EPISTLE XI. THE BEAUTIES. то MR. ECKARDT, The Painter. BY THE HONORABLE HORACE WALPOLE. DESPONDING Artist, talk no more Where ev'ry nymph that could at most Some single grace or feature boast, Contributed her favorite charm To perfect the ideal form. 'Twas CYNTHIA's brow, 'twas LESBIA's eye, 'Twas CLOE's cheeks' vermilion dye; ROXANA lent the noble air, Dishevell'd flow'd ASPASIA's hair, A single Venus to produce! Friend Eckardt, ancient story quit, Who talk of Raphael's matchless fame, And Zeuxis' patchwork be a jest; Who ransack'd Greece, and cull'd the age To bring one Goddess on the stage: On your each canvass we 'll admire The charms of the whole heav'nly choir. Majestic Juno shall be seen In HARVEY'S glorious aweful mien. Where FITZROY moves, resplendent Fair; And heighten while they shade her face: Though STANHOPE's more than Paris bless'd. So GRAFTON, matchless dame, commands The blood that warm'd each amorous court, In veins as rich still loves to sport: And George's age beholds restor❜d, What William boasted, Charles ador'd. For Venuses the Trojan ne'er Was half so puzzled to declare : In smiling CAPEL's beauteous look Rich Autumn's Goddess is mistook, With poppies and with spiky corn, In dimpled beauty next be seen, With her the light-dispensing Fair, Whose beauty gilds the morning air, And bright as her attendant sun, The new Aurora, LYTTLETON: Such Guido's pencil beauty-tip'd, And in ethereal colors dip'd, In measursd dance to tuneful song Drew the sweet Goddess, as along Heaven's azure 'neath their light feet spread, The buxom Hours she fairest led. The crescent on her brow display'd, Eckardt, for these thy art's too faint; How Hebe smil'd, what bloom divine On the young Goddess lov'd to shine, From CARPENTER We guess, or see, All-beauteous MANNERS, beam from thee. How pretty Flora, wanton maid, By Zephyr woo'd in noon-tide shade, With rosy hand coquetly throwing Pansies, beneath her sweet touch blowing; How blithe she look'd, let FANNY tell; Let Zephyr own if half so well. Another Goddess of the year, Fair Queen of Summer, see, appear; Rather the beauties of her race, Whence every Goddess, envy smit, Must own each Stonehouse meets in PITT, Exhausted all the heav'nly train, How many Mortals yet remain, Whose eyes shall try your pencil's art, CHUDLEIGH, or name her of the tribe; To weep her dear Resemblance gone, |