And let her pluck a verdant spray 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! 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 cunning Art's collected store, 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 Time, Sir, and you have long been foes: And make her aged as her Lord. Such as your pencil would have given Again I urge the pencil's power: And in a turret place the bell That from the dark and dreary cell, 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 -So may he in his future Age Then be yourself! nor blend your fame But thus hold forth, to mend the Town, An exhibition all your own ! |