University of Virginia Library

I.

The Greecian Genius, in Invention strong,
Gave the first Measures to the Lyric Song:
Greece form'd the Muses, and the Graces mild:
Melpomene herself is Fancy's Child.
All like the Ocean's swelling Breast
Is the bold dithyrambic Song;
And like the Waves which never rest
Rolls the pindaric Verse along:
Heros and Gods adorn the Lay,
And Image here on Image crouds:
Like the refulgent God of Day
Now Pindar hides his Head in Clouds:
Rapid as the eastern Blast,
From æthereal Clime to Clime,
Undazzled as the bold Bœotian pass'd,
He seem'd to mortal Eyes to out-strip Time.
Harken to the Teian Lute,
How the Words and Subject suit,
Sweetly how the Numbers move
To the tender Thoughts of Love:
Hear the gentle Poet sing,
When he welcomes in the Spring,
Soft'ning, with his am'rous Strain,
Ev'ry Nymph and ev'ry Swain.
Alcæus struck the sounding Strings,
And rous'd to martial Deeds the Mind;
He wak'd to Glory slothful Kings,
And gave their Terrors to the Wind:
O! Loss! to be lamented long!
Grief to the Muse too great to name!
Time has destroy'd the noble Song,
But Flaccus has preserv'd his Fame.
When Horace strikes the Roman Lyre,
Nature herself Attention pays;
Judgement and Fancy then conspire
To crown him with unrival'd Bays:
Let him of Loves or Battels sing,
Judgement sedately acts his Part,
While tow'ring Fancy's on the Wing,
Guided by Nature and by Art:
Thus, Thistlethwayte, the Roman Cygnet sings,
And thus above the Rest extends his Wings:
Thou know'st the Influence of his vocal Shell,
What Loves, what Graces, in his Numbers dwell:
No vulgar Flight is his, but Half divine,
And all the Knowledge of his Worth is thine.

II.

Such the Virtues of the Lyre,
When the Greecian Nine inspire,
And such are its creative Pow'rs,
Life it like a God can give,
Bid departed Valour live,
And deck the barren Wild with Flow'rs:
That dissolves the Winter's Snow,
Bids refreshing Zephyrs blow,
And wakes the cheerful Linnet's Voice,
Cloaths the wide extended Plain
With the golden-tinctur'd Grain,
And makes the Woods and Fields rejoice:
That can Shaftesb'ry's Charms restore,
When on Earth she'll be no more,
When to her native Skys she's fled:
Then her fair Remembrance long
Shall survive, in sacred Song,
The lofty and anointed Head.
She who o'er the Lyre presides,
Who the various Numbers guides,
Directs the Motions of our Souls,
Fills th'unguarded Mind with Grief,
Brings the heavy Heart Relief,
And all our Hopes and Fears controuls:
She, amidst lamenting Friends,
In her solemn Pall attends
Granville to her untimely Grave,
Or the spritely Charmer leads,
To the Shrine, thro flow'ry Meads,
With Beauty to reward the brave:
She repels the Soldier's Pains
With Ambition's fairest Gains,
With just and ever bright Renown;
Wreaths for Ligonier she weaves,
All of consecrated Leaves,
More lasting than the regal Crown.

III.

Nature herself may Lambert's Pencil guide,
To drip in vernal Show'rs, or swell the Tyde,
In saffron Robes may bid the Morning dawn,
Or throw the verdant Carpet o'er the Lawn,
Obedient to his Hand may rise
The Hills and Vales of Hagley's Grove,
Where pensive Contemplation lys,
And where the sportive Muses rove,
The Rose may on the Canvas blow,
The tow'ring Oak may raise his Head,
Above the Summer Skys may glow,
While creeps beneath the vi'let Bed,
Yet the pleasing Scenes must fade,
Must to Lethe's Bottom pass:
Old Saturn whets his unrelenting Blade,
And down the Works of Art are mow'd like Grass.
In the native Quarry lys
David's and Goliah's Size;
There th'heroic Form's conceal'd,
And the Virgin's unreveal'd,
'Till the dextrous Sons of Art
Strike away th'excrescent Part:
Then, like Mars, Argyl shall stand
Graceful from the Sculptor's Hand:
Then shall the Fair, who dying gave
Her weeping Lord a mournful Theme,
Arise in Splendor from the Grave,
As from the Night the Morning's Beam:
The Sister Arts shall from the Dust
Rescue her sweet deserving Name;
Her Likeness shall adorn the Bust,
Her Husband shall preserve her Fame:
But what the Marble can secure
From the corroding Tooth of Time?
From Age to Age it may endure,
And travel long from Clime to Clime,
May long Siberia's Frosts defy,
As long beneath the burning Day
May last, and charm th'admiring Eye,
Yet shall at last consume away:
'Tis Verse alone that blunts the Scythe of Time;
Turn'd is his Edge by heav'n-descended Rhyme.
What now is Scopas but an empty Name,
While Homer triumphs on the Wings of Fame?
Of great Parrhasius we no Traces see;
And such shall Kneller, such shall Hudson, be.

IV.

Hogarth, in th'angelic Face,
May the Line of Beauty trace,
May all the due Proportions give,
Make the gazing Eye admire,
In our Breasts may wake Desire,
And long the finish'd Piece may live:
But to paint the gentle Mind,
Ever pleasing, ever kind,
Stranger to Falsehood and to Art,
With the Softness of the Dove,
Breathing Purity of Love,
Like, Thistlethwayte, thy better Part,
Iris can no Colours bring,
Nor the Daughters of the Spring,
Nor the green Sisters of the Main:
Poetry alone can give
Such bright Excellence to live;
'Tis she must lengthen Beauty's Reign.
Time, who never idle stands,
With Destruction in his Hands,
Who Pity nor Remorse can feel,
Works of Genius to destroy,
Often has employ'd with Joy
The Vandal's Sword and Bigot's Zeal:
Govern'd by the Voice of Fame,
To preserve the Poet's Name,
At last the baleful Tyrant yields:
Down the Gulph which gapes for all
Pyramids and Columns fall,
Pictures, and Busts, and votive Shields;
But Eternity's wide Gate,
Open'd by the Hand of Fate,
Admits the tuneful heav'n-born Quire:
While the Graces strew their Way
With the Laurel, Rose, and Bay,
The Muses strike the golden Lyre:
Thus, in Triumph over Time,
March th'immortal Sons of Rhyme
To Realms of Bliss which know no Bounds,
Vested with unfading Youth
By the Virgin Priestess Truth,
While Fame's eternal Trumpet sounds.