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Delightful scene! 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 praife attempts the dangerous flight,
Should in thy various tongues be taught to
write;

His verfe, like thee, a lofty drefs fhould wear,
And breathe the genius which inhabits there;
Thy proper lays alone can make thee live,
And pay that fame, which first thyfelf didft give.
So fountains, which through fecret channels flow,
And pour above the floods they take below,
Back to their Father 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

Though pale the Romans faw thofe arms ad

vance,

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 spare,
Be IT, and Learning's felf fhall be your care,
Here every art and every grace shall join,
Collected Phebus here alone shall shine,
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 destruction to the Dardan line,
Whilst good Æneas flies th' unequal wars,
And, with his guardian gods, lülus bears,
Old Troy for ever ftands in him alone,
And all the Phrygian kings furvive in one.
Here till prefides each Sage's reverend fhade,
In foft repofe and eafy grandeur laid;

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Their deathlefs works forbid their fame to die,
Nor Time itself their perfons fhall deftroy,
Preferv'd within the living gallery *.

What greater gift could bounteous heaven bestow,

Than to be seen above, and read below?
With deep refpect 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 defery,
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 profirate chiefs their awful flaves ador'd.

The Picture-gallery. T.

Such

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 ftrokes fo bold, great Verrio's hand has
drawn

The gods in dwellings brighter than their own.
Fir'd with a thoufand 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 thefe glow'd with the facred fire,
And hands like these employ'd the vocal lyre.
Quite ravish'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 strikes the eye,,
I more than fee a fancy'd comedy;

The muddy Scotus crowns the motley fhew,
And metaphyficks cloud his wrinkled brow.

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But diftant awe invades my beating breaft,
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.

Ilere ftudious heads the graver tablet fhews, And there with martial warmth the picture glows;

The blooming youth here boafts a brighter hue, And painted virgins far outline the true.

Hail, Colours, which with Nature bear a ftrife,
And only want a voice to perfect life!
The wondering franger makes a fudden ftand,
And pays low homage to the lovely band;
Within each frame a real Fair believes,
And vainly thinks the mimic canvafs 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 pleasures worthy of a god,
A beauteous cloud was form'd by angry Jove,
Fit to invite, though not indulge his love;

The

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