Thee Nature taught, nor Art her aid deny'd,
(The kindest mistress and the surest guide)
To catch a likeness at one piercing fight,
And place the fairest in the fairest light.
Ere yet the pencil tries her nicer toils,
Or on the palette lie the blended oyls,
Thy careless chalk has half atchiev'd thy art,
And her just image makes Cleora start.

A mind that grasps the whole is rarely found, Half learn'd, half painters, and half wits abound; Few, like thy genius, at proportion aim,

All great, all graceful, and throughout the same.
Such be thy life. O fince the glorious rage
That fir'd thy youth, flames unfubdu'd by age;
Though wealth nor fame now touch thy fated mind,
Still tinge the canvas, bounteous to mankind.
Since after thee may rise an impious line,
Coarfe manglers of the human face divine,
Paint on, till fate diffolve thy mortal part,
And live and die the monarch of thy art.

ON

ON THE

Death of the Earl of C A DOGAN.

By the Same.

OF Marlb'rough's captains and Eugenio's friends,

Ο

The laft, CADOGAN to the grave defcends : Low lies each head whence Blenheim's glory fprung, The chiefs who conquer'd, and the bards who fung. From his cold corfe though every friend be fled, Lo! Envy waits, that lover of the dead. Thus did the feign o'er Naffau's herfe to mourn; Thus wept infidious, Churchill, o'er thy urn; To blast the living, gave the dead their due, And wreaths, herself had tainted, trim'd anew. Thou, yet unnam'd to fill his empty place, And lead to war thy country's growing race, Take every wish a British heart can frame,

Add palm to palm, and rise from fame to fame.

An hour must come, when thou fhalt hear with rage Thyself traduc'd, and curse a thankless age:

Nor

Nor yet

for this decline the gen'rous ftrife,

These ills, brave man, fhall quit thee with thy life;

Alive though ftain'd by every abject slave,

Secure of fame, and justice in the grave.

Ah! no-when once the mortal yields to fate,

The blast of Fame's fweet trumpet founds too late,
Too late to stay the fpirit on its flight,

Or footh the new inhabitant of light;

Who hears regardless, while fond man, diftrefs'd,
Hangs on the abfent, and laments the bleft.

Farewel then fame, ill fought thro' fields of blood, Farewel unfaithful promifer of good:

Thou music, warbling to the deafen'd ear!

Thou incenfe, wafted on the fun'ral bier!

Through life purfu'd in vain, by death obtain'd,

When afk'd, deny'd us, and when given, disdain'd.

AN

TH

His red-crofs knights and barons bold,
Whose vacant feats, by virtue bought,
Ambitious emperors have fought;

Where Britain's foremost names are found,
In peace belov'd, in war renown'd,
Who made the hoftile nations moan,
Or brought a bleffing on their own:

II. Once

II.

Once more a fon of SPENCER waits,
A name familiar to thy gates,

Sprung from the chief whose prowess gain'd
The garter while thy founder reign'd.
He offer'd here his dinted shield,

The dread of Gauls in Creffi's field.
Which in thy high-arch'd temple rais'd,

For four long centuries hath blaz'd.

III.

These feats our fires, a hardy kind,
To the fierce fons of war confign'd,
The flow'r of chivalry, who drew
With finewy arm the stubborn yew;
Or with heav'd poll-axe clear'd the field;
Or who, in joufts and tourneys skill'd,
Before their ladies' eyes renown'd,

Threw horse and horfeman to the ground.
IV.

In after-times, as courts refin'd,

Our patriots in the lift were join'd,

Nor only Warwick ftain'd with blood,

Or Marlb'rough near the Danube's flood,

Have