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Nor will the curious Crowd believe
That 'tis my Lady now alive.
But when the Metzotinto's shewn,
They all a strong resemblance own.

Unhappy Artist, to survive

The means by which your fame should live!
And on the Scraper's art rely
For hopes of immortality.

Your pencil summon'd into life, For GARRICK's choice, the ardent strife. I saw the sad, but stately Queen That stalks amid the tragic scene: Around her floats the purple stole ; The dagger and the fatal bowl Are not unseen-and to the sky Her finger guides th' attentive eye. 'Tis vain: -Her mad-cap Rival's leer, With roguish look and playful sneer, From Madam Grave-Airs wins the field, And ROSCIUS yields-where all would yield. Who would not to the covert fly With all-enchanting Comedy?

But now I'm told, and fear it true,
That Garrick's face is black and blue-
As if he'd run the risk of life
From jealousies of either wife;

While the fair Dames in this agree,
To be as black and blue as he.
-Time joys to see the hasty ruin,`
That cost so little in undoing.
Full many an age he must employ
The works of Raphael to destroy ;
And Titian's tints his power defy

Through many a rolling century:
And e'en where Time has aim'd the blow,
Art hath withstood the biting Foe.

But years or months, at his command,
Efface the labors of your hand;

Nor, when they fade, can you restore
The work to what it was before :
Your utmost genius cannot give
Health to the form, and bid it live.

I saw your daring pencil trace
The manly lines of AMHERST's face;
And as I stood, my wond'ring eyes
Beheld th' heroic Form arise.
A deep and solemn look he wore,
As if attentive to explore
Some dark design of Britain's Foe,
How to prevent th' approaching blow;
To stop the Fury in its course,
Or hurl it back with triple force;
Or, what in truth so far exceeds
The highest fame of warlike deeds,

Humanely thoughtful how to save
The starving thousands from the grave.
Upon his mild, but dauntless breast,
In its pale splendor was exprest
The lustre of the silver star,
Well earn'd amid the toils of war.
At length, the final tint bestow'd,
The finish'd portrait nobly glow'd
In colors warm, and touches true,
As Titian's pencil ever drew.

And must the fair resemblance fade, Ere the great Hero's self is laid Beneath the marble that will bear The tribute of Britannia's tear? And when the sage, Historic pen Shall rank him 'mong the first of men ? Forbid it, Art! But thou should'st give The glowing oil to look and live; And while his future offspring read Of many a brave, heroic deed; Of battles won, of trophies rear'd, Of nations by his mercy spar'd ; Must their young eyes, in vain, desire To see the likeness of their Sire, Who British bands to triumph led, And trod the paths they wish to tread ? Must they, in vain, the canvass trace To catch the generous, gentle grace That o'er the vet'ran features ran,

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.

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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;

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