And mark'd the Hero and the Man? Lo! INFANT JOVE prepares to throw REYNOLDS! I'm not to censure prone; To Painting's highest efforts climb, Proceed, great Painter! nor refuse Your subjects from the friendly Muse: Nor can she call from ancient fame Men of a more exalted name, Than some whom our Britannia owns Among her favorite, darling Sons. Nor e'er did gentle Beauty move Than many a Fair whose charms inspire -And SATIRE too demands thy aid- Come, then, th' expecting cloth prepare! In SHAKSPERE'S Temple let him stand, And let Parnassian Fingers shower And let her pluck a verdant spray Beneath let serpent Flatt'ry lour, Bedeck'd with many a fading flower; And let her pois'nous train appear, To writhe in foul contortion there. Again th' unfading tints prepare! That flood of rapid eloquence, Which now with wond'rous sweetness charms, Now by its nervous force alarms; And, with a more than Wizard's art, Commands the pulses of the heart. Let emblems of exalted Sense, Of cunning Art's collected store, With careless grace, be scatter'd round, And, where he stands, bestrew the ground. But 'mid th' inestimable heap Let PARTY-RAGE be laid asleep! Now on the canvass be display'd The figure of a weeping Maid! Paint her thin cheeks of pallid hue; With flooding tears those cheeks bedew ; And turn her humble, streaming eye To the soft mercies of the Sky. Upon her arm, with haggard mien, Let F*x's tawny figure lean; And, in his face, pourtray the smart Which Conscience lashes on his heart. Before them paint the bright abodes Of Virtue and her kindred Gods: Let HOPE beside the portal stand, The anchor in her beck'ning hand, And kindly bid the sorrowing Pair To urge their steps, and enter there. Your hand an harder task must try, And change the Vet'ran to the Boy! No more let T**D's form appear With martial grace and hoary hair! Let crisped curls his brow bedeck, And hang in ringlets on his neck; Such as around the fingers twin'd Of panting VENUS, when reclin'd Upon her breast ADONIS lay, And heav'nly raptures bless'd the day! Paint on his cheek health's crimson glow, Let whiteness clad his youthful brow, And give him ev'ry charm beside Expected by a blooming Bride! But if your pencil should refuse Time, Sir, and you have long been foes: And make her aged as her Lord. Such as your pencil would have given Again I urge the pencil's power: |