BEAUTY,
An ODE.
I
Fair Rival to the God of Day,
Beauty, to thy cœlestial Ray
A thousand sprightly Fruits we owe;
Gay Wit, and moving Eloquence,
And ev'ry Art t'improve the Sense,
And ev'ry Grace that shines below.
II
Not Phœbus does our Songs inspire,
Nor did Cyllenius form the Lyre,
'Tis thou art Musick's living Spring;
To Thee the Poet tunes his Lays,
And sweetly warbling Beauty's Praise,
Describes the Pow'r that makes him sing.
III
Painters from Thee their Skill derive,
By Thee their Works to Ages live,
For e'en thy Shadows give Surprize,
As when we view in Crystal Streams
The Morning Sun, and rising Beams
That seem to shoot from other Skies.
IV
Enchanting Vision! who can be
Unmov'd that turns his Eyes on thee?
Yet brighter still thy Glories shine,
And double Charms thy Pow'r improve,
When Beauty, drest in Smiles of Love,
Grows, like its Parent Heav'n, Divine!
