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. 1. Mat. Prior!--(and we must submit) Is at his journey's end; In whom the world has lost a wit, And I, what's more, a friend. 2. Who vainly hopes long here to stay, May see with weeping eyes; Not only nature posts away, But e'en good nature dies! 3. Should grave ones count these praises light, To such it may be said: A man, in this lamented wight, Of business too is dead. 4. From ancestors, as might a fool! He trac'd no high-fetch'd stem; But gloriously revers'd the rule, By dignifying them. 5. O! gentle Cambridge! sadly say, Why fates are so unkind To snatch thy giant sons away, Whilst pigmies stay behind? 6. Horace and he were call'd, in haste, From this vile earth to heav'n; The cruel year not fully past, Ætatis, fifty seven. 7. So, on the tops of Lebanon, Tall cedars felt the sword, To grace, by care of Solomon, The temple of the Lord. 8. A tomb amidst the learned may The western abbey give! Like theirs, his ashes must decay, Like theirs, his fame shall live. 9. Close, carver, by some well cut books, Let a thin busto tell, In spite of plump and pamper'd looks, How scantly sense can dwell! 10. No epitaph of tedious length Should overcharge the stone; Since loftiest verse would lose its strength, In mentioning his own. 11. At once! and not verbosely tame, Some brave Laconic pen Should smartly touch his ample name, In form of--O rare Ben! * * * * *