Like his, thy critics in th' attempt are loft:

When moft they rail, know then, they envy moft.

In vain they fnarl aloof; a noify croud,
Like womens anger, impotent and loud,
While they their barren industry deplore,
Pafs on fecure, and mind the goal before.
Old as she is, my muse shall march behind,
Bear off the blaft, and intercept the wind.
Our arts are fifters, tho not twins in birth.
For hymns were fung in Eden's happy earth:
But oh, the painter mufe, tho laft in place,
Has feiz'd the bleffing firft, like Jacob's race.
Apelles' art an Alexander found;

And Raphael did with Leo's gold abound;
But Homer was with barren laurel crown'd.
Thou hadst thy Charles a while, and fo had I
But pafs we that unpleafing image by.
Rich in thyself, and of thyself divine;
All pilgrims come and offer at thy fhrine.
A graceful truth thy pencil can command;
The fair themselves go. mended from thy hand.
Likeness appears in every lineament;

But likeness in thy work is eloquent.

Tho nature there her true refemblance bears,

A nobler beauty in thy piece appears.

So warm thy work, fo glows the gen'rous frame,
Flesh looks less living in the lovely dame.
Thou paint'ft as we describe, improving still,
When on wild nature we ingraft our skill;
But not creating beauties at our will.

But poets are confin'd in narrower space,
To speak the language of their native place:
The painter widely ftretches his command;
Thy pencil fpeaks the tongue of every land.
From hence, my friend, all climates are your own,
Nor can you forfeit, for hold of none.
All nations all immunities will give

you

To make you theirs, where'er you please to live; And not seven cities, but the world would ftrive.

Sure fome propitious planet then did smile,

When first you were conducted to this ifle :
Our genius brought you here, t'inlarge our fame;
For your good stars are ev'ry where the fame.
Thy matchless hand, of ev'ry region free,
Adopts our climate, not our climate thee.

Great Rome and Venice early did impart
To thee th❜examples of their wond'rous art.
Those masters then, but feen, not understood,
With generous emulation fir'd thy blood :
For what in nature's dawn the child admir'd,
The youth endeavor'd, and the man acquir'd.

If yet

thou haft not reach'd their high degree, 'Tis only wanting to this age, not thee.

Thy genius, bounded by the times, like mine,
Drudges on petty draughts, nor dare design
A more exalted work, and more divine.
For what a fong, or senseless opera

Is to the living labor of a play;

Or what a play to Virgil's work would be,
Such is a fingle piece to history.

But we, who life beftow, ourselves must live: Kings cannot reign, unless their subjects give ; And they, who pay the taxes, bear the rule: Thus thou, fometimes, art forc'd to draw a fool: But fo his follies in thy posture fink,

The fenfeless idiot seems at last to think.

}

Good heaven! that fots and knaves should be fo

vain,

To wish their vile resemblance may remain!
And ftand recorded, at their own request,
To future days, a libel or a jest!

Elfe should we see your noble pencil trace
Our unities of action, time, and place;

A whole compos'd of parts, and those the best,
With every various character exprest:
Heroes at large, and at a nearer view ;

Lefs, and at diftance, an ignobler crew.

While all the figures in one action join,
As tending to complete the main defign.

More cannot be by mortal art exprest;
But venerable age fhall add the rest.
For time fhall with his ready pencil stand;
Retouch your figures with his ripening hand ;
Mellow your colors, and imbrown the teint;
Add every grace, which time alone can grant ;
To future ages shall your fame convey,
And give more beauties than he takes

away.

******

EPISTLE the FIFTEENTH.

Mr.

T

A FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO

JULIA

SECRETARY of the MUSES.

N,

HOU common fhore of this poetic town,

Where all theexcrements of wit are thrown,

For fonnet, fatyr, bawdry, blafphemy,
Are emptied, and disburden'd all in thee
The choleric wight untruffing all in

rage

Finds thee, and lays his load upon thy page :

Thou Julian, or thou wife Vefpafian rather,
Doft from this dung thy well pickt guineas gather,
All mischief's thine, tranfcribing thou wilt ftoop,
From lofty Middlefex to lowly Scroop.

What times are thefe, when in the hero's room,
Bow-bending Cupid doth with ballads come,
And little Afton offers to the bum?

Can two fuch pigmies fuch a weight fupport, Two fuch Tom-Thumbs of fatyr in a court? Poor George grows old, his mufe worn out of fashion,

Hoarfly he fung Ephelia's lamentation.

Lefs art thou help'd by Dryden's bed-rid age,
That drone has loft his fting upon the stage:
Refolve me, poor apoftate, this my doubt,
What hope haft thou to rub this winter out?
Know, and be thankful then, for Providence
By me hath fent thee this intelligence.

A knight there is, if thou can't gain his grace,
Known by the name of the hard-favor'd face,
For prowess of the pen renown'd is he,
From Don Quixote defcended lineally,
And tho like him unfortunate he prove,
Undaunted in attempts of wit and love.
Of his unfinish'd face, what shall I fay?
But that 'twas made of Adam's own red clay,