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And mark'd the Hero and the Man?
While many a curse their lips impart,
To damn Thee and thy fleeting Art!

Lo! INFANT JOVE prepares to throw
His lightnings on the world below;
But soon the heavenly flame expires,
Chang'd to blue Tartarean fires,
That stench OLYMPUS' high abode,
And threat to suffocate the GOD.

REYNOLDS! I'm not to censure prone;
Your genius I most gladly own;
And wish that genius might secure
A name, that would as long endure,
As those high honors which proclaim
Immortal RAPHAEL's endless fame.
For such a fame pursue the toil,
And fix it deep in solid oil.

To Painting's highest efforts climb,
Nor fear thy fate, and laugh at Time
In works of lasting form engage,
And be the RAPHAEL of the age.

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
To higher joys of virtuous love,

Than many a Fair whose charms inspire
The British Youth with chaste desire.

-And SATIRE too demands thy aid-
To make the vicious Great afraid,
To pale the glowing tints of Pride,
To urge Contrition's flowing tide,
To paint the lives of shameless Men,
She to thy pencil yields the pen.

Come, then, th' expecting cloth prepare!
Let GARRICK's self be painted there!
Not as, erewhile, in wayward mood,
Doubtful the mighty Actor stood,
And hardly knew which Dame to choose,
The Tragic or the Comic Muse.

In SHAKSPERE'S Temple let him stand,
Erected by his grateful hand,

And let Parnassian Fingers shower
Each verdant leaf and fragrant flower;
And may the laurel's green array
The same conducting hands obey
To form a bower, where his age
May, from the turmoils of the Stage,
Enjoy that calm, sedate repose
Which conscious merit only knows.
Above, may full-wing'd Fame be seen,
With patient but exulting mien;

And let her pluck a verdant spray
From Shakspere's never-fading bay;
And let a Muse the gift receive,
And into form the garland weave,
And place it on the favor'd brow
Where SHAKSPERE would the palm bestow.

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!
Great Painter! ply thy utmost care!
To ev'ry touch attention give :
Let BURKE upon the canvass live!
Let him with solemn grace appear
Before the Senate's awful chair,
As if preparing to dispense

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 Genius, Wit, and Eloquence,

Of cunning Art's collected store,
Of Erudition's hidden lore,

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
The arduous task; my forward Muse
An easy subject will propose.

Time, Sir, and you have long been foes:
For once, then, take the lead of Time,
And wrinkle T**D in her prime.
For since you cannot bring his years
Back to the strength and youth of hers,
Your hand to fitness must accord,

And make her aged as her Lord.
The wrinkles on her face display,
And turn her floating tresses grey.
And give her such a form and dress
As she at fifty will possess ;

Such as your pencil would have given
TO FERRARS, now a Saint in Heaven.
In nuptial ties this truth I hold :
Both should be Young, or both be Old!

Again I urge the pencil's power:
Come, trace the lone monastic tower,
Whose walls, with ivy overgrown,
Echo the sad repentant moan
Of sinful souls, who glad repair
To shed their daily sorrows there;

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