n,
Spread joy and richness thro' the verdant plain,
Thus, in those climes where skies are ever fair,
Each infant Science breath'd a genial air,
Climes where the Earth her stores to all resign'd,
Nor left one selfish passion to the mind;
On her green lap the swain reclin'd his head,
And found his banquet where he found his bed.
Then Painting grew, and from the shades of flow'rs[A]
There first essay'd her imitative pow'rs,
When, urg'd by plunder, with the torrent's might,
Nerv'd by the storm, and harden'd in the fight,
A race barbarian left their forests wild,
And sought the spot where Love and Learning smil'd.
By Taste unsoften'd, these relentless droves
Burst, fair Italia! thro' thy sacred groves,
Laid ev'ry flow'r of Art and Fancy waste,
And pour'd a winter o'er the realms of Taste,
Each Science trembled at the ruffian sound,
Forsook her shades, and fled her classic ground;
The lofty column prostrate in the dust,
Defac'd the arch, o'erthrown the matchless bust;
The shatter'd fresco animates no more,
And ruthless winds thro' clefted temples roar!
Florence beheld the scene with sad surprise,
And bade the prostrate pile in grandeur rise.
Then, oh! thou truly "Father of the Art[B]!"
'Twas thine superior vigour to impart;
Illustrious Cimabue! it was thine
To soar beyond Example's bounded line,
And, as the Heav'n-directed sceptre's shock,
Produc'd full torrents from the flinty rock,
So streams of taste obey'd thy pencil's call,
And Nature seem'd to start from out the wall.
Hail, beauteous art! oh! that in equal lay
Could but my Muse thy various pow'rs convey!
'Tis thine with silent eloquence to shew
Passion's strong image, Beauty's rapt'rous glow,
To soothe the parted lover's anxious care,
Who owns thee fairest of thy sisters fair;
When waves divide him, still thro' thee to trace
The dear resemblance of that cherish'd face,
Which he so oft with trembling lips has prest,
So often gaz'd upon, so often blest!
Thine too it is to seek the verdant plains
Where Peace resides, where Rustic Beauty reigns;
Or bid the torrent on thy canvass roar,
Or calmly spread the yellow winding shore;
Or show, from some vast cliff's extremest verge,
The frail bark combating the angry surge.
Oft too on some lone turret wilt thou stand,
To trace the fury of th' embattled band,
To darken with the clouds of death the skies,
And bid the scenes of blood and havoc rise!
Such, and far more, thy pow'rs, bless'd art! to thee
Inferior far de