Who can the hardy task fulfil,

And imitate each nameless grace?

Who so expressly, with such rich design,

As thou dost Nature's works, can copy thine?

Who can like thee, with daring hand,
The bright aetherial herald paint,
Descending at his God's command,

To hail with joy the virgin saint!
Should angels e'er again their heaven forsake,
Surely this form they would delight to take.

How does the beauteous figure please,
Form'd by thy pencil's nicest care!
Behold with what a graceful ease

Lightly it seems to hang in air :

Whilst his expressive hand aloft he rears,
And, by his action, speaks the news he bears.

The Virgin, bending to the earth,

With reverence the great guest receives,

Hears of Messiah's glorious birth,

And, rapt with ecstacies, believes :

How plainly do we read each thought exprest! How her eyes shew th' emotions of her breast!

See o'er her sacred face display'd

A doubtful glimpse of joy appears, Which faintly dawns, then seems to fade, Corrected by an aweful fear :

Thus often a fair sky uncertain lours,

Begins to shine, and then descends in showers.

Who then can worthily admire

That artful hand, that skill divine,
Which thus makes contraries conspire,
And disagreeing passions join?

Love, fear, joy, grief, in sweet confusion thrown,
Are by thy pencil blended here in one.

Thus gather'd to the crystal glass
Repair the many-color'd rays,
Together through the convex pass,

And weave themselves into a blaze;

Till, at the last, the various dyes unite,
And form one undistinguish'd stream of light.

Thou, wondrous Painter, whence this art,
From whence this power didst thou derive,
Thus, like Prometheus, to impart

Breath to thy work, and bid it live?

How couldst thou thus the pointed form inspire,
But that, like him, from heaven thou steal'st thy fire!

Still, as I gaze, fresh charms arise,

New beauties open to my sight,
Distract me with the sweet surprise,

And dazzle with excess of light:

I think this moment I have view'd them o'er,
But the next moment see as many more.

Oh! may the piece, unhurt by age,
To latest years preserve its grace!
Never may Time's devouring rage

Thy noblest work, Le Moine, deface!

But thus the firm memorial let it stand

Of Burton's generous mind, and thy creating hand!

ODES.

CLASS THE TENTH.