For him fine marble in the quarry lies,
Which, in due ftatues, to his fame shall rise;
Ever fhall Public Spirit beam his praise,
And the Muse swell it in immortal lays.
MR. JOHN DYER, A PAINTER,
ADVISING HIM TO DRAW A CERTAIN
NOBLE AND ILLUSTRIOUS PERSON;
Occafioned by seeing his PICTURE of the celebrated CLIO*.
ORGIVE an artless, an officious friend,
Weak, when I judge, but willing to commend; Fall'n as I am, by no kind fortune rais'd, Deprefs'd, obfcur'd, unpity'd, and unprais'd; Yet, when these well-known features I perufe, Some warmth awakes-fome embers of a Muse. Ye Mufes, Graces, and ye Loves, appear! Your Queen, your Venus, and your Clio's here! In fuch pure fires her rifing thoughts refine! Her eyes with fuch commanding fweetness fhine: Such vivid tinctures sure through æther glow, Stain fummer clouds, or gild the watery bow:
If life Pygmalion's ivory favourite fir'd,
Sure fome enamour'd Godt his draught infpir'd!
Or, if you rafhly caught Promethean flame,
Shade the sweet theft, and mar the beauteous frame !
Yet if those cheering lights the profpect fly,
Ah!-let no pleasing view the loss supply.
Some dreary den, some desert waste prepare,
Wild as my thoughts, or dark as my despair.
But still, my friend, ftill the sweet object stays,
Still ftream your colours rich with Clio's rays!
Sure at each kindling touch your canvass glows!
Sure the full form, instinct with spirit, grows!
Let the dull artift puzzling rules explore,
Dwell on the face, and gaze the features o'er;
You eye the foul-there genuine nature find,
You, through the meaning muscles, ftrike the mind.
Nor can one view fuch boundless power confine,
All Nature opens to an art like thine!
Now rural fcenes in fimple grandeur rife!
Vales, hills, dawns, lakes, and vineyards feast our eyes,
Now halcyon Peace a smiling afpect wears!
Now the red scene with war and ruin glares!
Here Britain's fleets o'er Europe's feas prefide!
There long-loft cities rear their ancient pride;
You from the grave can half redeem the flain,
And bid great Julius charm the world again :
Mark out Pharfalia's, mark out Munda's fray,
And image all the honours of the day.
But if new glories moft our warmth excite;
If toils untry'd to noblest aims invite ;
Would you in envy'd pomp unrival'd reign,
Oh, let Horatius grace the canvass plain !
His form might ev'n idolatry create,
In lineage, titles, wealth, and worth elate!
Empires to him might virgin honours owe,
From him arts, arms, and laws, new influence know.
For him kind funs on fruits and grains fhall fhine,
And future gold lie ripening in the mine :
For him fine marble in the quarry lies,
Which, in due ftatues, to his fame fhall rife.
Through those bright features Cefar's spirit trace,
Each conquering fweetnefs, each imperial grace,
All that is foft, or eminently great,
In love, in war, in knowledge, or in state.
Thus fhall your colours, like his worth amaze! Thus fhall you charm, enrich'd with Clio's praise ! Clear, and more clear, your golden genius fhines, While my dim lamp of life obfcure declines: Dull'd in damp fhades, it wastes, unfeen, away, While yours, triumphant, grows one blaze of day.
With the TRAGEDY of SIR THOMAS OVERBURY, expecting him to correct it.
S the foul, ftript of mortal clay,
Grows all divinely fair,
And boundless roves the milky way,
And views fweet prospects there,
This hero, clogg'd with droffy lines,
By thee new vigour tries;
As thy correcting hand refines,
Bright fcenes around him rife.
III.
Thy touch brings the wifh'd ftone to pass,
So fought, fo long foretold;
It turns polluted lead or brafs,
At once to pureft gold.
SPOKEN AT THE REVIVAL OF
SHAKESPEARE's KING HENRY THE SIXTH, At the THEATRE-ROYAL in DRURY-LANE. Printed before the Play from a spurious Copy.
TO-night a patient ear, ye Britons lend,
And to your great forefathers' deeds attend.
Here, cheaply warn'd, ye blest descendants view,
What ills on England, Civil Discord drew.
To wound the heart, the martial Mufe prepares;
While the red fcene with raging flaughter glares.
Here, while a monarch's sufferings we relate,
Let generous grief his ruin'd grandeur wait.
While Second Richard's blood for vengeance calls,
Doom'd for his grandfire's guilt, poor Henry falls. 10
In civil jars avenging judgment blows,
And royal wrongs entail a people's woes.
Henry, unvers'd in wiles, more good than great,
Drew on by meeknefs his difaftrous fate.
Thus when you fee this land by faction toft,
Her nobles flain, her laws, her freedom loft;
Let this reflection from the action flow,
We ne'er from foreign foes could ruin know.
Oh, let us then inteftine difcord fhun,
We ne'er can be, but by ourselves, undone!
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