scriptive Poesy;
And tho' sweet Music, when she strikes the strings,
When thro' the grove with seraph-voice she sings,
The soul, enraptur'd with the thrilling stream,
Would hail the Maid of Harmony supreme!
Yet, while her dulcet sounds enchant, they die;}
So shooting stare illume the midnight sky, }
And, as we wonder, vanish from the eye. }
But when resistless Death, in mournful hour,
Withdraws the drooping painter's mimic pow'r,
Improv'd by time, his works still charm the sight,
And thro' successive ages yield delight
Greece early bade the painter's pencil trace
Each form with force; to force she added grace:
For this her Zeuxis she a garland wove,
For[C] that Apelles won her grateful love.
Chiefly she called on Painting's magic powers
To deck the guardians of her lofty tow'rs;
Here[D] Jove in lightning show'd his awful mien.
There Venus with her doves was smiling seen!
Till ruthless Time, with unabating flight,
O'er Grecian grandeur flung the shades of night
Long did they settle o'er the darken'd world.
Till Raphael's hand the sable curtain furl'd;
A pious calm, an elevated grace,
Then on the canvass mark'd th' Apostle's face;
Devout applauses ev'ry feature drew,
E'en[E] such as graceful Sculpture never knew.
In nearer times, and on a neighb'ring shore,
Painting but feebly shone, obscur'd by pow'r.
See Rubens' soul indignantly advance,
Press'd by the pride and vanity of France;
Behold, [F] in fulsome allegory spread,
The gaudy iris o'er the victor's head!
See Genius, deaf to Nature's nobler call,
Waste all its strength upon the banner'd hall!
E'en now, tho' Gallia, in her blood-stain'd car,
Spreads over Europe all the woes of war,
Still with consummate craft she tries to prove
How much the peaceful charms engage her love:
Treasures of art in lengthen'd gall'ries glow,
And[G] Europe's plunder Europe's plund'rers show!
Yet of her living artists few can claim
Half the mix'd praise that waits on David's fame.
Thrice happy Britain! in thy favour'd isle
The sister Arts in health and beauty smile!
Tho' no Imperial Gall'ries grace thy shores,
Tho' wealth the public bounty seldom pours,
Yet private taste rewards thy painter's toil,
And bids his genius grace his native soil.
Bless'd country! here thy artists can supply
Abundant charms to fix th' admiring eye:
In furtive splendour ne'er art thou array'd,
No plunder'd country mourns thy ruthless blade,
Sees its transported treasures torn away,
To grac