Some overpoise of sway, by turns, they share In peace the people, and the prince in war: Confuls of mod'rate power in calms were made; When the Gauls came, one fole dictator sway'd.
Patriots, in peace, affert the people's right; With noble stubbornefs refifting might: No lawless mandates from the court receive, Nor lend by force, but in a body give. Such was your gen'rous grandfire; free to grant In parliaments, that weigh'd their prince's want: But fo tenacious of the common cause, As not to lend the king against his laws. And, in a loathfome dungeon doom'd to lie, In bonds retain'd his birthright liberty, And fham'd oppreffion, till it fet him free. O true defcendent of a patriot line,
Who, while thou fhar'ft their luftre, lend'ft them
Vouchsafe this picture of thy foul to fee;
'Tis so far good, as it resembles thee:
The beauties to th'original I owe;
Which when I mifs, my own defects I show:
Nor think the kindred mufes thy disgrace:
A poet is not born in ev'ry race."
Two of a house few ages can afford;
One to perform, another to record.
Praife-worthy actions are by thee embrac'd;
And 'tis my praise, to make thy praises last.
For ev'n when death diffolves our human frame,
The foul returns to heaven from whence it came;
Earth keeps the body, verse preserves the fame.
Sir GODFREY KNELLER, Principal PAINTER to his MAJESTY,
NCE I beheld the fairest of her kind,
And ftill the fweet idea charms my mind:
True, she was dumb; for nature gaz'd fo long,
Pleas'd with her work, that the forgot her tongue;
But, fmiling, faid, She still shall gain the prize;
I only have transferr'd it to her eyes.
Such are thy pictures, Kneller: such thy skill,
That nature seems obedient to thy will;
Comes out, and meets thy pencil in the draught; Lives there, and wants but words to speak her thought.
At least thy pictures look a voice; and we
Imagine founds, deceiv'd to that degree,
We think 'tis fomewhat more than just to see.
Shadows are but privations of the light;
Yet, when we walk, they shoot before the fight;
With us approach, retire, arife, and fall;
Nothing themselves, and yet expreffing all.
Such are thy pieces, imitating life
So near, they almost conquer in the ftrife;
And from their animated canvass came,
Demanding fouls, and loofen'd from the frame.
Prometheus, were he here, would caft
away
His Adam, and refufe a foul to clay;
And either would thy noble work inspire,
Or think it warm enough, without his fire.
But vulgar hands may vulgar likeness raise;
This is the leaft attendant on thy praise :
From hence the rudiments of art began;
A coal, or chalk, firft imitated man:
Perhaps the fhadow, taken on a wall,
Gave outlines to the rude original;
Ere canvass yet was ftrain'd, before the grace
Of blended colors found their use and place,
Or cypress tablets first receiv'd a facé.
By flow degrees the godlike art advanc'd;
As man grew polish'd, picture was inhanc'd :
Grecce added posture, fhade, and perspective;
And then the mimic piece began to live.
Yet perfpective was lame, no distance true,
But all came forward in one common view:
No point of light was known, no bounds of art;
When light was there, it knew not to depart,
But glaring on remoter objects play'd;
Not languish'd, and insensibly decay'd.
Rome rais'd not art, but barely kept alive,
And with old Greece unequally did ftrive:
Till Goths, and Vandals, a rude northern race,
Did all the matchlefs monuments deface.
Then all the Mufes in one ruin lie,
And rhime began t'enervate poetry.
Thus, in a stupid military state,
The pen and pencil find an equal fate.
Flat faces, fuch as would difgrace a skreen,
Such as in Bantam's embassy were seen,
Unrais'd, unrounded, were the rude delight
Of brutal nations, only born to fight.
Long time the fifter arts, in iron sleep,
A heavy fabbath did fupinely keep:
At length, in Raphael's age, at once they rife,
Stretch all their limbs, and open all their eyes.
Thence rose the Roman, and the Lombard line:
One color'd beft, and one did beft defign.
Raphael's, like Homer's, was the nobler part,
But Titian's painting look'd like Virgil's art.
Thy genius gives thee both; where true defign,
Poftures unforc'd, and lively colors join.
Likeness is ever there; but still the best,
Like proper thoughts in lofty language dreft:
Where light, to fhades defcending, plays, not
strives,
Dies by degrees, and by degrees revives.
Of various parts a perfect whole is wrought :
Thy pictures think, and we divine their thought.
Shakespear, thy gift, I place before my fight;
With awe,
I ask his bleffing ere I write ;
With rev'rence look on his majestic face;
Proud to be lefs, but of his godlike race.
His foul inspires me, while thy praise I write,
And I, like Teucer, under Ajax fight:
Bids thee, thro me, be bold; with dauntless breast
Contemn the bad, and emulate the best.
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