Waller.

On divine love to meditate is peace,

And makes all care of meaner things to cease.

Amaz'd at once, and comforted, to find
A boundless pow'r fo infinitely kind;
The foul contending to that light to flie
From her dark cell, we practile how to die;
Employing thus the Poet's winged art,
To reach this love, and grave it in our heart.
Joy fo complete, fo folid, and fevere,

Would leave no place for meaner pleasures there:
Pale they would look, as ftars that must be gone,
When from the east the rifing fun comes on.

Prior.

Prior.

(S. von ihm B. i. S. 144.

Sein Lehrgedicht, SOLOMON, on the Vanity of the World, besteht aus drei Bü chern, in welchen Salomon die Erfahrungen und Bemerkun gen seines Lebens, in Rücksicht auf die drei Hauptgegenstän de dieses Gedichts, Wissenschaft, Vergnügen und macht, vortrågt. Eben durch diesen immer fortwährenden, handluugsleeren, und doch zum Theil erzählenden Vortrag hat das Ganze eine sehr ermüdende Einförmigkeit erhalten; auch find eben diese Betrachtungen von andern énglischen Lehrs dichtern weit besser und eindringlicher angestellt worden. Wes brigens wird kein aufmerksamer Leser den Fleiß verkennen, mit welchem Prior dieß Gedicht ausarbeitete, noch die eins zelnen Schönheiten und poetischen Blicke. Eine der beftën Stellen ist folgende, über die Zweifel, worin die bloße Ver: nunft über unsern Zustand nach dem Tode umher schwankt; und worüber sie bloß durch Offenbarung, die dem Salomo in der Folge durch einen Engel geschieht, beruhigt werden kann. Vergl. Dusch's Briefe, Th. II. n. A. Br. xi,

Ein zweites Gedicht von Prior, unter der Aufschrift: Alma, or the Progress of the Mind, in three Cantos, gehört gleichfalls zur didaktischen Gattung, wenn man es anders nicht lieber zur satirischen rechnen will; denn es ist ein scherzhaftes Lehrgedicht, und, so viel ich weiß, das einzige in feiner Art. Vielleicht wäre diese Behandlungsart das wirksamste Mittel, die, auch in unsern Tagen oft übertriebes ne, Spitfindigkeit und unnüße Grübelei in philosophischen Untersuchungen in ihrer ganzen Lächerlichkeit so darzustellen, wie hier Prior mit der Streitfräge über den Sig der Seele, wikig und launig genug, versucht hat. Manier, Ton und Versart sind eine sehr schickliche, und gewiß nicht unglücklis che, Nachahmung des Butlerischen Hudibras, dessen gans zes Kolorit jedoch lebhafter und anziehender ist. Die Unter redung wird zwischen Matthew und Richard geführt; und der leytere sucht in følgender Stelle darzuthun, daß die Sees le keinen festen, sondern einen veränderlichen Siß im menschlichen Körper habe, und zwar immer in demjenigen Theile deffelben, welcher das Werkzeug einer zur Zeit herrschenden Leidenschaft ist.)

Prior.

SOLOMON.

(B. III.)

With an imperfect Hand, and trembling Heart,
Her Love of Truth fuperior to her Art,
Already the reflecting Mufe has trac'd
The mournful Figures of my Action past.
The penfive Goddefs has already taught
How vain is Hope, and how vexatious Thought;
From growing Childhood to declining Age
How tedious every Step, how gloomy ev'ry Stage.
This Courfe of Vanity almost compleat
Tir'd in the Field of Life, I hope Retreat

In the ftill Shades of Death: for Dread and Pain
And Grief will find their Shafts elanc'd in vain
And their Points broke, retorted from the Head,
Safe in the Grave, and free among the Dead.

Yet tell Me, frighted Reafon! what is Death?
Blood only ftopp'd, and interrupted Breath?
The utmoft Limit of a narrow Span,
And End of Motion which with Life began?
As Smoke that rifes from the kindling Fires
Is feen this Moment, and the next expires:
As empty Clouds by rifing Winds are toft,
Their fleeting Forms fcarce fooner found than loft:
So vanishes our State, fo pafs our Days:
So Life but opens now, and now decays:
The Crudle and the Tomb, alas! fo nigh;
To live is Icarce diftinguifh'd from to die.

Cure of the Mifer's wifh, and Coward's Fear, Death only fhews us, what We knew was near, With Courage therefore view the pointed Hour; Dread not Death's Anger; but expect his Pow'r; Nor Nature's Law with fruitlefs Sorrow mourn, But die, o mortal Man! for Thou waft born.

Beisp. S. 2. B.

Cau

Prior.

Cautious thro' Doubt; by Want of Courage wife,

To fuch Advice the Reas'ner ftill replies:

Yet measuring all the long continued Space
Ev'ry fucceffive Day's repeated Race,
Since Time firft ftarted from his priftin Goal
Till he had reach'd that Hour, wherein my Soul
Join'd to my Body fwell'd the Womb; I was,
(At least I thinke io) Nothing; must I pass
Again to Nothing, when this vital Breath
Ceafing, configns Me o'er, to Reft, and Death?
Must the whole Man, amazing Thought! return
To the cold Marble, or contracted Urn?
And never fhall thofe Particles agree,
That were in Life this Individual, He?
But fever'd, muft they join the general Mafs
Thro' other Forms, and Shapes ordain'd to pafs;
Nor Thought nor Image kept of what He was?
Does the great Word that gave him Sense, ordain
That Life shall never wake that Sense again?
And will no Pow'r his finking Spirits fave

From the dark Caves of Death, and Chambers of the
Grave?

Each Evening I behold the fetting Sun
With down-ward Speed into the Ocean run:
Yet the fame Light (pafs but fome fleeting Hours)
Exerts his Vigor, and renews his Pow'rs;
Starts the bright Race again: His conftant Flame
Rifes and fets, returning ftill the fame.
I mark the various Fury of the Winds;
These neither Seafons guide, nor Order binds:
They now dilate, and now contract their Force:
Various their Speed, but endless is their Course.
From his firft Fountain and beginning Ouze,
Down to the Sea each Brook and Torrent flows:
Tho' fundry Drops or leave, or fwell the Stream,
The whole ftill runs, with equal Pace, the Same.

Still other Waves fupply the rifing Urns;
And the eternal flood no Want of Water mourns.

Why then muft Man obey the fad Decree, Which fubjects neither Sun, nor Wind, nor Sea?

A Flow'r, that does with opening Morn arife,
And flourishing the Day, at Evening dies;
A winged eastern Blaft, juft fkimming o'er
The Ocean's Brow, and finking on the Shore;
A Fire, whofe Flames thro' crakling Stubble fly,
A Meteor fhooting from the fummer Sky;
A Bowl a-down the bending Mountain roll'd;
A Bubble breaking, and a Fable told;

A Noon-tide Shadow, and a Midnight Dream
Are Emblems, which with Semblance apt proclaim
Our earthly Courfe: But, o my Soul! fo faft
Must Life run off: and Death for ever laft?

This dark Opinion, fure, is too confin'd,
Elfe whence this Hope, and Terror of the mind?
Does fomething ftill, and fomewhere yet remain
Reward or Punishment, Delight or Pain?
Say: fhall our Relicks feeond Birth receive?
Sleep We to wake, and only die to live?
When the fad Wife has clos'd her Husband's Eyes
And pierc'd the echoing Vault with doleful Cries;
Lies the pale Corpfe not yet entirely dead?
The Spirit only from the Body fled,
The groffer Part of Heat and Motion void,
To be by Fire, or Worm, or Time destroy'd:
The Soul, immortal Subftance, to remain.
Confcious of Joy, and capable of Pain?
And if her Acts have been directed well;
While with her friendly Clay The deign'd to dwell;
Shall fhe with Safety reach her priftine Seat?
Find her Reft endlefs, and her Blifs compleat?
And while the buried Man We idly mourn;
De Angels join to fee his better Half return?

Prior.