“To the close rock the frightened raven flies,
Soon as the rising eagle cuts the air;
The shaggy wolf unseen and trembling lies,
When the hoarse roar proclaims the lion near.
Ill-starred did we our forts and lines forsake,
To dare our British foes to open fight:
Our conquest we by stratagem should make;
Our triumph had been founded in our flight.
’Tis ours by craft and by surprise to gain;
’Tis theirs to meet in arms, and battle in the plain.”
By this new structure of his lines he has avoided difficulties; nor am I
sure that he has lost any of the power of pleasing, but he no longer
imitates Spencer. Some of his poems are written without regularity of
measures; for, when he commenced poet, he had not recovered from our
Pindaric infatuation; but he probably lived to be convinced that the
essence of verse is order and consonance. His numbers are such as mere
diligence may attain; they seldom offend the ear, and seldom soothe it;
they commonly want airiness, lightness, and facility. What is smooth is
not soft. His verses always roll, but they seldom flow.
A survey of the life and writings of Prior may exemplify a sentence which
he doubtless understood well when he read Horace at his uncle’s, “The
vessel long retains the scent which it first receives.” In his private
relaxation he revived the tavern, and in his amorous pedantry he
exhibited the college. But on higher occasions and nobler subjects, when
habit was overpowered by the necessity of reflection, he wanted not
wisdom as a statesman, or elegance as a poet.