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5

LINES, &c.

Ye to whose soul kind nature's hand imparts
The glowing passion for the liberal arts:
Ye great dispensers of the magic strain,
Whose harmony delights almost to pain:
Ye to whose touch (with Damer's skill) is known
To charm to life, and wake the sleeping stone:
Ye rare Promethei, to whose hand is giv'n
To snatch the flame that warms the breast of heav'n:
Ye too, ye Bards, illustrious heirs of fame,
Who from the sun your mental lineage claim:

6

Approach and see a dear and kindred art
Unhallow'd maxims to her sons impart;
See her (become wild Faction's ready tool)
Insult the Father of the modern school.
Yet he first enter'd on the barren land,
And rais'd on high Armida's pow'rful wand:
From him the Academics boast a name,
He led the way, he smooth'd their path to fame:
From him th' instructive lore the pupils claim'd,
His doctrine nurtur'd, and his voice inflam'd!
Oh, and is all forgot?—The sons rebel,
And, Regan-like, their hallow'd sire expel.
Cou'd not his faculties, so meekly borne,
Arrest the hand that fix'd the rankling thorn?
Cou'd not the twilight of approaching age,
The silver hairs that crown th' indulgent sage,
Domestic virtues, his time-honour'd name,
His radiant works that crowd the dome of fame,

7

Say cou'd not these suppress th' opprobrious scene,
And charm to slumber academic spleen?
Mark, mark the period, when the Children stung
The Parent's feelings with their serpent tongue;
It was while dimness veil'd the pow'rs of sight,
And ting'd all nature with the gloom of night!
(Not many days remov'd) the Master came
With wonted zeal to touch the swelling theme!
The pregnant canvass his creation caught,
And drank his rich exuberance of thought:
Deck'd with the beams of Inspiration's sky,
Glanc'd o'er the work his finely-frensy'd eye.
—Malignant Fate approach'd—the scenes decay,
To him the new creation fades away;

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Thick night abruptly shades the mimic sky,
And clouds eternal quench the frensy'd eye!
Invention shudder'd—Taste stood weeping near—
From Fancy's eyelid gush'd the glitt'ring tear—
Genius exclaim'd, My matchless loss deplore,
The hand of Reynolds falls to rise no more!
 

The calamity here alluded to came suddenly upon Sir Joshua while he was painting.