But lo! and let the pious tear be shed,
On the sad cloth the world's great Master dead!
The mother see! in grief amazing drown'd,

And sorrow more than mortal spread around.
What striking attitudes! what strong relief!
We see, we wonder at, we feel the grief.
Who could such power of speaking-paint employ?
Own, Parma, own thy darling son with joy;
Still to his memory fresh trophies rear,
Whose life insatiate war itself could spare.

No arms he needed 'midst the fatal strife,
But to his potent pencil ow'd his life,

The wondering soldier dropp'd the lifted sword,
Nor stain'd those hands he only not ador'd.

Now as Aeneas in the Stygian glades Wondering beheld departed heroes' shades, Amidst the forms of worthies dead we range, Ey eternising paint preserv'd from change.

Here law and learning dwell in Wandesford's face, While valiant Whartons shine with martial grace; And the soft females of the race declare

That these no braver were than those were fair;

In garter'd glory drest here Danby stands,
And Laud with air imperious still commands.

The next great form with melancholy eye, And inauspicious valor, seems to sigh. Peace to his soul! howe'er 'gainst right he fought, Be in his dreadful doom his sin forgot;

Too much misled to leave his honor clear-
Too wretched not to claim a generous tear!
A wretch to virtue's still a sacred thing!
How much more sacred then, a murder'd king!
But be our wrath, as it deserves, applied
To his two guides, still closest to his side,
Laud and the queen, whose fatal conduct show,
What bigot zeal and headstrong pride could do.

But see where Kneller now our eye commands To pictur'd kings, familiar to his hands, Kings to support a free-born people made, Kings who but rul'd to bless the lands they sway'd; Sovereigns, whose inoppressive power has shown, Freedom and monarchy, well-join'd, are one.

See mighty William's fierce determin'd eye, Freedom to save, or in her cause to die; As when on Boyne's important banks he stood, And as his deeds surpris'd the swelling flood; All torn and mangled, false Religion fled, And crush'd Oppression snarl❜d beneath his tread

Next in the steady lines of Brunswick's face Majestic, manly honesty we trace;

Pleas'd, as on Sarum's plain, with glad accord, When willing thousands hail'd their new-come lord, And (far beyond a tyrant's baneful glee)

The king rejoic'd to find his people free.

Good prince, whose age forsook thy native land,
To bless our Albion with thy mild command,
Long may this sacred form of thee remain,

Here plac'd by him whose counsels bless'd thy reign!
And ever may his sons with joy relate,

That he as faithful was as thou wert great!

But now, my Muse, to soberer pomp descend,
And to the cool arcade my steps attend.

Here, when the summer sun spreads round his ray,
Beneath the bending arch young Zephyrs play,
And, when it farther from our orb retires,
Old Vulcan smiling lights his cheerful fires.
Hither the jolly hunter's crew resort,
Talk o'er the day, and re-enjoy their sport.
Here too, with brow unbent, and cheerful air,
The mighty statesman oft forgot his care;
Knew friendship's joys, and still attentive hung
On Pelham, Edgecumbe, Devonshire, or Yonge ;
In senates form'd or private life to please,

There shar'd his toil, and here partook his ease.

Here by thy stay, my muse, though pleas'd, not long,

Thy sister Painting claims again my song,
Where thron'd in state the goddess we descry,
As the gay gallery opens on our eye.

Here in her utmost pomp well-pleas'd she reigns,
Nor weeps her absent Rome or Lombard plains;

Here the great master's genius still survives,
Breathes in the paint, and on the canvas lives,
Whate'er in Nature's forming power is plac'd,
Fair to the eye, and luscious to the taste,
Is by our cheated sense with joy perceiv'd,
Nor but by touching are we undeceiv'd.
Pausing, and loth to be convinc'd, we stand,
Lest the fair fruit should suffer from our hand,
Lest the press'd plumb our ruder touch should own,
Or swelling peach bewail its injur'd down:

Less dare we to the fish or fowl draw near,
Though tempting, strongly guarded they appear;
Frighted we scarce can brook the horrid looks
Of dogs, and snarling cats, and swearing cooks.
What strokes, what colors, Snyders could command !
How great the power of Rubens' daring hand!
Immortal Rubens! whose capacious mind,

Of the vast art to no one part confin'd,

Pierc'd, like the sun's quick beam, all nature through,

And whatsoe'er the goddess form'd he drew.
See! Mola next the Roman deeds displays,
That bids our hearts be patriot as we gaze:
Here Julio's wondrous buildings still appear,
And swelling domes still seem to rise in air.
Great shade of Poussin from the Muse receive
All the renown a verse, like hers, can give.
Genius sublime! to reach thy soaring praise,
A Muse like Maro's should renew her lays;

Rival of Raphael! such thy wondrous line, 'Tis next to his; and only not divine.

Ye maids, employ'd in spotless Vesta's sight,
Lend me a beam of your eternal light ;
Full on yon picture throw the sacred ray,
And high imperial chastity display.

See the great Roman, on his martial throne,
Outdo whate'er in war his arms had done!
See him rise far beyond a soldier's fame,
And Afric's victor but a second name!
Valiant and great he trod the field of blood,
But here is virtuous, bountiful, and good;
Resists the utmost power of female charms,
Feels all their force, yet gives them from his arms,
And, lord of all the passions of his breast,
Defeats ev'n Love, and makes his rival blest.
Wonderful strokes, that through the eye impart
Such various motions to the human heart:
Through it a thousand floating passions move,
We pity, wonder, weep, rejoice, and love.

The moral tale thus exquisitely told,
His colors now diviner truths unfold;
At Horeb's rock in sacred awe we stand,
And pencil'd miracles our faith command.
The mighty law-giver his rod displays,
And the tough flint his potent touch obeys;
Quick into streams dissolves the solid stone,