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A slave, a chief, by fickle Fortune's play,
In the short course of one revolving day,
What wonder if the youth, so strangely blest,
Felt his heart flutter in his little breast!
His thick embattled troops, with secret pride,
He views extended half an acre wide;
More light he treads, more tall he seems to rise,
And struts a straw-breadth nearer to the skies.
O for thy Muse, great Bard, whose lofty strains
In battle join'd the Pygmies and the Cranes;
Fach gaudy knight, had I that warmth divine,
Each colour'd legion in my verse should shine.
But simple I, and innocent of art,

The tale, that sooth'd my infant years, impart,
The tale I heard whole winter-eves, untir'd,
And sing the battles, that my nurse inspir'd.
Now the shrill corn-pipes, echoing loud to arms,
To rank and file reduce the straggling swarms,
Thick rows of spears at once, with sudden glare,
A grove of needles, glitter in the air;
Loose in the winds small ribbon-streamers flow,
Dipt in all colours of the heavenly-bow,
And the gay host, that now its march pursues,
Gleams o'er the meadows in a thousand hues.
On Buda's plains thus formidably bright,
Shone Asia's sons, a pleasing dreadful sight.
In various robes their silken troops were seen,
The blue, the red, and prophet's sacred green:
When blooming Brunswick, near the Danube's flood,
First stain'd his maiden sword in Turkish blood.

Unseen and silent march the slow brigades
Through pathless wilds, and unfrequented shades.
In hope already vanquish'd by surprise,
In Albion's power the fairy empire lies;
Already has he seiz'd on Kenna's charms,
And the glad beauty trembles in his arms.

The march concludes: and now in prospect near,
But fene'd with arms, the hostile towers appear,
For Oberon, or Druids falsely sing,
Wore his prime visier in a magic ring,

A subtle spright, that opening plots foretold
By sudden dimness on the beamy gold.

Hence, in a cresent form'd, his legions bright
With beating bosoms waited for the fight;

To charge their foes they march, a glittering band,
And in their van doth bold Azuriel stand.

What rage that hour did Albion's soul possess, Let chiefs imagine, and let lovers guess! Forth issuing from his ranks, that strove in vain To check his course, athwart the dreadful plain He strides indignant: and with haughty cries To single fight the fairy prince defies.

Forbear! rash youth, th' unequal war to try; Nor, sprung from mortals, with immortals vie. No god stands ready to avert thy doom, Nor yet thy grandsire of the waves is come. My words are vain-no words the wretch can move, By Beauty dazzled, and bewitch'd by Love: He longs, he burns, to win the glorious prize, And sees no danger, while he sees her eyes.

Now from each host the eager warriors start. And furious Albion flings his hasty dart, 'Twas feather'd from the bee's transparent wing, And its shaft ended in a hornet's sting; But, tost in rage, it flew without a wound, High o'er the foe, and guiltless pierc'd the ground. Not so Azuriel's: with unerring aim, Too near the needle-pointed javelin came,

1 Mr. Addison.

Drove through the seven-fold shield, and silken vest,
And lightly ras'd the lover's ivory breast.
Rouz'd at the smart, and rising to the blow,
With his keen sword he cleaves his fairy foe,
Sheer from the shoulder to the waste he cleaves,
And of one arm the tottering trunk bereaves.

His useless steel brave Albion wields no more,
But sternly smiles, and thinks the combat o'er:
So had it been, had aught of mortal strain,
Or less than fairy, felt the deadly pain.
But empyreal forms, howe'er in fight
Gash'd and dismember'd, easily unite.
As some frail cup of China's purest mold,
With azure varnish'd, and bedropt with gold,
Though broke, if cur'd by some nice virgin's hands,
In its old strength and pristine beauty stands;
The tumults of the boiling bohea braves,
And holds secure the coffee's sable waves:
So did Azuriel's arm, if Fame say true,
Rejoin the vital trunk whence first it grew;
And, whilst in wonder fix'd poor Albion stood,
Plung'd the curs'd sabre in his heart's warm blood.
The golden broidery, tender Milkah wove,
The breast, to Kenna sacred and to Love,
Lie rent and mangled: and the gaping wound
Pours out a flood of purple on the ground.
The jetty lustre sickens in his eyes:
On his cold cheeks the bloomy freshness dies;
"Oh Kenna, Kenna," thrice he try'd to say,
"Kenna, farewel!" and sigh'd his soul away.

His fall the Dryads with loud shrieks deplore, By sister Naiads echo'd from the shore, Thence down to Neptune's secret realms convey'd, Through grotts, and glooms, and many a coral shade. The sea's great sire, with looks denouncing war, The trident shakes, and mounts the pearly car: With one stern frown the wide-spread deep deforms, And works the madding ocean into storms. O'er foaming mountains, and through bursting tides, Now high, now low, the bounding chariot rides, Till through the Thames in a loud whirlwind's roar It shoots, and lands him on the destin'd shore.

Now fix'd on earth his towering stature stood, Hung o'er the mountains, and o'erlook'd the wood. To Brumpton's grove one ample stride he took, (The valleys trembled, and the forests shook) The next huge step reach'd the devoted shade, Where choak'd in blood was wretched Albion laid: Where now the vanquish'd, with the victors join'd, Beneath the regal banners stood combin'd.

Th' embattled dwarfs with rage and scorn he past, And on their town his eye vindictive cast. In deep foundations his strong trident cleaves. And high in air th' up-rooted empire heaves; On his broad engine the vast ruin hung, Which on the foe with force divine he flung: Aghast the legions, in th' approaching shade, Th' inverted spires and rocking domes survey'd, That, downward tumbling on the host below, Crush'd the whole nation at one dreadful blow. Towers, arms, nymphs, warriors, are together lost, And a whole empire falls to sooth said Albion's ghost. Such was the period, long restrain'd by Fate, And such the downfall of the fairy state. This dale, a pleasing region, not unblest, This dale possest they; and had still possest; Had not their monarch, with a father's pride, Rent from her lord th' inviolable bride, Rash to dissolve the contract seal'd above, The solemn vows and sacred bonds of love.

Now, where his elves so sprightly danc'd the round, | Till great Nassau recloath'd the desert shade,
No violet breathes, nor daisy paints the ground,
His towers and people fill one common grave,
A shapeless ruin, and a barren cave.

Beneath huge hills of smoking piles he lay
Stunn'd and confounded a whole summer's day,
At length awak'd (for what can long restrain
Unbody'd spirits !) but awak'd in pain:
And as he saw the desolated wood,

And the dark den where once his empire stood,
Grief chill'd his heart: to his half-open'd eyes
In every oak a Neptune seem'd to rise:
He fled and left, with all his trembling peers,
The long possession of a thousand years.
Through bush, through brake, through groves, and
gloomy dales,
[vales,
Through dank and dry, o'er streams and flowery
Direct they fled; but often look'd behind,
And stopt and started at each rustling wind.
Wing'd with like fear, his abdicated bands
Disperse and wander into different lands.
Part hid beneath the Peak's deep caverns lie,
In silent glooms, impervious to the sky;
Part on fair Avon's margin seek repose,
Whose stream o'er Britain's midmost region flows,
Where formidable Neptune never came,
And seas and oceans are but known by fame :
Some to dark woods and secret shade retreat:
And some on mountains choose their airy seat.
There haply by the ruddy damsel seen,
Or shepherd-boy, they featly foot the green,
While from their steps a circling verdure springs;
But fly from towns, and dread the courts of kings.
Mean-while said Kenna, loth to quit the grove,
Hung o'er the body of her breathless love,
Try'd every art, (vain arts!) to change his doom,
And vow'd (vain vows!) to join him in the tomb.
What could she do? the Fates alike deny
The dead to live, or fairy forms to die.

An herb there grows (the same old Homer
Ulysses bore to rival Circe's spells)
Its root is ebon-black, but sends to light
A stem that bends with flowrets milky white,
Moly the plant, which gods and fairies know,
But secret kept from mortal men below.
On his pale limbs its virtuous juice she shed,
And murmur'd mystic numbers o'er the dead,
When lo! the little shape by magic power
Grew less and less, contracted to a flower;
A flower, that first in this sweet garden smil'd,
To virgins sacred, and the Snow-drop styl'd.

Thence sacred to Britannia's monarchs made. 'Twas then the green-rob'd nymph, fair Kenna,

came,

(Kenna that gave the neighbouring town its name.)
Proud when she saw th' ennobled garden shine,
With nymphs and heroes of her lover's line,
She vow'd to grace the mansions once her own.
And picture out in plants the fairy town.
To far-fam'd Wise her flight unseen she sped,
And with gay prospects fill'd the craftsman's head,
Soft in his fancy drew a pleasing scheme,
And plann'd that landscape in a morning dream.
With the sweet view the sire of gardens fir'd,
Attempts the labour by the nymph inspir'd,
The walls and streets in rows of yew designs,
And forms the town in all its ancient lines;
The corner trees he lifts more high in air,
And girds the palace with a verdant square;
Nor knows, while round he views the rising scenes,
He builds a city as he plants his greens.

With a sad pleasure the aërial maid
This image of her ancient realms survey'd,
How chang'd, how fall'n from its primeval pride!
Yet here each moon, the hour her lover dy'd,
Each moon his solemn obsequies she pays,
And leads the dance beneath pale Cynthia's rays;
Pleas'd in these shades to head her fairy train,
And grace the groves where Albion's kinsmen reign.

ΤΟ

A LADY BEFORE MARRIAGE. OH! form'd by Nature, and refin'd by Art, With charms to win, and sense to fix the heart! By thousands sought, Clotilda, canst thou free Thy croud of captives and descend to me?

tells Content in shades obscure to waste thy life, A hidden beauty and a country wife.

The new-born plant with sweet regret she view'd,
Warm'd with her sighs, and with her tears bedew'd,
Its ripen'd seeds from bank to bank convey'd,
And with her lover whiten'd half the shade.
Thus won from death each spring she sees him grow,
And glorious in the vegetable snow,
Which now increas'd through wide Britannia's plains,
Its parent's warmth and spotless name retains,
First leader of the flowery race aspires,
And foremost catches the Sun's genial fires,
'Mid frosts and snows triumphant dares appear,
Mingles the seasons, and leads on the year.

Deserted now of all the pigmy race,
Nor man nor fairy touch'd this guilty place.
In heaps on heaps, for many a rolling age,
It lay accurs'd, the mark of Neptune's rage,

1 Odyss. Lib. x,

O! listen while thy summers are my theme,
Ah! sooth thy partner in his waking dream!
In some small hamlet on the lonely plain, [train;
Where Thames, through meadows, rolls his mazy
Or where high Windsor, thick with greens array'd,
Waves his old oaks, and spreads his ample shade,
Fancy has figur'd out our calm retreat;
Already round the visionary seat

Our limes begin to shoot, our flowers to spring,
The brooks to murmur, and the birds to sing.
Where dost thou lie, thou thinly-peopled green!
Thou nameless lawn, and village yet unseen?
Where sons, contented with their native ground,
Ne'er travell'd further than ten furlongs round;
And the tann'd peasant, and his ruddy bride,
Were born together, and together died.
Where early larks best tell the morning light,
And only Philomel disturbs the night,
'Midst gardens here my humble pile shall rise,
With sweets surrounded of ten thousand dies;
All savage where th' embroider'd gardens end,
The haunt of echoes, shall my woods ascend;
And oh! if Heaven th' ambitious thought approve,
A rill shall warble cross the gloomy grove,
A little rill, o'er pebbly beds convey'd,
Gush down the steep, and glitter through the glade.
What chearing scents those bordering banks exhale!
How loud that heifer lows from yonder vale!

That thrush how shrill! his note so clear, so high,
He drowns each feather'd minstrel of the sky.
Here let me trace beneath the purpled morn,
The deep-mouth'd beagle, and the sprightly horn;
Or lure the trout with well dissembled flies,
Or fetch the fluttering partridge from the skies.
Nor shall thy hand disdain to crop the vine,
The downy peach, or flavour'd nectarine;
Or rob the bee-hive of its golden hoard,
And bear th' unbought luxuriance to thy board.
Sometimes my books by day shall kill the hours,
While from thy needle rise the silken flowers,
And thou, by turns, to ease my feeble sight,
Resume the volume, and deceive the night.
Oh! when I mark thy twinkling eyes opprest,
Soft whispering, let me warn my love to rest;
Then watch thee, charm'd, while sleep locks every

sense,

And to sweet Heaven commend thy innocence.
Thus reign'd our fathers o'er the rural fold,
Wise, hale, and honest in the days of old;
Till courts arose, where substance pays for show,
And specious joys are bought with real woe.
See Flavia's pendants, large, well-spread, and right,
The ear that wears them hears a fool each night:
Mark how the embroider'd colonel sneaks away,
To shun the withering dame that made him gay;
That knave, to gain a title, lost his fame;
That rais'd his credit by a daughter's shame;
This coxcomb's ribband cost him half his land,
And oaks, unnumber'd, bought that fool a wand.
Fond man, as all his sorrows were too few,
Acquires strange wants that nature never knew,
By midnight lamps he emulates the day,
And sleeps, perverse, the chearful suns away;
From goblets high-embost, his wine must glide,
Round his clos'd sight the gorgeous curtain slide;
Fruits ere their time to grace his pomp must rise,
And three untasted courses glut his eyes.
For this are nature's gentle calls withstood,
The voice of conscience, and the bonds of blood;
This wisdom thy reward for every pain,
And this gay glory all thy mighty gain.
Fair phantoms woo'd and scorn'd from age to age,
Since bards began to laugh, and priests to rage.
And yet, just curse on man's aspiring kind,
Prone to ambition, to example blind,

Our children's children shall our steps pursue,
And the same errours be for ever new.
Mean while in hope a guiltless country swain,
My reed with warblings chears the imagin'd plain.
Hail humble shades, where truth and silence dwell!
The noisy town and faithless court farewell!
Farewell ambition, once my darling flame!
The thirst of lucre, and the charm of fame!
In life's by-road, that winds through paths unknown,
My days, though number'd, shall be all my own.
Here shall they end, (O! might they twice begin)
And all be white the Fates intend to spin.

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The huge unnumber'd volumes which we see,
By lazy plagiaries are stol'n from thee.
Yet future times, to thy sufficient store,
Shall ne'er presume to add one letter more.

Thee will I sing, in comely wainscot bound,
And golden verge enclosing thee around;
The faithful horn before, from age to age,
Preserving thy invaluable page;

Behind, thy patron saint in armour shines,
With sword and lance, to guard thy sacred lines:
Beneath his courser's feet the dragon lies
Transfix'd; his blood thy scarlet cover dies;
Th' instructive handle 's at the bottom fix'd,
Lest wrangling critics should pervert the text.
Or if to ginger-bread thou shalt descend,
And liquorish learning to thy babes extend;
Or sugar'd plane, o'erspread with beaten gold,
Does the sweet treasure of thy letters hold;
Thou still shalt be my song- -Apollo's choir
'I scorn t' invoke; Cadmus my verse inspire:
'Twas Cadmus who the first materials brought
Of all the learning which has since been taught,
Soon made compleat! for mortals ne'er shall know
More than contain❜d of old the Christ-cross row;
What masters dictate, or what doctors preach,
Wise matrons hence, e'en to our children teach:
But as the name of every plant and flower
(So common that each peasant knows its power)
Physicians in mysterious cant express,
T'amuse the patient, and enhance their fees;
So from the letters of our native tongue,
Put in Greek scrawls, a mystery too is sprung,
Schools are erected, puzzling grammars made,
And artful men strike out a gainful trade;
Strange characters adorn the learned gate,
And heedless youth catch at the shining bait;
The pregnant boys the noisy charms declare,
And Tau's, and Delta's 1, make their mothers stare;
Th' uncommon sounds amaze the vulgar ear,
And what 's uncommon never costs too dear.
Yet in all tongues the Horn-book is the same,
Taught by the Grecian master, or the English dame.
But how shall I thy endless virtues tell,

In which thou durst all other books excell?
No greasy thumbs thy spotless leaf can soil,
Nor crooked dogs-ears thy smooth corners spoil;
In idle pages no errata stand,

To tell the blunders of the printer's hand:
No fulsome dedication here is writ,

Nor flattering verse, to praise the author's wit!
The margin with no tedious notes is vex'd,
Nor various reading to confound the text:
All parties in thy literal sense agree,
Thou perfect centre of concordancy!
Search we the records of an ancient date,
Or read what modern historics relate,
They all proclaim what wonders have been done
By the plain letters taken as they run :
"Too high the floods of passion us'd to roll,
And rend the Roman youth's impatient soul;
His hasty anger furnish'd scenes of blood,
And frequent deaths of worthy men ensued:
In vain were all the weaker methods try'd,
None could suffice to stem the furious tide,
Thy sacred line he did but once repeat,

And laid the storm, and cool'd the raging heat 2,"

1 The Greek letters T, A.

2 The advice given to Augustus, by Athenodorus the stoic philosopher.

K

Thy heavenly notes, like angels' music, cheer
Departing souls, and sooth the dying ear.
An aged peasant, on his latest bed,
Wish'd for a friend some godly book to read;
The pious grandson thy known handle takes,
And (eyes lift up) this savory lecture makes:
"Great A," he gravely read; the important sound
The empty walls and hallow roof rebound:
Th' expiring ancient rear'd his drooping head,
And thank'd his stars that Hodge had learn'd to read.
"Great B," the younker bawls; O heavenly breath!
What ghostly comforts in the hour of death!
What hopes I feel! "Great C," pronounc'd the boy;
The grandsire dies with extasy of joy.

Yet in some lands such ignorance abounds,
Whole parishes scarce know thy useful sounds.
Of Essex hundreds Fame gives this report,
But Fame, I ween, says many things in sport.
Scarce lives the man to whom thou 'rt quite un-
known,

Though few th' extent of thy vast empire own.
Whatever wonders magic spells can do
On earth, in air, in sea, in shades below;

Provocation never waits,

Where he loves, or where he hates?
Talks whate'er comes in his head,
Wishes it were all unsaid.

Let me now the vices trace,
From his father's scoundrel race,
Who could give the looby such airs?
Were they masons? Were they butchers?
Herald lend the Muse an answer,
From his atavus and grandsire!
This was dexterous at his trowel,
That was bred to kill a cow well:
Hence the greasy clumsy mien,
In his dress and figure seen:
Hence that mean and sordid soul,
Like his body, rank and foul:
Hence that wild suspicious peep,
Like a rogue that steals a sheep:
Hence he learn'd the butcher's guile,
How to cut a throat and smile:
Like a butcher doom'd for life,
In his mouth to wear his knife:
Hence he draws his daily food,

What words profound and dark wise Mahomet spoke, From his tenant's vital blood.

When his old cow an angel's figure took;

What strong enchantments sage Canidia knew,
Or Horace sung, fierce monsters to subdue,
O mighty Book, are all contain'd in you!
All human arts, and every science meet,
Within the limits of thy single sheet:
From thy vast root all learning's branches grow,
And all her streams from thy deep fountain flow.
And, lo! while thus thy wonders I indite,
Inspir'd I feel the power of which I write ;
The gentler gout his former rage forgets,
Less frequent now, and less severe the fits:

Lastly, let his gifts be try'd,
Borrow'd from the mason-side.
Some, perhaps, may think him able
In the state to build a Babel;
Could we place him in a station
To destroy the old foundation.
True, indeed, I should be gladder
Could he learn to mount a ladder.
May he at his latter end
Mount alive, and dead descend.
In him tell me, which prevail,
Female vices most, or male?

Loose grew the chains which bound my useless feet; What produc'd them, can you tell?

Stiffness and pain from every joint retreat;
Surprising strength comes every moment on,

I stand, I step, I walk, and now I run.

Here let me cease, my hobbling numbers stop,
And at thy handle 1 hang my crutches up.

THERISTES; OR, THE LORDLING,

THE GRANDSON OF A BRICKLAYER, GREAT GRAND-
SON OF A BUTCHER. /

THERISTES of amphibious breed,
Motley fruit of mongrel seed:
By the dam from lordlings sprung,
By the sire exhal'd from dung:
Think on every vice in both,

Look on him, and see their growth.

View him on the mother's side,

Fill'd with falsehood, spleen, and pride,
Positive and over-bearing,
Changing still, and still adhering,
Spiteful, peevish, rude, untoward,
Fierce in tongue, in heart a coward;
When his friends he most is hard on,
Cringing comes to beg their pardon;
Reputation ever tearing,
Ever dearest friendship swearing;
Judgment weak, and passion strong;
Always various, always wrong;

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Human race, or imp of Hell?

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Amaz'd we see the former Lonsdale 3 shine

In each descendant of his noble line:
But most transported and surpriz'd we view
His ancient glories all reviv'd in you,
Where charms and virtues join their equal grace,
Your father's godlike soul, your mother's lovely face.
Me Fortune and kind Heaven's indulgent care
To famous Oxford and the Muses bear,
Where, of all ranks, the blooming youths combine
To pay due homage to the mighty Nine,
And snatch, with smiling joy, the laurel crown,
Due to the learned honours of the gown.
Here I, the meanest of the tuneful throng,
Delude the time with an unhallow'd song,
Which thus my thanks to much-lov'd Oxford pays,
In no ungrateful, though unartful lays.
Where shall I first the beauteous scene disclose,
And all the gay variety expose?

For wheresoe'er I turn my wondering eyes,
Aspiring towers and verdant groves arise,
Immortal greens the smiling plains array,
And mazy rivers murmur all the way.

O! might your eyes behold each sparkling dome,
And freely o'er the beauteous prospect roam,
Less ravish'd your own Lowther you'd survey,
Though pomp and state the costly seat display,
Where Art so nicely has adorn'd the place,
That Nature's aid might seem an useless grace;
Yet Nature's smiles such various charms impart,
That vain and needless are the strokes of Art.
In equal state our rising structures shine,
Fram'd by such rules, and form'd by such design,
That here, at once surpriz'd and pleas'd, we view
Old Athens lost and conquer'd in the new;
More sweet our shades, more fit our bright abodes
For warbling Muses and inspiring Gods.

[draught

Great Vanbrook's self might own each artful
Equal to models in his curious thought,
Nor scorn a fabric by our plans to frame,
Or in immortal labours sing their fame;
Both ways he saves them from destroying Fate,
If he but praise them, or but imitate.

See, where the sacred Sheldon's 5 haughty dome
Rivals the stately pomp of ancient Rome,
Whose form, so great and noble, seems design'd
T express the grandeur of its founder's mind.
Here, in one lofty building, we behold
Whate'er the Latian pride could boast of old.
True, no dire combats feed the savage eye,
And strew the sand with sportive cruelty;
But, more adorn'd with what the Muse inspires,
It far outshines their bloody theatres.
Delightful scene! when here, in equal verse,
The youthful bards their godlike queen rehearse,
To Churchill's wreaths Apollo's laurel join,
And sing the plains of Hockstet and Judoign.
Next let the Muse record our Bodley's seat 6,
Nor aim at numbers, like the subject, great:
All hail, thou fabric, sacred to the Nine,
Thy fame immortal, and thy form divine!

3 Sir John Lowther, one of the early promoters of the Revolution, was constituted vice-chamberlain to king William and queen Mary on their advancement to the throne; created baron Lowther and viscount Lonsdale, May 28, 1696; and appointed lord privy-seal in 1699. He died July 10, 1700. N. Sir John Vanbrugh. N. 5 The Theatre. T • The Bodleian Library. T.

Who to thy praise attempts the dangerous flight,
Should in thy various tongues be taught to write;
His verse, like thee, a lofty dress should wear,
And breathe the genius which inhabits there;
Thy proper lays alone can make thee live,
And pay that fame, which first thyself didst give.
So fountains, which through secret channels flow,
And pour above the floods they take below,
Back to their father Ocean urge their way,
And to the sea, the streams it gave, repay.

No more we fear the military rage,
Nurs'd up in some obscure barbarian age;
Nor dread the ruin of our arts divine,
From thick-skull'd heroes of the Gothic line,
Though pale the Romans saw those arms advance,
And wept their learning lost in ignorance.
Let brutal rage around its terrours spread,
The living murder, and consume the dead,
In impious fires let noblest writings burn,
And with their authors share a common urn;
Only, ye Fates, our lov'd Bodleian spare,
Be IT, and Learning's self shall be your care,
Here every art and every grace shall join,
Collected Phoebus here alone shall shine,
Each other seat be dark, and this be all divine.
Thus when the Greeks imperial Troy defac'd,
And to the ground its fatal walls debas'd,
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, Iúlus bears,
Old Troy for ever stands in him alone,
And all the Phrygian kings survive in one.

Here still presides each sage's reverend shade,
In soft repose and easy grandeur laid ;
Their deathless works forbid their fame to die,
Nor Time itself their persons shall destroy,
Preserv'd within the living gallery 7.

What greater gift could bounteous Heaven bestow,
Than to be seen above, and read below?
With deep respect I bend my duteous head,
To see the faithful likeness of the dead;
But O! what Muse can equal warmth impart ?
The painter's skill transcends the poet's art.
When round the pictur'd founders I descry,
With goodness soft, and great with majesty,
So much of life the artful colours give,
Scarce more within their colleges they live;
My blood begins in wilder rounds to roll,
And pleasing tumults combat in my soul;
An humble awe my downcast eyes betray,
And only less than adoration pay.

Such were the Roman Fathers, when, o'ercome,
They saw the Gauls insult o'er conquer'd Rome;
Each captive seem'd the haughty victor's lord,
And prostrate chiefs their awful slaves ador'd.

Such art as this adorns your Lowther's hall,
Where feasting gods caronse 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 so bold, great Verrio's hand has drawn
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, I think, did guide his charming tongue,
In such an air as this the poet sung;

7 The Picture Gallery. T

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