And thus, like connoisseurs on Earth,
Began to weigh the pictures' worth:
But first (as deem'd of higher kind)
Examin'd they the works of _Mind_.[4]
Pray what is this? demanded one.--
That, sir, is Phoebus, alias, Sun:
A classick work you can't deny;
The car and horses in the sky,
The clouds on which they hold their way,
Proclaim him all the God of Day.
Nay, learned sir, his dirty plight
More fit beseems the God of Night.
Besides, I cannot well divine
How mud like this can ever shine.--
Then look at that a little higher.--
I see 'tis Orpheus, by his lyre.
The beasts that listening stand around,
Do well declare the force of sound:
But why the fiction thus reverse,
And make the power of song a curse?
The ancient Orpheus soften'd rocks,
Yours changes living things to blocks.--
Well, this you'll sure acknowledge fine,
Parnassus' top with all the Nine.
Ah, _there_ is beauty, soul and fire,
And all that human wit inspire!--
Good sir, you're right; for being stone,
They're each to blunted wits a hone.
And what is that? inquir'd another.--
That, sir, is Cupid and his Mother.--
What, Venus? sure it cannot be:
That skin begrim'd ne'er felt the sea;
That Cupid too ne'er knew the sky;
For lead, I'm sure, could never fly.--
I'll hear no more, the Painter said,
Your souls are, like your bodies, dead!

With secret triumph now elate,
His grinning Rival 'gan to prate.
Oh, fie! my friends; upon my word,
You're too severe: he should be _heard_;
For _Mind_ can ne'er to glory reach,
Without the usual aid of _speech_.
If thus howe'er, you seal his doom,
What hope have I unknown to Rome?
But since the _truth_ be your dominion,
I beg to hear your just opinion.
This picture then--which some have thought
By far the best I ever wrought--
Observe it well with critick ken;
'Tis Daniel in the Lion's Den.--
'Tis flesh itself! exclaim'd a Critick.
But why make Daniel paralytick?
His limbs and features are distorted.
And then his legs are badly sorted.
'Tis true, a miracle you've hit,
But not as told in Holy Writ;
For there the miracle was braving,
With _bones unbroke_, the Lion's craving;
But yours (what ne'er could man befall)
That he should _live with none at all_.--
And pray, inquir'd another spectre,
What Mufti's that at pious lecture?
That's Socrates, condemned to die;
He next, in sable, standing by,
Is Galen[5], come to save his friend,
If possible, from such an end;
The other figures, group'd around,
His Schola