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(His noble houshold-band) advances,
And on his milk-white courser prances.
Thee Forfar to the combat dares,
Grown swarthy in Iberian wars :
And Monroe kindled into rage
Sourly defies thee to engage;
He'll rout thy foot, though ne'er so many,
And horse to boot — if thou hadft any,

But see Argyle with watchful eyes,
Lodgd in his deep intrenchments lies!
Couch'd like a lion in thy way,
He waits to spring upon his prey ;
While, like a herd of tim'rous deer,
Thy army shakes and pants with fear,
Led by their doughty gen’ral's skill,
From frith to frith, from hill to hill.

Is thus thy haughty promise paid
That to the Chevalier was made,
When thou didst oaths and duty barter
For dukedom, gen’ralship, and garter ?
Three moons thy Jemmy shall command,
With highland scepter in his hand,
Too good for his pretended birth.

Then down shall fall the king of Perth.'

'Tis so decreed: for George shall reign,
And traitors be forsworn in vain.
Heav'n shall for ever on him smile,
And bless him still with an Argyle.
While thou, pursu'd by vengeful foes,
Condemn'd to barren rocks and snows,
And hinder'd paffing Inverlocky,
Shalt burn thy clan, and curse poor Jocky.

TO Sir GODFREY KNELLER,

At his Country Seat.

By the Same.

T o Whitton's shades, and Hounslow's airy plain,

1 Thou, Kneller, tak’ft thy summer flights in vain, In vain thy wish gives all thy rural hours To the fair villa, and well-order'd bowers ; To court thy pencil early at thy gates, Ambition knocks, and fleeting Beauty waits ;

The

The boastful Muse, of others' fame so sure,
Implores thy aid to make her own secure;
The great, the fair, and (if aught nobler be,
Aught more belov'd) the Arts solicit thee.

How can'st thou hope to fy the world, in vain
From Europe sever'd by the circling main :
Sought by the kings of every distant land,
And every heroe worthy of thy hand ?
Hast thou forgot that mighty Bourbon fear'd
He still was mortal, till thy draught appear'd; .
That Cosmo chose thy glowing form to place
Amidst her masters of the Lombard race ?
See on her Titian's and her Guido's urns,
Her failing arts, forlorn Hesperia mourns ;
While Britain wins each garland from her brow,
Her wit and freedom first, her painting now.

Let the faint copier, on old Tyber's shore,
(Nor mean the task) each breathing bust explore,
Line after line with painful patience trace,
This Roman grandeur, that Athenian grace ;
Vain care of parts ; if, impotent of foul,
Th’industrious workman fails to warm the whole !
Each theft betrays the marble whence it came,
And a cold statue stiffens in the frame.

Thee

Thee Nature taught, nor Art her aid deny'd,
(The kindest mistress and the surest guide)
To catch a likeness at one piercing light,
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 since the glorious rage That fir’d thy youth, flames unsubdu'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, Coarse manglers of the human face divine, Paint on, till fate diffolve thy mortal part, And live and die the monarch of thy art.

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ON THE Death of the Earl of CADOG A N.

By the Same.

O F Marlb'rough's captains and Eugenio's friends,

The last, CADOGAN to the grave descends : Low lies each head whence Blenheim's glory sprung, The chiefs who conquerd, and the bards who fung. From his cold corse though every friend be filed, Lo! Envy waits, that lover of the dead. Thus did she feign o'er Nassau's herse to mourn; Thus wept insidious, 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 shalt hear with rage Thyself traduc'd, and curse a thankless age :

Nor

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