine. 50

  AMARYLLIS.

  I’ll twine fresh garlands for Alexis’ brows,

  And consecrate to him eternal vows:

  The charming youth shall my Apollo prove:

  He shall adorn my songs, and tune my voice to love.

  TO THE AUTHOR OF THE FOREGOING PASTORAL.

  Y Silvia if thy charming self be meant;

  If friendship be thy virgin vows’ extent;

  O! let me in Aminta’s praises join:

  Hers my esteem shall be, my passion thine.

  When for thy head the garland I prepare;

  A second Wreath shall bind Aminta’s hair:

  And when thy choicest songs thy worth proclaim;

  Alternate verse shall bless Aminta’s name;

  My heart shall own the justice of her cause;

  And Love himself submit to Friendship’s laws.

  But, if beneath thy numbers’ soft disguise,

  Some favour’d swain, some true Alexis lies;

  If Amaryllis breathes thy secret pains,

  And thy fond heart beats measure to thy strains,

  Mayst thou, howe’er I grieve, for ever find

  The flame propitious, and the lover kind:

  May Venus long exert her happy power,

  And make thy beauty, like thy verse, endure;

  May ev’ry God his friendly aid afford;

  Pan guard thy flock, and Geres bless thy board. 20

  But, if by chance the series of thy joys

  Permit one thought less cheerful to arise;

  Piteous transfer it to the mournful swain,

  Who loving much, who not bélov’d again,

  Feels an ill-fated passion’s last excess;

  And dies in woe, that thou mayst live in peace.

  TO A LADY, SHE REFUSING TO CONTINUE A DISPUTE WITH ME AND LEAVING ME IN THE ARGUMENT.

  AN ODE.

  SPARE, gen’rous Victor, spare the slave,

  Who did unequal war pursue;

  That more than triumph he might have,

  In being overcome by you.

  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 argu’d on your side.

  You, far from danger as from fear,

  Might have sustain’d an open fight: 10

  For seldom your opinions err;

  Your eyes are always in the right.

  Why, fair one, would you not rely

  On Reason’s force with Beauty’s join’d?

  Gould I their prevalence deny,

  I must at once be deaf and blind.

  Alas! not hoping to subdue,

  I only to the fight aspir’d:

  To keep the beauteous foe in view

  Was all the glory I desir’d, 20

  But she, howe’er of vict’ry sure,

  Contemns the wreath too long delay’d;

  And, arm’d 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.

  So when the Parthian turn’d his steed,

  And from the hostile camp withdrew; 30

  With cruel skill the backward reed

  He sent; and as he fled, he slew.

  SEEING THE DUKE OF ORMOND’S PICTURE AT SIR GODFREY KNELLER’S

  OUT from the injur’d canvas, Keller, strike

  These lines too faint: the picture is not like.

  Exalt thy thought, and try thy toil again:

  Dreadful in arms, on Landen’s glorious plain

  Place Ormond’s Duke: impendent in the air

  Let his keen sabre, comet-like, appear,

  Where’er it points, denouncing death: below

  Draw routed squadrons, and the num’rous foe

  Falling beneath, or flying from his blow: 9

  Till weak with wounds, and cover’d o’er with blood,

  Which from the patriot’s breast in torrents flow’d,

  He faints: his steed no longer heeds the rein;

  But stumbles o’er the heap his hand had slain.

  And now exhausted, bleeding, pale he lies;

  Lovely, sad object! in his half-clos’d eyes

  Stern vengeance yet, and hostile terror stand:

  His front yet threatens; and his frowns command:

  The Gallic chiefs their troops around him call;

  Fear to approach him, though they see him fall.

  O Kneller, could thy shades and lights express

  The perfect hero in that glorious dress; 21

  Ages to come might Ormond’s picture know;

  And palms for thee beneath his laurels grow:

  In spite of Time thy work might ever shine;

  Nor Homer’s colours last so long as thine.

  CELIA TO DAMON.

  Atque in amore mala hæc proprio, summeque secundo

  Inveniuntur —— LUCRET. lib iv.

  WHAT can I say, what arguments can prove

  My truth, what colours can describe my love;

  If its excess and fury be not known,

  In what thy Celia has already done?

  Thy infant flames, whilst yet they were conceal’d

  In tim
’rous doubts, with pity I beheld;

  With easy smiles dispell’d the silent fear,

  That durst not tell me what I died to hear:

  In vain I strove to check my growing flame,

  Or shelter passion under friendship’s name: 10

  You saw my heart, how it my tongue belied,

  And when yon press’d, how faintly I denied —

  Ere guardian thought could bring its scatter’d aid;

  Ere reason could support the doubting maid;

  My soul surpris’d, and from herself disjoin’d,

  Left all reserve, and all the sex behind:

  From your command her motions she receiv’d;

  And not for me, but you, she breath’d and liv’d.

  But ever blest be Cytherea’s shrine;

  And fires eternal on her altars shine; 20

  Since thy dear breast has felt an equal wound;

  Since in thy kindness my desires are crown’d,

  By thy each look, and thought, and care, ’tis shown,

  Thy joys are centred all in me alone;

  And sure I am, thou wouldst not change this hour

  For all the white ones Fate has in its power. —

  Yet thus belov’d, thus loving to excess,

  Yet thus receiving and returning bliss,

  In this great moment, in this golden now,

  When every trace of what, or when, or how, 30

  Should from my soul by raging love be torn,

  And far on swelling seas of rapture borne;

  A melancholy tear afflicts my eye;

  And my heart labours with a sudden sigh:

  Invading fears repel my coward joy:

  And ills foreseen the present bliss destroy.

  Poor as it is, this Beauty was the cause,

  That with first sighs your panting bosom rose:

  But with no owner Beauty long will stay,

  Upon the wings of Time borne swift away: 40

  Pass but some fleeting years, and these poor eyes

  (Where now without a boast some lustre lies)

  No longer shall their little honours keep;

  Shall only be of use to read, or weep:

  And on this forehead, where your verse has said,

  The Loves delighted, and the Graces play’d;

  Insulting Age will trace his cruel way,

  And leave sad marks of his destructive sway.

  Mov’d by my charms, with them your love may cease,

  And as the fuel sinks, the flame decrease: 50

  Or angry Heav’n may quicker darts prepare;

  And Sickness strike what Time awhile would spare.

  Then will my swain his glowing vows renew?

  Then will his throbbing heart to mine beat true?

  When my own face deters me from my glass;

  And Kneller only shows what Celia was.

  Fantastic fame may sound her wild alarms:

  Your country, as you think, may want your arms.

  You may neglect, or quench, or hate the flame,

  Whose smoke too long obscur’d your rising name:

  And quickly cold indiff’rence will ensue; 61

  When you Love’s joys through Honour’s optic view.

  Then Celia’s loudest prayer will prove too weak,

  To this abandon’d breast to bring you back;

  When my lost lover the tall ship ascends,

  With music gay, and wet with jovial friends:

  The tender accents of a woman’s cry

  Will pass unheard, will unregarded die;

  When the rough seaman’s louder shouts prevail;

  When fair occasion shows the springing gale; 70

  And Int’rest guides the helm; and Honour swells the sail.

  Some wretched lines from this neglected hand

  May find my hero on the foreign strand,

  Warm with new fires, and pleas’d with new command:

  While she who wrote ’em, of all joy bereft,

  To the rude censure of the world is left;

  Her mangled fame in barb’rous pastime lost,

  The coxcomb’s novel, and the drunkard’s toast.

  But nearer care (O pardon it!) supplies

  Sighs to my breast, and sorrow to my eyes. 80

  Love, Love himself (the only friend I have)

  May scorn his triumph, having bound his slave.

  That tyrant god, that restless conqueror

  May quit his pleasure, to assert his pow’r;

  Forsake the provinces that bless his sway,

  To vanquish those which will not yet obey.

  Another nymph with fatal power may rise,

  To damp the sinking beams of Celia’s eyes;

  With haughty pride may hear her charms confest;

  And scorn the ardent vows that I have blest: 90

  You ev’ry night may sigh for her in vain,

  And rise each morning to some fresh disdain;

  While Celia’s softest look may cease to charm,

  And her embraces want the power to warm:

  While these fond arms, thus circling you, may prove

  More heavy chains than those of hopeless love.

  Just gods! all other things their like produce:

  The vine arises from her mother’s juice:

  When feeble plants, or tender flowers decay,

  They to their seed their images convey: 100

  Where the old myrtle her good influence sheds,

  Sprigs of like leaf erect their filial heads:

  And when the parent rose decays and dies,

  With a resembling face the daughter-buds arise

  That product only which our passions bear,

  Eludes the planter’s miserable care:

  While blooming Love assures us golden fruit,

  Some inborn poison taints the secret root:

  Soon fall the flowers of joy; soon seeds of hatred shoot.

  Say, shepherd, say, are these reflections true? 110

  Or was it but the woman’s fear, that drew in

  This cruel scene, unjust to Love and you?

  Will you be only, and for ever mine?

  Shall neither time, nor age our souls disjoin?

  From this dear bosom shall I ne’er be torn?

  Or you grow cold, respectful, and forsworn?

  And can you not for her you love do more,

  Than any youth for any nymph before?

  AN ODE PRESENTED TO THE KING, ON HIS MAJESTY’S ARRIVAL IN HOLLAND, AFTER THE

  QUEEN’S DEATH, MDCXCV.

  Quia desiderio sit pudor aut modus

  Tam can capitis? Praecipe lugubres

  Cantus, Melpomene.

  AT Mary’s tomb, (sad, sacred place!)

  The Virtues shall their vigils keep:

  And every Muse, and every Grace

  In solemn state shall ever weep.

  The future, pious, mournful fair,

  Oft as the rolling years return,

  With fragrant wreathe, and flowing hair,

  Shall visit her distinguish’d urn.

  For her the wise and great shall mourn;

  When late records her deeds repeat: 10

  Ages to some, and men unborn

  Shall bless her name, and sigh her fate.

  Fair Albion shall, with faithful trust,

  Her holy Queen’s sad reliques guard;

  Till Heav’n awakes the precious dust,

  And gives the saint her full reward.

  But let the king dismiss his woes,

  Reflecting on his fair renown;

  And take the cypress from his brows,

  To put his wonted laurels on. 20

  If press’d by grief our monarch stoops;

  In vain the British lions roar:

  If he, whose hand sustain’d them, droops,

  The Belgic darts will wound no more.

  Embattled princes wait the chief,

  Whose voice should rule, whose arm should lead;

  A
nd, in kind murmurs, chide that grief,

  Which hinders Europe being freed.

  The great example they demand,

  Who still to conquest led the way; 30

  Wishing him present to command,

  As they stand ready to obey.

  They seek that joy, which used to glow,

  Expanded on the hero’s face;

  When the thick squadrons press’d the foe,

  And William led the glorious chace.

  To give the mourning nations joy,

  Restore them thy auspicious light,

  Great sun: with radiant beams destroy

  Those clouds, which keep thee from our sight.

  Let thy sublime meridian course 41

  For Mary’s setting rays atone;

  Our lustre, with redoubled force,

  Must now proceed from thee alone.

  See, pious King, with diff’rent strife

  Thy struggling Albion’s bosom torn:

  So much she fears for William’s life,

  That Mary’s fate she dare not mourn.

  Her beauty, in thy softer half

  Buried and lost, she ought to grieve; 50

  But let her strength in thee be safe:

  And let her weep; but let her live.

  Thou, guardian angel, save the land

  From thy own grief, her fiercest foe:

  Lest Britain, rescued by thy hand,

  Should bend and sink beneath thy woe.

  Her former triumphs all are vain,

  Unless new trophies still be sought;

  And hoary majesty sustain

  The battles, which thy youth has fought. 60

  Where now is all that fearful love,

  Which made her hate the war’s alarms?

  That soft excess, with which she strove

  To keep her hero in her arms?

  While still she chid the coming spring.

  Which call’d him o’er his subject seas:

  While, for the safety of the king,

  She wish’d the victor’s glory less.

  ’Tis chang’d; ’tis gone: sad Britain now

  Hastens her lord to foreign wars: 70

  Happy, if toils may break his woe,

  Or danger may divert his cares.