And in a turret place the bell That from the dark and dreary cell, At midnight hour, breaks off the sleep Of those who only wake to weep. Beneath the wall's dark umbrage place, Repentance mark'd upon her face, Some aged and repentant Dame, That doth the heav'nly mercies claim. Let her before His Image bend, Who died to be the Sinner's Friend; And hang the cross adown her side, Emblem of that whereon He died. Make her eyes shed the dropping tear, As tho' she urg'd a doubtful prayer; And give to the repentant Nun, The wrinkled form of H** TON. Thus, thus, my Friend, exert your art, And please the eye, and mend the heart! Uncrimson A ** R's gawdy face, But leave her all her share of Grace. To M* LB ** give her Father's spirit, And D** R all her Mother's merit. Make C** N sober, P* refin'd, And B ** gen'rous, brave and kind. Let them their better Natures see, And paint them what they ought to be. Already youthful BEDFORD'S Sword, Urg'd by the valor of its Lord, Gives, to a dragon's form, the wound Then be yourself! nor blend your fame With Artists of inferior name. Do not your moral works expose At Royal-Academic shows; But thus hold forth, to mend the Town, An exhibition all your own! EPISTLE XIII. TO THE HON. MISS YORKE, [Afterwards Lady Anson.] ON HER COPYING CLOVIO'S PORTRAIT OF DANTE. FROM THE HON. CHARLES YORKE. FAIR Artist! well thy pencil has essay'd Picture and Poetry just kindred claim, Their birth, their genius, and pursuits the same; Daughters of Phoebus and Minerva, they From the same sources draw the heavenly ray. Whatever earth, or air, or ocean breeds, Whatever luxury or weakness needs; All forms of beauty Nature's scenes disclose, All images inventive arts compose; What ruder passions tear the troubled breast, Friendships like these from time receive no law, Contracted oft with those we never saw; In every art who court an endless fame Thou too, whom Nature and the Muse inspire, Listening the poet's lore hast caught his fire; With so much spirit every feature fraught, Clovio might own this imitated draught; And Dante, were he conscious of the praise, Would sing thy labors in immortal lays ; His melancholy air to gladness turn'd, Nor longer his unthankful Florence mourn'd: Fair Beatrice's charms would lose their force, No more her steps o'er Heaven direct his course; To thee the Bard would grant the nobler place, And ask thy guidance through the paths of peace. Oh! could my eloquence, like his, persuade To leave the bounded walks by others made, Through Nature's wilds bid thy free genius rove, Copy the living race, or waving grove ; Or boldly rising with superior skill, The work with Heroes or with Poets fill; |