Classic Poem

See! the proud Rabbins at the sumptuous Board,
Frown on the Wretch who kneels before her Lord,
And the rich Unguent, in Devotion meet,
Pours, mixt with Tears, on her Redeemer's Feet.
In vain with Hypocritic Rage they glow,
While Mercy smooths the Heav'nly Stranger's Brow,
He the true Penitent with Ease descries,
Sees the Heart speaking in the melting Eyes,
Bids ev'ry Tear with full Effect to stream,
And from his Vengeance all her Sins redeem.

On the next Cloth behold Vandyke display,
Celestial Innocence, immortal Day,
His Pencil here no more with Nature vies,
Above her plastic Pow'r his Genius flies;
Soars on Promethean Wing aloft, and there
Steals Forms which Heav'n-born Cherubs only wear;
Pours Airs divine into the human Frame,
Darts thro' his Childrens Eyes Seraphic Flame,
While o'er the sacred Forms such Beauties reign,
As not belie the Saint-hood they contain.

Behold! where Stephen fainting yields his Breath,
By great Le Sueur again condemn'd to Death;
With strange Surprize we view the horrid Deed,
And then to Pity melted turn the Head,
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 Heav'n, on Wings of smiling Seraphs born.

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;
E'en 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 Masters 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 unequal'd here the Drawing flows,
And there inimitable Colour 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 Rusticks humble Cells
On chearful Teniers' laughing Canvas 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.
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 cou'd such Pow'r of speaking Paint employ?
Own, Parma , own thy darling Son with Joy;
Still to his Memory fresh Trophies rear,
Whose Life, insatiate War itself cou'd spare.
No Arms he needed 'midst the fatal Strife,
But to his potent Pencil ow'd his Life,
The wond'ring Soldier dropp'd the lifted Sword,
Nor stain'd those Hands he only not ador'd.

Now, as Æneas in the Stygian Glades
Wond'ring beheld departed Heroes Shades,
Amidst the Forms of Worthies dead we range,
By eternizing 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.

The next great Form with melancholy Eye,
And inauspicious Valour seems to sigh.
Peace to his Soul! howe'er 'gainst Right he sought,
Be in his dreadful Doom his Sin forgot;
Too much misled to leave his Honour clear,
Too wretched not to claim a gen'rous 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, apply'd
To his Two Guides, still closest to his Side,
Laud and the Queen, whose fatal Conduct shew,
What bigot Zeal, and headstrong Pride cou'd do.

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 that but rul'd to bless the Lands they sway'd.
Sov'reigns, whose inoppressive Pow'r has shown
Freedom and Monarchy, well-join'd, are One.

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 surpriz'd the swelling Flood,
All torn and mangled false Religion fled,
And crush'd Oppression snarl'd beneath his Tread.