rvice, and said good
things that proved his sense and his spirit. When the apartments at
Versailles were shown to him, with the victories of Louis XIV painted on
the walls, and Prior was asked whether the palace of the King of England
had any such decorations, "The monuments of my master's actions," Mat
said, of William, whom he cordially revered, "are to be seen everywhere
except in his own house." Bravo, Mat! Prior rose to be full ambassador at
Paris,(110) where he somehow was cheated out of his ambassadorial plate;
and in a heroic poem, addressed by him to her late lamented Majesty Queen
Anne, Mat makes some magnificent allusions to these dishes and spoons, of
which Fate had deprived him. All that he wants, he says, is her Majesty's
picture; without that he can't be happy.

Thee, gracious Anne, thee present I adore:
Thee, Queen of Peace, if Time and Fate have power
Higher to raise the glories of thy reign,
In words sublimer and a nobler strain.
May future bards the mighty theme rehearse.
Here, Stator Jove, and Phoebus, king of verse,
The votive tablet I suspend.

With that word the poem stops abruptly. The votive tablet is suspended for
ever like Mahomet's coffin. News came that the queen was dead. Stator
Jove, and Phoebus, king of verse, were left there, hovering to this day,
over the votive tablet. The picture was never got any more than the spoons
and dishes--the inspiration ceased--the verses were not wanted--the
ambassador wasn't wanted. Poor Mat was recalled from his embassy, suffered
disgrace along with his patrons, lived under a sort of cloud ever after,
and disappeared in Essex. When deprived of all his pensions and
emoluments, the hearty and generous Oxford pensioned him. They played for
gallant stakes--the bold men of those days--and lived and gave splendidly.

Johnson quotes from Spence a legend, that Prior, after spending an evening
with Harley, St. John, Pope, and Swift, would go off and smoke a pipe with
a couple of friends of his, a soldier and his wife, in Long Acre. Those
who have not read his late excellency's poems should be warned that they
smack not a little of the conversation of his Long Acre friends. Johnson
speaks slightingly of his lyrics; but with due deference to the great
Samuel, Prior's seem to me amongst the easiest, the richest, the most
charmingly humorous of English lyrical poems.(111) Horace is always in his
mind, and his song, and his philosophy,