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To paint each heavenly feature true,
By men, by Gods, to be admir'd;
Apelles thus his Venus drew,

Just as great Homer's thought inspir'd.

With silent pace life steals away;

What then, lov'd Artist, can we choose,
Thus frail, to save us from decay,
But thou a Pencil, I a Muse?

In this lov'd Youth we each may live,
When Time has eat our crumbling bust;
And the short praise our marbles give
Is, with the arch, o'erwhelm'd with dust.

To distant times his deathless name
May ours, however mean, convey;
While thus we give a meaner fame,
A nobler only to enjoy.

The feather thus unmark'd before,
Reaching the eagle as he flies,

Is, with the arrow, upward bore
By Jove's great bird above the skies.

Unless we then extend our span,

By some fair deeds of virtuous fame, The life Heaven gives to wretched man Is lost-and scarce deserves a name.

Vol. XV.

F

We breathe, the phantoms of a day,
Till glory stretches out our date;
Our acts this snatches from decay,

The rest we owe to Time and Fate.

That glory ours-who, to prolong
The actions of the good and brave,
Have power, in colors and in song,
To bear their fame beyond the grave.

A thousand eyes in Kneller's paint
Nassau and Churchill still adore,

Though the fam'd general, king, and saint
Survive, to bless the world, no more.

When the great Patriot of his race
Late shall assert his native sphere;
When envy shall no more debase

His fame, or rage restrain its tear;

When one is lost-to fill our eyes
With gladness and our joy renew,

We view another Walpole rise,

And thank thy pencil for the view.

His youth and smiles, which now demand My numbers and thy rival art;

To draw his looks the Painter's hand,

The Muses' skill to shew his heart;

When lost in time, and ripening years Shall once his country save or bless, And claim'd by Fate make Britain's tears For her lov'd dying guardians less.

A fairer piece thy thought shall feign, The Muse a nobler gift shall bring, When, in some future Brunswic's reign, You draw the Patriot which I sing.

ODE XVII.

ADDRESSED TO

AN AEOLUS's HARP,

AND SENT

TO THE VISCOUNTESS IRWIN,

(When Miss Shepheard.)

BY THE REV. WILLIAM MASON, A. M.

YES, magic lyre! now all complete
Thy slender frame responsive rings,
While kindred notes with undulation sweet
Accordant wake from all thy vocal strings.
Go then to her, whose soft request

Bade my blest hands thy form prepare ;
Ah, go, and sweetly sooth her tender breast
With many a warble wild, and artless air.
For know, full oft, while o'er the mead

Bright June extends her fragrant reign,

The Fair shall place thee near her slumb'ring head
To court the gales that cool the sultry plain.
Then shall the Sylphs and Sylphids bright,
Mild Genii all, to whose high care

Her virgin charms are giv'n, in circling flight
Skim sportive round thee in the fields of air.

Some, flutt'ring 'mid thy trembling strings,
Shall catch the rich melodious spoil,

And lightly brush thee with their purple wings,
To aid the zephyrs in their tuneful toil ;
While others check each ruder gale,

Expel rough Boreas from the sky,
Nor let a breeze its heaving breath exhale,
Save such as softly pant, and panting die.
Then, as thy swelling accents rise,

Fair Fancy, waking at the sound,

Shall paint bright visions on her raptur'd eyes,
And waft her spirits to enchanted ground,
To myrtle groves, Elysian greens,

'Mid which some fav'rite youth shall rove, Shall meet, shall lead her through the glitt'ring scenes, And all be music, ecstacy, and love.

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