Pours airs divine into the human frame,
Darts through his children's eyes seraphic flame,
While o'er the sacred forms such beauties reign,
As not belie the sainthood they contain.

Behold! where Stephen fainting yields his breath,
By great Le Sueur again condemn'd to death;
With strange surprise we view the horrid deed,
And then, to pity melted, turn the head, 30
Lest, as spectators of the martyr's fall,
We innocently share the crime of Saul.
..Here too Albani's pencil charms the eye;
Morellio here unfolds the azure sky,

Sweet modest charms the Virgin's cheek adorn,
To Heaven on wings of smiling seraphs borne.

The next gay room is known by Carlo's name, Fair Mausoleum of Maratti's fame!

Such strokes, such equal charms, each picture boasts, We venture not to say which pleases most.

Thus on the galaxy with joy we gaze,

Nor know which star emits the brightest rays.
Yet if beyond himself he ever flew,
If e'er beyond a mortal's touch he drew,
Amidst the glow that from that purple breaks,
Look on yon Pope, nor wonder if he speaks.
With length of days and fame Maratti blest,
Ne'er wept departed genius from his breast;
But, when just drooping, sinking to the ground,
Spread sportive Loves and laughing Cherubs round;

150

Ev'n Death, approaching, smil'd, and made a stand,

And gently stole the pencil from his hand.

Thus falls the sun, and, as he fades away,

Gilds all th' horizon with a parting ray.

Next on the gorgeous cabinet we gaze, Which the full elegance of paint displays; In strong expressions of each master's mind, The various beauties of this art we find ; Here vast invention, there the just design,

Here the bold stroke, and there the perfect line. With ease unequall'd here the drawing flows,

And there inimitable color glows.

With summer here the cloth Bassano warms,
There locks the world in winter's hoary arms,
On the warm view we look with pleas'd amaze,
Then turn to frost, and shudder as we gaze,

Mirth unrestrain'd in rustics humble cells
On chearful Teniers' laughing canvass dwells,
Nor ever are his warm expressions faint,
But laughing we enjoy the comic paint;

Till scenes more horrid break upon our eye,

Effects of Borgognone's too cruel joy.

70

Strong was his fancy, and his genius good,
But, bred in camps, he mix'd his tints in blood;
Alternate bore the pencil and the sword,

And the same hands that fought, the fight record,

But lo! and let the pious tear be shed,

On the sad cloth the world's great Master dead,
The mother see! in grief amazing drown'd,
And sorrow more than mortal spread around.
What striking attitudes! what strong relief!
We see, we wonder at, we feel the grief.
Who could such power of speaking paint employ ?
Own, Parma, own thy darling son with joy;

Still to his memory fresh trophies rear,

Whose life insatiate war itself could

spare.

No arms he needed 'midst the fatal strife,
But to his potent pencil ow'd his life,
The wondering soldier dropp'd the lifted sword,
Nor stain'd those hands he only not ador'd,

Now, as Aeneas in the Stygian glades
Wondering beheld departed heroes shades,
Amidst the forms of worthies dead we range,
By eternising paint preserv'd from change.
Here law and learning dwell in Wandesford's face,
While valiant Whartons shine with martial grace;
And the soft females of the race declare

That these no braver were than those were fair;
In garter'd glory drest here Danby stands,
And Laud with air imperious still commands. 200

The next great form with melancholy eye, And inauspicious valor, seems to sigh. Peace to his soul! howe'er 'gainst right he fought, Be in his dreadful doom his sin forgot;

Too much misled to leave his honor clear,
Too wretched not to claim a generous tear!
A wretch to Virtue's still a sacred thing!
How much more sacred then, a murder'd king!
But be our wrath, as it deserves, applied
To his two guides, still closest to his side,

Laud and the Queen, whose fatal conduct shew,
What bigot zeal and headstrong pride could do.

214

But see where Kneller now our eye commands To pictur'd kings, familiar to his hands, Kings to support a free-born people made, Kings who but rul'd to bless the lands they sway'd; Sovereigns, whose inoppressive power has shown, Freedom and monarchy, well-join'd, are one.

220

See mighty William's fierce determin'd eye, Freedom to save, or in her cause to die; As when on Boyne's important banks he stood, And as his deeds surpris'd the swelling flood, All torn and mangled, false Religion fled, And crush'd Oppression snarl'd beneath his tread.

Next in the steady lines of Brunswick's face, Majestic manly honesty we trace;

Pleas'd, as on Sarum's plain, with glad accord, When willing thousands hail'd their new-come lord, And (far beyond a tyrant's baneful glee)

The king rejoic'd to find his people free.

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Good prince, whose age forsook thy native land,
To bless our Albion with thy mild command,

Long may this sacred form of thee remain,

Here plac'd by him whose counsels bless'd thy reign ! And ever may his sons with joy relate,

That he as faithful was as thou wert great!

But now, my Muse, to soberer pomp descend, And to the cool arcade my steps attend. Here, when the summer-sun spreads round his ray, Beneath the bending arch young Zephyrs play,24 And, when it farther from our orb retires, Old Vulcan smiling lights his chearful fires. Hither the jolly hunter's crew resort, Talk o'er the day, and re-enjoy their sport. Here too, with brow unbent, and chearful air, The mighty statesman oft forgot his care; Knew friendship's joys, and still attentive hung On Pelham, Edgecumbe, Devonshire, or Yonge; In senates form'd or private life to please,

There shar'd his toil, and here partook his ease. 2

Here by thy stay, my Muse, though pleas'd, not long,

Thy sister Painting claims again my song,

Where thron'd in state the Goddess we descry,
As the gay gallery opens on our eye.

Here in her utmost pomp well-pleas'd she reigns,
Nor weeps her absent Rome or Lombard plains;