 | A Collection of Poems in Six Volumes |  |
CANTATA III. The Painter.
Air.
Sweet mimick thou of Nature's face,Thy pencil take, thy colour spread:
On thy canvas curious trace
Every virtue, every grace,
That hovers round our William's head.
Recitative.
Let Victory before him fly,And Fortitude with stedfast eye;
Let Prudence with her mirrour haste,
Studious of future by the past;
With Industry in vigour blooming,
And Science knowing much, yet less assuming.
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With Hydra heads Rebellion draw,
Spouting at ev'ry vein
The blood of thousands slain;
Thousands too few to glut her rav'nous maw:
Paint her panting, sinking, dying,
Paint her sons at distance flying:
Paint Britannia full of smiles,
Scarce recover'd from her toils:
Paint Justice ready to avenge her pain,
Dragging the monster in her massy chain.
Near her paint Mercy crown'd: soft-smiling let her stand,
With arm out-stretch'd to stop her just, determin'd hand.
Cease to declaim, the artist cries,
Of ev'ry virtue, ev'ry grace,—
See, by degrees the features rise:
Behold them all in William's face.
| A Collection of Poems in Six Volumes | |