This sublime work begins thus,
Ye sons of men, with just regard attend,
Observe the preacher, and believe the
friend,
Whose serious muse inspires him to explain,
That all we act, and all we think is vain:
That in this pilgrimage of seventy years,
O’er rocks of perils, and thro’
vales of tears
Destin’d to march, our doubtful
steps we tend,
Tir’d of the toil, yet fearful of
its end:
That from the womb, we take our fatal
shares,
Of follies, fashions, labours, tumults,
cares;
And at approach of death shall only know,
The truths which from these pensive numbers
flow,
That we pursue false joy, and suffer real
woe.
After an enquiry into, and an excellent description of the various operations, and effects of nature, the system of the heavens, &c. and not being fully informed of them, the first Book concludes,
How narrow limits were to wisdom given?
Earth she surveys; she thence would measure
Heav’n:
Thro’ mists obscure, now wings her
tedious way;
Now wanders dazl’d, with too bright
a day;
And from the summit of a pathless coast
Sees infinite, and in that sight is lost.
In the second Book the uncertainty, disappointment, and vexation attending pleasure in general, are admirably described; and in the character of Solomon is sufficiently shewn, that nothing debases majesty, or indeed any man, more than ungovernable passion.
When thus the gath’ring storms of
wretched love
In my swoln bosom, with long war had strove;
At length they broke their bounds; at
length their force
Bore down whatever met its stronger course:
Laid all the civil bounds of manhood waste.
And scatter’d ruin, as the torrent
past.
The third Book treats particularly of the trouble and instability of greatness and power, considers man through the several stages and conditions of life, and has excellent reasoning upon life and death. On the last are these lines;
Cure of the miser’s wish, and cowards
fear,
Death only shews us, what we knew was
near.
With courage therefore view the ’pointed
hour;
Dread not death’s anger, but expect
its power;
Nor nature’s laws, with fruitless
sorrow mourn;
But die, O mortal man! for thou wast born.
The poet has likewise these similies on life;
As smoke that rises from the kindling
fires
Is seen this moment, and the next expires:
As empty clouds by rising winds are tost,
Their fleeting forms no sooner found than
lost:
So vanishes our state; so pass our days;
So life but opens now, and now decays;
The cradle, and the tomb, alas! so nigh;
To live is scarce distinguished from to
die.
We shall conclude this account of Mr. Prior’s life with the following copy of verses, written on his Death by Robert Ingram, esq; which is a very successful imitation of Mr. Prior’s manner.