But 'mid th' inestimable heap
Let PARTY-RAGE be laid asleep!

Now on the canvass be display'd The figure of a weeping Maid! Paint her thin cheeks of pallid hue; With flooding tears those cheeks bedew; And turn her humble, streaming eye To the soft mercies of the Sky. Upon her arm, with haggard mien, Let F*x's tawny figure lean; And, in his face, pourtray the smart Which Conscience lashes on his heart. Before them paint the bright abodes Of Virtue and her kindred Gods: Let HOPE beside the portal stand, The anchor in her beck'ning hand, And kindly bid the sorrowing Pair To urge their steps, and enter there.

Your hand an harder task must try, And change the Vet'ran to the Boy! No more let T**D's form appear With martial grace and hoary hair! Let crisped curls his brow bedeck, And hang in ringlets on his neck;

Such as around the fingers twin'd

Of panting VENUS, when reclin'd

Upon her breast ADONIS lay,

And heav'nly raptures bless'd the day!

Paint on his cheek health's crimson glow, Let whiteness clad his youthful brow, And give him ev'ry charm beside Expected by a blooming Bride!

But if your pencil should refuse
The arduous task; my forward Muse
An easy subject will propose.

Time, Sir, and you have long been foes;
For once, then, take the lead of Time,
And wrinkle T**D in her prime.
For since you cannot bring his years
Back to the strength and youth of hers,
Your hand to fitness must accord,
And make her aged as her Lord.
The wrinkles on her face display,
And turn her floating tresses grey.
And give her such a form and dress
As she at fifty will possess;

Such as your pencil would have given
To FERRARS, now a Saint in Heaven,
In nuptial ties this truth I hold :
Both should be Young, or both be Old!

Again I urge the pencil's power:
Come, trace the lone monastic tower,
Whose walls, with ivy overgrown,
Echo the sad repentant moan
Of sinful souls, who glad repair
To shed their daily sorrows there ;

And in a turret place the bell

That from the dark and dreary cell,
At midnight hour, breaks off the sleep
Of those who only wake to weep.
Beneath the wall's dark umbrage place,
Repentance mark'd upon her face,
Some aged and repentant Dame,
That doth the heav'nly mercies claim.
Let her before His Image bend,
Who died to be the Sinner's Friend;
And hang the cross adown her side,
Emblem of that whereon He died.
Make her eyes shed the dropping tear,
As tho' she urg'd a doubtful prayer;
And give to the repentant Nun,
The wrinkled form of H**TON.

Thus, thus, my Friend, exert your art, And please the eye, and mend the heart! Uncrimson A ** R's gawdy face, But leave her all her share of Grace. To M* LB ** give her Father's spirit, And D** R all her Mother's merit. Make C** N sober, P* refin'd, And B** gen'rous, brave and kind. Let them their better Natures see, And paint them what they ought to be.

Already youthful BEDFORD's sword, Urg'd by the valor of its Lord,

Gives, to a dragon's form, the wound
That lays the monster on the ground,

-So may he in his future Age
Quell Passion's unrelenting rage;
Or, by his sweetness, soothe to rest
The Tyrants of the human breast.

Then be yourself! nor blend your fame With Artists of inferior name.

Do not your moral works expose

At Royal-Academic shows;

But thus hold forth, to mend the Town,

EPISTLE XIII.

TO THE

HON. MISS YORKE,

[Afterwards Lady Anson.]

ON HER COPYING CLOVIO'S PORTRAIT OF DANTE.

FROM THE

HON. CHARLES YORKE.

FAIR Artist! well thy pencil has essay'd
To lend a poet's fame thy friendly aid;
Great DANTE's image in thy lines we trace;
And, while the Muses' train thy colors grace,
The Muse propitious on the draught shall smile,
Nor, envious, leave unsung the generous toil.

Picture and Poetry just kindred claim,
Their birth, their genius, and pursuits the same;
Daughters of Phoebus and Minerva, they
From the same sources draw the heavenly ray.
Whatever earth, or air, or ocean breeds,
Whatever luxury or weakness needs;

All forms of beauty Nature's scenes disclose,
All images inventive arts compose;