An Essay on Sculpture: Epistle the Third

JUSTICE and Honour call! Awake, my lyre!
Artists of Attica thy voice require!
Ye Greeks! ye demi-gods of ancient days!
Whose life was energy, whose passion praise!
What patriot rapture must your hearts have known,
When with new charms your native Athens shone!
Conspiring Arts strain'd every nerve to crown
Their rescu'd darling with unmatch'd renown;
And of those earth-ennobling Arts who strove,
Fost'ring her glory, to ensure her love.
Nor last, nor least, O Sculpture! was thy claim,
Delightful minister of deathless fame!
E'en at this day, when Time's illusive cloud
Enwraps departed empire like a shroud,
Rending Oblivion's veil in Fancy's sight,
Thy Grecian-sons my willing praise invite.

Thy Myron, first of that accomplish'd race
Who gave to ruder forms true vital grace;
See him with smiles his brazen cow caress,
While herds applausive round the sculptor press!
His work they hail with fond amazement wild,
And deem their kindred statue Nature's child:
A numerous train of rival bards rehearse
His brazen heifer's praise in partial verse.
But not to brutes was his pure art confin'd;
Myron in nobler forms infus'd a mind.
'Twas his in Bacchus' fane that god to place,
With such commanding and such cheerful grace,
That the pleas'd eye, of potent form the test,
Gladly the joy-inspiring power confest.
'Twas his with genius, in position rare,
To show the labouring limbs with learned care.
His keen Discobolos in every part
Spoke toiling Nature trac'd by patient Art;
And his fleet Ladas, train'd for Piza's prize,
Hope in his heart, impatience in his eyes,
Through all his shape express'd his eager soul,
A thirst for praise, and panting for the goal.

Of higher studies and superior note,
See Polycletus his strong mind devote,
To frame for studious youth instruction's plan,
And found his precepts on his faultless man!
The model, fam'd through long-succeeding time,
Display'd young Vigor in his martial prime.
Nor did thy female forms with weaker claim,
Accomplish'd artist! at perfection aim:
Witness Ephesian Dian's ample fane,
Fill'd with her active Amazonian train.
By many a sculptor, emulously keen,
These rival nymphs, high-wrought, enrich'd the scene.
There, where the judges of thy art declare
Which figure they pronounce supremely fair,
How great the triumph of thy chaste design!
The Amazon of Phidias yields to thine!
But as low vallies to the mountain grove,
As humble deities to awful Jove,
Such, in his time, was every fam'd compeer
With Phidias match'd in Art's sublimest sphere;
Where the rapt mind, to Heaven itself convey'd,
Imbibes celestial form by Fancy's aid,
And gives adoring mortals to survey
Features that indicate Almighty sway.

Genius of ancient Greece! whose influence ran
Through every talent that ennobles man;
O'er bright ideas taught the mind to brood,
And feast on glory, as its native food;
Bear me, in vision bear me, to that ground
Where Honor's fervent spirit breath'd around;
Where gay Distinction held the garland high,
And thy prime wonders gladden'd every eye!
Thy favourite precincts at my wish appear,
Where hymns of triumph fill the raptur'd ear;
My eager feet have pass'd thy olive grove,
And touch the threshold of Olympian Jove!

Lo, in calm pomp, with Art's profusion bright,
Whose blended glories fascinate the sight,
Sits the dread power! Around his awful head
The sacred foliage of the olive spread,
Declares that in his sovereign mind alone
Peace ever shines, and has for ever shone.

The temple's spacious precincts scarce enfold
The grand quiescent form of ivory and gold.
The symbols of his sway, on either hand,
Delight and reverence at once command.
Behold his right sweet Vict'ry's image bear,
Form'd, like his own, elaborately fair:
His left a sceptre with rich light invests,
And tranquil on its point his eagle rests;
His sandals are of gold; a golden robe
Proclaims his empire o'er the living globe:
For earth's mute creatures, on his vest are seen
With flowers, and first the lily as their queen.

The rich compartments of the throne enfold
Ivory with ebony, and gems with gold:
Adorn'd with images, four massive feet
Sustain the radiance of the regal seat.
Around each foot four joyous forms advance,
Four Vict'ries, weaving a triumphant dance.
The throne's high summit shapes more lovely still
With animation and with beauty fill:
The Graces here upon their parent wait;
His filial Seasons there, and both in triple state.

The labouring eye, with admiration smit,
Labours in vain each figure to admit,
That blended arts conspiring toil'd to raise
On this grand spectacle, surpassing praise.
Yet here all eyes, the skilful and unskill'd,
Impress'd with awe, and with amazement fill'd,
From the blest features of the god imbibe
Such thoughts as meliorate his mortal tribe.
Phidias! all vouch thy fame, though not in speech—
Thine, the prime glory pagan minds could reach—
Thine, to have form'd, in superstition's hour,
The noblest semblance of celestial power!
Illustrious artist! in thy signal lot
What stains the glory of thy country blot!
Genius of Athens! sorrow seals thy lips,
And all thy splendour sinks in dark eclipse,
When history shews with a regret benign,
The sins of base ingratitude were thine—
Ingratitude to men, whose skill sublime
Gave thee to triumph o'er the rage of time!

How, Phidias! was thy heart with anguish stung,
When public malice, by thy pupil's tongue,
Charg'd thee, whose mind was cast in honor's mould,
With the mean sacrilege of pilfer'd gold!
But thee thy Pericles, that noble name
Who rear'd thy talents, and who shares thy fame,
By generous Friendship's providential care
Rescu'd from Slander's execrable snare—
Vengeance was thine, that vengeance just and grand,
Which fires wrong'd genius with an eager hand
Of national iniquity to foil
Th' oppressive aim, by new and nobler toil,
Till Envy's self with wonder stand aghast,
Seeing the works that wak'd her rage surpass'd.
So with himself this injur'd artist strove,
His far-fam'd Pallas yielded to his Jove;
And grateful Elis, proud new palms to gain,
Boasted, with truth, of Phidias justly vain,
That Athens was eclips'd by her Olympian fane.

Still dear to fame, though fickleness, thy joy,
Urg'd thee, by turns, to cherish and destroy
The very excellence thy breast supplied,
Child of thy love, and nursling of thy pride,
Even thy foes, O Athens! mourn'd thy fate,
When fierce Lysander thunder'd at thy gate,
And all thy wounded Arts felt War's o'erwhelming weight—
War, whence the worst of human misery springs;
The people's folly, and the guilt of kings.
Thy Pericles, whose talents seem'd to claim
A monarch's empire, with a patriot's name—
He, thy untitled king, whose liberal mind
Genius enrich'd, and discipline refin'd;
Whose potent voice control'd a people free,
As Heaven's presiding breath commands the sea—
He, who delighted on fine Art to raise
The deathless fabric of his country's praise;
Taught public wealth to rear ingenious worth,
Exalted Nature, and embellish'd earth—
He, by mild virtues to the world endear'd,
Whose dying boast Humanity rever'd—
E'en he, by fits of martial frenzy sway'd,
To blood's dire demons a rash offering made;
And, blind to ill his nature must abhor,
Hurried his nation to that fatal war
Whose lengthen'd horrors on his Athens threw
Disgrace that Death hid kindly from his view,
When at the savage Spartan's foot she lay;
Her shame his pride, her ornaments his prey.

Wherever Liberty, when doom'd to weep
In transient pangs, or sink in death-like sleep,
Lost her quick spirit, wounded or betray'd,
Her foster'd Arts with filial grief decay'd.

But short, in Athens, was the baleful course
Of envious Tyranny and Spartan force.
Her thirty tyrants, with a robber's dread,
From the just arm of Trasybulus fled:
His patriot virtue burst the servile yoke,
And, bright from brief eclipse, effulgent Freedom broke;
Attendant Arts her satellites appear,
And shed new lustre round her Attic sphere.

When happy Genius, by a daring flight,
Has seem'd to perch on proud Perfection's height,
Afraid on disproportion'd wings to rise,
Aw'd and abash'd, weak Emulation dies.
Such fate had Poesy for Homer's Muse,
No Greek with prosperous rivalship pursues.
Sculpture, more fruitful, though she joy'd to claim
For her dear Phidias pure Homeric fame,
Not to one darling felt her pride confin'd,
But to new sons new excellence assign'd.

Scopas! in wond'rous harmony 'twas thine
The charms of passion and of grace to join;
Thy skill express'd new shades of soft desire,
Each varying character of Cupid's fire.
In thy gay figure Bacchus smil'd to see
His gambols of tumultuary glee.
Thy genius wrought, by different powers inspir'd,
As fondness wish'd, or dignity requir'd!
'Twas thine to decorate the gorgeous scene,
Where Arts were proud to aid the Carian queen.
Richly she rais'd, for widow'd love's relief,
The grand memorial of imperial grief,
The Mausoleum, whose immortal name
Records her sorrow, and preserves her fame.

Of feelings exquisite, to fondness prone,
And pleas'd to make peculiar praise thy own,
Praxiteles! the power that sway'd thee most,
Made it thy joy, thy privilege, thy boast,
To see coy Beauty own thy kind control,
And show each soft emotion of her soul;
While breathing stone accomplish'd thy behest,
And every charm of tender grace express'd;
Till thy fine Work such perfect life display'd,
Venus with pride her marble self survey'd.
Enchanting artist! whose warm heart was seen
Devoting all thy skill to Beauty's queen!
'Twas not thy fate to serve a thankless power;
Her smile is gratitude, delight her dower.
Love, her young darling, thy dear Art caress'd,
Child of thy genius, sovereign of thy breast!
Thy sportive patroness to thy embrace
Consign'd the fairest of her Grecian race,
Whose wit to beauty could new charms impart,
Pleas'd to inspirit and reward thy art.
This playful fair would secret knowledge seek,
Which her unboasting friend declin'd to speak:
She wish'd to know (a wish in vain express'd)
Which of his happy works he deem'd the best:
The best is hers, if she the best will choose,
But self-applause his modest lips refuse.

A subtle fiction aids her strong desire:
"Praxiteles! thy gallery's on fire!"
With fear well feign'd the fond enthusiast cries.
Quick, in alarm, the man of art replies:
"Oh, angry Vulcan! mar each meaner shape,
"But let my Cupid and my Faun escape!"
The smiling fair relieves him in a trice,
And Cupid, soon her own, repays the fond device.

Of sterner spirit, and with bold design,
Toiling in two congenial arts to shine,
With energetic truth Euphranor wrought
The forceful features of heroic thought;
And ere the youth a vanquish'd world o'errun,
In glory's car he seated Philip's son.

Hail to that graceful youth! whose fervid mind
Feeling and taste in early life refin'd;
Who on the soul of cherish'd art impress'd
That zeal for glory which his own confess'd!
Let the stern sage chastise with Reason's rod,
Ambition's victim, and Delirium's god,
More pleasing duties to the bard belong,
While tracing Sculpture's march in moral song.
Honour's just tribute to the prince he pays,
Who view'd her beauty with a lover's gaze;
And nobly sav'd it from a quick decline
By liberal care, and bounty's warmth benign:
Who bade her favourite son his power surpass,
And call to life in fame-conferring brass
(A work, where Gratitude with glory blends!)
His guardian group, his self-devoted friends.

Proud of the victor's praise, and pleas'd to aid
A hero's spirit by affection sway'd,
With such enchanting skill Lysippus' hand
Rais'd to distinction this devoted band,
That as each Macedon their forms beheld,
With kindred fire each martial bosom swell'd;
Each for their lot would gladly yield his breath,
And deem their honor cheaply bought by death.

How blest, Lysippus! was thy signal fate,
Whose genius found all graces in the great!
Nature and Fortune seem'd for thee to blend,
In one bright form, the model, patron, friend.
His taste enlighten'd whom his power sustain'd,
And in the sculptor's heart the hero reign'd.
Hence, for thy godlike Ammon 'twas thy praise
Each varying semblance of his form to raise;
Marking of changeful life the gradual course,
From childhood's tenderness to manhood's force;
And these appropriate images to fill
With such felicity of latent skill
As labour, led by love alone, can find,
By love, the offspring of a grateful mind.

Ever, Lysippus! be thy name rever'd,
By moral dignity of mind endear'd!
Glory, well-pleas'd, thy double worth beheld,
The matchless artist by the man excell'd;
Thy upright spirit, firm in manly sense,
Scorning to favour impious Pride's pretence,
Reprov'd thy friend Apelles, that he strove
To lavish lightning on a fancied Jove;
And to thy statue, rationally grand,
Gave the just weapon of a hero's hand.
Thy taste ador'd, with Virtue's temperate flame,
Truth, as the fountain both of art and fame;
Yet no ill-founded rule, no servile fear,
Chain'd thy free mind in Fancy's fav'rite sphere.
Thy dauntless thought, proportion for its guide,
From life's trite field each brave excursion tried:
Thy changeful genius, patient and acute,
Toil'd on colossal forms, or play'd with the minute;
And Nature own'd each work, with fond surprize,
True to her soul, though faithless to her size.
The hallow'd bulk of thy Tarentine Jove
Check'd the proud spoilers of each sacred grove;
Roman rapacity, in plunder's hour,
Paus'd, and rever'd the mighty sculptor's power.

Thy Hercules, the table's grace and guard,
Rais'd to extatic joy a Roman bard,
Whose social Muse delighted to rehearse
The festive statue's charms in friendly verse;
Prais'd the small form where force and spirit dwelt,
Small to be seen, but mighty to be felt;
And, pleas'd in grateful numbers to relate
The sculptur'd powers, Felicity and Fate,
Told how young Ammon, with affection's pride,
Drew martial fire from this inspiring guide—
This, the choice idol of his life, caress'd
To prompt his battle, or protect his rest—
To this, when poison forc'd his frequent sighs,
Turning, in death, his elevated eyes,
He view'd the pain-tried power with fresh delight,
And fed his fearless spirit on the sight.

The life of Ammon clos'd, the statue pass'd
To a new victor of a direr cast.
With ruthless Hannibal, by Rome abhorr'd,
The priz'd associate of the Punic lord,
This idol visited Italia's shore,
And saw Rome's eagles drench'd in Roman gore:
But when the African, so fiercely great,
Fell by the dark vicissitude of fate,
This sculptur'd Hercules, still known to Fame,
As worshipp'd by a chief of highest name,
Felt, e'en in Rome, his influence increas'd,
As the presiding power of Sylla's feast.
The darling image Time at last consign'd
To a new master, of a nobler mind.
Hail, gentle Vindex! 'twas not thine to buy
A name immortal at a price too high.
No bloody sword, with mangled Nature's pain,
Carv'd thee a passage into glory's fane,
But manners sweetly mild, and mental grace,
In Mem'ry's temple fix thy purer place.
Thy genuine praise Affection gladly penn'd;
For Arts were thy delight, a poet was thy friend.
Happy distinction! and rever'd by Time!
Sweet in its use, in consequence sublime!
Accomplish'd Vindex! all thy sculptur'd store,
Though Genius fill'd with life the finish'd ore—
All that thy perfect taste, by Fortune's aid,
With liberal joy collected and display'd—
All, all in dark Perdition's gulph are drown'd,
Nor can an atom of the wreck be found.
But shining still, and still in lustre strong,
Such is the sacred power of friendly song,
Thy virtues are beheld in living lays,
Where feeling Statius thy pure feast pourtrays,
And makes thy cherish'd Arts confederate in thy praise.
He, just to merit of benignant mein,
Fondly describes the master of the scene
So free from senseless pride and sensual vice,
Of mind so polish'd, and of taste so nice,
That under his regard, true honour's test,
Lysippus might have wish'd his works to rest.

To rest! vain word, that suits not scenes like these,
Where empires fluctuate as Time decrees!
The mighty despot, of a double sway,
The guide of growth, the monarch of decay,
Grants, ever busy in the changeful plan,
No lasting quiet to the works of man.
Witness, Lysippus, that stupendous frame
Form'd by thy pupil for his country's fame;
Who, when foil'd War renounc'd her rich abodes,
Rear'd the proud trophy of triumphant Rhodes
In giant splendour which the world amaz'd,
Protentous in his bulk this proud Apollo blaz'd;
So large, so lotfy, that, beneath his base,
Mortals seem'd shrunk below the pigmy race.

Yet let not vain, sensorious spleen deride
This Pagan monument of tow'ring pride.
Great in his aim, in patriot purpose good,
A glorious witness the Colossus stood:
How his brave isle, in valour's trying hour,
Joy'd to resist Invasion's ruffian power;
Still to invading arms this fortune fall,
To deck those isles they threaten to enthrall.

But with what speed can time and chance destroy
The piles of honour, and the pomp of joy!
Though rear'd with ablest art that might defy
Tempestuous seasons and a raging sky,
Subtler Destruction waits the sovereign block,
The deep foundations of his island rock;
Earth, as insulted, to her center shakes,
Th' enormous idol reels—he falls—he breaks!
Amazement's eye his smallest fragments fill,
In ruin mighty, and a wonder still:
His fall is felt through Glory's wounded heart,
And Grief's convulsionshakes the sphere of Art.
Ye Rhodians! early a distinguish'd race
For arts and arms, Minerva's double grace;
Ye, who around this shatter'd mass lament
Your honour ruin'd in the dire event!
Mourn not your fall'n Colossus, but complain
Of change more ruinous to Sculpture's reign!
Mourn for degenerate Athens, where the king,
From whose foil'd arms your statue seem'd to spring,
No more resisted, finds a servile crowd
Tam'd to his yoke, and in his praises loud;
Where Art is seen, in Prostitution's hour,
Dejecting virtue, and exalting power.

Ye slaves! who station, blind to public good,
A tyrant's statues where a sage's stood!
Ye prove the love of liberty alone
Enlivens Art with lustre all its own.
Where that best passion of the soul refin'd,
That firm Colossus of th' unshaken mind—
Where that exists no more, all mental power
Takes the cold tint of twilight's sunless hour;
The energies of Art and Virtue cease,
Servility benumbs the soul of Greece.

That wondrous land, where Nature seem'd to shower
A bright profusion of all mental power;
Where talents glitter'd to delight the mind,
Rich as the groves by silv'ry frost enshrin'd;
From her spoil'd shores saw every grace withdraw,
Like groves unsilver'd in a misty thaw;
While Strife and Slavery, in union base,
Disfigure earth, and Nature's self deface,
The tender Arts in hasty terror fly,
To seek a refuge in a milder sky;
Driv'n from their darling Athens for a while,
They seem'd reviving by a monarch's smile:
Seleucias' Court the fugitives caress'd,
And Aegypt nurs'd them on her fertile breast.
But not the Ptolemies' imperial grace,
A bounteous, splendid, but enervate race—
Not all their fond protection could impart
True Attic lustrè to transplanted Art:
The sweet exotic scorn'd the soil it tried,
And, faintly promising to flourish, died.

Genius of Greece! whom love can ne'er forget!
Exhaustless source of rapture and regret!
Of all the changes that Time's wild command
Works on this globe, the rattle of his hand,
Is there vicissitude more worthy tears
Than what in thy disastrous fate appears,
When Learning's retrospective eyes survey
Thy bright ascendant, and thy dark decay!

Resistless despot! all-controlling Time!
Though Pride may curse thy ravage as a crime;
Let Truth, more just, thy milder power declare,
And boast with gratitude thy zeal to spare;
For thou hast spar'd—and be such mercy blest,
Of Grecia's literary chiefs the best.
The pure Triumvirate, of potent minds,
Whom in her zone ideal Beauty binds;
The radiant three, who palms unrivall'd bore
In verse, in eloquence, in moral lore—
Yes, in the letter'd world, that lofty sphere
Whence light descends to Art divinely clear.
Great is thy clemency, O Time! nor less
Thy zeal to save, may Sculpture's field express!
Man's rage has given to Havoc's hateful powers
Gods and their altars, statues, temples, towers:
But mark where Time, with more benignant pride,
Redeems the wreck of desolation's tide!
Lo, at his bidding, curious hands explore
Imperial Ruin's subterranean store!
Behold where once a virtuous emp'ror glow'd,
And thy rich bath, benignant Titus! flow'd!
For ages buried, and Oblivion's prey,
The master-piece of Sculpture springs to day.

How Rapture bends o'er the receding earth,
Blessing the skilful wonder's second birth!
Hail, thou sublime resemblance of the sire,
Excruciated to see his helpless sons expire!
Though Fate's fierce serpent round thy manly frame
Wind its vast volumes, and with deadly aim
Dart its impetuous poison near the heart;
Though thy shrunk flank announce the wounded part;
To selfish pangs superior thou art seen,
And suffering anguish, more intensely keen,
I see the father in thy features rise,
To Heaven directing his death-darken'd eyes,
And for his sons, in agony's extreme,
Yet asking mercy from the sire supreme!
Alas! thy younger hope, already pierc'd
By quick Perdition's snake, expires the first!
Thy elder darling, lock'd in snaky folds,
With fruitless pity his rack'd sire beholds!

Ye happy Sculptors! who in this your pride
Enjoy th' immortal fame for which you sigh'd!
Your blest ambition Ruin's hand disarms;
Hostility reveres the work, whose charms
At once amaze the mind, and melt the heart,
The soul of pathos, the sublime of Art!

Let Rhodes, exulting in your birth, proclaim
Her title to renown, her Agesander's name—
Him, if kind Fancy sanction with applause
The pleasing picture that conjecture draws—
Him, life's best blessings once were seen to crown,
Blessings more rare than genius or renown—
The bliss, to see two sons in art aspire
To serve as friendly rivals to their sire!
The triple group, so suited to their state,
They form'd with parity of love elate;
And Nature, pleas'd, gave all her powers to fill
This richest offspring of confederate skill.

Nor hast thou, Sculpture! on whose ancient state
The train of passions all were known to wait,
Thy deep and spirit-searching charms confin'd
To show the conflict of a father's mind:
Thy Niobe yet lives, a glorious test,
Thou could'st exhibit the maternal breast,
Where gods relentless every pang descried
Of wretched beauty, and of ruin'd pride.

Yes, Attic Art! each change of vital breath,
Of life the fervour, and the chill of death,
All, all were subject to thy glorious power;
Nature was thine, in ever-varying hour:
Witness that offspring of thy skill profound,
Thy Gladiator, bending to the ground,
In whom the eye of sympathy descries
His brief existence ebbing as he lies

With rising wonder, and increasing joy,
As Grecian reliques my fond thoughts employ,
Her time-spar'd marble miracles I trace—
Marbles of highest note, strength, beauty, grace—
In each Olympian form divinely shown,
Who boast these heavenly attributes their own.

On Glycon's Hercules the proud eye rests,
Dwells on that force which all the form invests,
Till the spectator glows with vigor's flame,
And feels the god reanimate his frame.
In perfect forms what potent magic dwells,
Thy peerless fragment of perfection tells,
Skill'd Apolonius! whose fine work express'd
This forceful deity in blissful rest!
How dear thy Torso to the feeling mind,
Rememb'ring Angelo, when old and blind,
Fed, on this wreck, the passion of his heart
For the recondite charms of purest art!
The veteran, while his hand, with science fraught,
Rov'd o'er the stone so exquisitely wrought,
(His fancy giving the maim'd trunk a soul,)
Saw, in his touch, the grandeur of the whole.

Joys on the swelling mind more richly shower
When beauty's manly and majestic power
Shines, sweetly awful, in Apollo's form,
Elate with filial love, with anger warm
Against the serpent whose terrific crest
Aim'd its base fury at his mother's breast.
His shaft is launch'd; 'tis empire's fateful rod;
His fervid gesture proves the victor god;
His glowing features the firm soul display
Of confident success and righteous sway.
Enchanting image! thy pure charms conduce
To moral lessons of no trifling use:
Thee while the fascinated eyes admire,
The spirit, kindling with indignant fire,
Learns that bright scorn, which in thy movement glows,
Scorn for the rancour of malignant foes!

In milder tones, kind Harmony! impart
Thy magic softness to the melting heart;
While Love's ingenuous song aspires to trace
The sweeter influence of female grace!

Hail, Medicean Venus! matchless form!
As Nature modest, yet as Fancy warm!
Thy beauty, mov'd by virtuous instinct, tries
To screen retiring charms from rash surprise:
Thy hands are eloquent; they both attest
The coy emotion of thy feeling breast;
And prove, by delicacy's dear control,
Her quick sensations are of grace the soul.

Thou darling idol of the Pagan earth!
Whose pomp had vanish'd at thy second birth,
When, from Oblivion's shades that o'er thee hung,
Thy soft attractions to new honour sprung;
To thee, sweet pride of Nature and of Art!
Be endless homage from the manly heart
Which bends, obedient to a law divine,
In guiltless worship to such charms as thine!
Though mortals, wayward when by Fortune cross'd,
Slight what they have, in mourning what they lost;
Let us, dear Flaxman! with a grateful joy
On Sculpture's rescu'd wealth our thoughts employ.
O, while with Friendship's pure, though proud desires,
I praise that Art, who thy free spirit fires,
May thy pleas'd goddess, with her kind regard,
Support, instruct, invigorate thy bard,
Till my fond fancy, by her aid refin'd,
Fills with new zeal thy energetic mind
Yet far above her living sons to soar,
And match the wonders of her Attic store!

Yes there is room, and Christian subjects yield
For Art's sublimest aims a happier field:
But pause, my eager song! nor yet rehearse
A fav'rite truth reserv'd for future verse;
Another task awaits thee, to survey
Scenes of Etrurian art and Roman sway:
Yet pause, and, listening to the wintry main,
In this retreat let Meditation reign!
Here salutary Solitude repairs
The spirit wasted by afflicting cares:
Here rest, while Study for thy use explores
Art's early fate on those eventful shores,
Where, hardly rescu'd from Oblivion's tomb,
Polish'd Etruria sunk by savage Rome;
And Rome, whose pride an iron tempest hurl'd
With force oppressive round a prostrate world,
Sunk in her turn, herself the bloated prey
Of Retribution's wrath, in ruinous decay.