Delightful fcene! when here, in equal verfe,
"The youthful bards their godlike Queen rehearse,
To Churchill's wreaths Apollo's laurel join,
And fing the plains of Hock ftet and Judoign..
Next let the Mufe record our Bodley's feat *
Nor aim at numbers, like the fubject, great:
All hail, thou fabrick, facred to the Nine,
Thy fame immortal, and thy form divine.!
Who to thy praise attempts the dangerous flight,
Should in thy various tongues be taught to
write;
His verfe, like thee, a lofty dress should wear,
And breathe the genius which inhabits there;
Thy proper lays alone can make thee live,
Anti pay that fame, which first thyself didst give.
So fountains, which through fecret channels flow,
And pour above the floods they take below,
Back to their Eather Ocean urge their way,
And to the fea, the ftreams it gave, repay.
No more we fear the military rage,
Nurs'd-up in fome obfcure barbarian age;.
Nor dread the ruin of our arts divine,
From thick-fcull'd heroes of the Gothic line,
*The Bodleian Library. T.
Though pale the Romans faw thofe arms ad
And wept their learning loft in ignorance.
Let brutal rage around its terrors spread,
The living murder, and confume the dead,
In impious fires let nobleft writings burn,
And with their authors fhare a common urn;. .
Only, ye Fates, our loved Bodleian fpare,
Be IT, and Learning's felf fhall be your care,.
Here every art and every grace fhall join,
Collected Phoebus here alone fhall fhine,
Each other feat be dark, and this be all divine.
Thus when the Greeks imperial Troy defac'd,.
And to the ground its fatal walls debas',
In vain they burn the work of hands divine,
And vow deftruction to the Dardan line,
Whilft good neas fies th' unequal wars,.
And, with his guardian gods, lülus bears,
Old Troy for ever stands in him alone,
And all the Phrygian kings furvive in one.
Here still prefides each Sage's reverend fade, In foft repofe and eafy grandeur laid;
Their deathless works forbid their fame to die,
Nor Time itself their perfons fhall destroy,
Preferv'd within the living gallery *.
What greater gift could bounteous heaven bestow,
Than to be feen above, and read below?
With deep respect I bend my duteous head,
To fee the faithful likeness of the dead;
But O! what Mufe can equal warmth impart?
The Painter's fkill tranfcends the Poet's art.
When round the pictur'd Founders I defcry,
With goodness foft, and great with majefty,
So much of life the artful colours give,
Scarce more within their Colleges they live;
My blood begins in wilder rounds to roll,
And pleafing tumults combat in my foul;
An humble awe my downcaft eyes betray,
And only less than adoration pay.
Such were the Roman Fathers, when, o'ercome,
They faw the Gauls infult o'er conquer'd Rome;
Each captive feem'd the haughty victor's lord,
And proftrate chiefs their awful flaves ador'd,
Such art as this adorns your Lowther's hall, Where feasting gods carouse upon the wall; The nectar, which creating paint supplies, Intoxicates each pleas'd spectator's eyes; Who view, amaz'd, the figures heavenly fair, And think they breathe the true Elysian air. With strokes fo bold, great Verrio's hand has
The gods in dwellings brighter than their own."
Fir'd with a thousand raptures, I behold What lively features grac'd each Bard of old; Such lips, Ithink, did guide his charming tongue,
In fuch an air as this the Poet fung;
Such eyes as these glow'd with the facred fire,
And hands like these employ'd the vocal lyre. ́
Quite ravifh'd, I pursue each image o'er,
And fcarce admire their deathlefs labours more.
See where the gloomy Scaliger appears,
Each fhade is critick, and each feature fneers;
The artful Ben fo fmartly ftrikes the eye,
I more than fee a fancy'd comedy;
The muddy Scotus crowns the motley fhew,
And metaphyficks cloud his wrinkled brow.
But diftant awe invades my beating breast,
To fee great Ormond in the paint expreft ;
With fear I view the figure from afar,
Which burns with noble ardour for the war;
But near approaches free my doubting mind,
To view fuch fweetnefs with fuch grandeur
join'd.
Here ftudious heads the graver tablet shews, And there with martial warmth the picture
The blooming youth here boafts a brighter hue, And painted virgins far outfhine the true.
Hail, Colours, which with Nature bear a ftrife, And only want a voice to perfect life! The wondering ftranger makes a fudden ftand, And pays low homage to the lovely band; . Within each frame a real Fair believes, And vainly thinks the mimic canvass lives; Till, undeceiv'd, he quits th' enchanting fhew, Pleas'd with the art, though he laments it too. So when his Juno bold Ixion woo'd, And aim'd at pleafures worthy of a god, A beauteous cloud was form'd by angry Jove, Fit to invite, though not indulge his love;
|