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Smit with the love of Sister-Arts we came And met congenial, mingling flame with
; Like friendly colours found them both unite, And each from each contract new strength
and light. How oft in pleasing tasks we wear the day, While summer suns roll unperceiv'd away? How oft our slowly-growing works impart, While images reflect from art to art? How oft review ; each finding like a friend, Something to blame, and something to
What flatt’ring scenes our wand'ring fancy
wrought, Rome's pompous glories rising to our thought! Together o’er the Alps methinks we fly, Fir'd with ideas of fair Italy. With thee, or Raffaelle's monument I mourn, Or wait inspiring dreams at Maro's urn; With thee repose, where Tully once was laid, Or seek some ruin's formidable shade; While Fancy brings the vanish'd pile to
view, And builds imaginary Rome anew.
Here thy well-study'd marbles fix our eye ;
How finish'd with illustrious toil appears This small, well polish'd gem, the work of
years * !
Yet still how faint by precept is exprest
supplies An Angel's sweetness, or Bridgwater's eyes.
Muse! at that name thy sacred sorrows shed, Those tears eternal that embalm the dead : Call round her tomb each object of desire, Each purer frame inform'd with
* Fresnoy employed above twenty years in finishing this Poem.
Bid her be all that cheers or softens life,
Yet still her charms in breathing paint
engage; Her modest check shall warm a future
age. Beauty, frail flower, that every season fears, Blooms in thy colours for a thousand years. Thus Churchill's race shall other hearts
surprize, And other beauties envy Wortley's * eyes, Each pleasing Blount shall endless smiles
bestow, And soft Belinda's blush for ever glow.
Oh! lasting as those colours may they shine, Free as thy stroke, yet faultless as thy line !
* In one of Dr. Warburton's Editions of Pope, by which copy this has been corrected, the name is changed to Worsley. If that reading be not an error of the press, I suppose the poet altered the name after he had quarrelled with lady M. W. Montague, and being offended at her wit, thus revenged himself on her beauty,
New graces yearly, like thy works display: Soft without weakness, without glaring gay ; Led by some rule, that guides, but not
constrains; And finish'd more through happiness than
pains ! The kindred Arts shall in their praise conspire, One dip the pencil, and one string the lyre. Yet should the graces all thy figures place, And breathe an air divine on ev'ry face; Yet should the Muses bid my numbers roll, Strong as their charm, and gentle as their soul; With Zeuxis' Helen thy Bridgwater vie, And these be sung till Granville's Myra die; Alas! how little from the grave we claim? Thou but preserv'st a Face, and I a Name.