Nor quality, nor reputation, Forbid me yet my flame to tell, Dear five years old befriends my passion, For, while she makes her silk worms beds 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. Then too, alas! when she shall tear The lines some younger rival sends, She 'll give me leave to write, I fear, For as our different ages move, 'Tis so ordained (would Fate but mend it!) That I shall be past making love, When she begins to comprehend it. MATTHEW PRIOR.1 1 MATTHEW PRIOR was born in Devonshire in 1664 and adopted by his uncle, the landlord of a London tavern, who sent him to Westminster School. His cleverness and knowledge of Latin are said to have attracted the notice of Lord Dorset, who sent him to Cambridge, and who afterwards certainly pushed his fortunes. He entered politics, held many important offices, both at home and in diplomatic service, and finally rose to be minister at Paris, when Lord Bolingbroke was at the head of affairs, during the last years of Queen Anne. On the death of the queen and the fal of the Tories from power Prior was thrown into prison by the Whigs, but was discharged without a tris! He died at Wimpole ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, in 1721. During all his active life he never lost his taste for letters, or ceased to write both prose and verse. Besides his memoirs he left many poems, almost all of a light and easy character, but displaying wit, fancy, and humor. He was a genial man and agreeable companion, but he was a loose liver, extravagant, nd had low tastes in some respects which he freely indulged. 5 For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Full many a gem of purest ray serene Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, Their lot forbade; nor circumscribed alone The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse The place of fame and elegy supply: And many a holy text around she strews 'That teach the rustic moralist to die. For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, On some fond breast the parting soul relies, For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonor'd dead, Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech |