TO Mr. JERVAS, WITH FRESNOY's Art of PAINTING, Translated by Mr. Dryden. ☑ HIS verse be thine, my friend, nor thou The This, from no venal or ungrateful mufe. Whether thy hand strike out fome free defign, Read Read these instructive leaves, in which confpire Smit with the love of fister-arts we came, And met congenial, mingling flame with flame; Like friendly colours found our hearts unite, And each from each contract new strength and light. How oft' in pleasing tasks we wear the day, How oft' review; each finding like a friend What flatt'ring scenes our wand'ring fancy wrought, Rome's pompous glories rifing to our thought! Together o'er the Alps methinks we fly, Fir'd with ideas of fair Italy. With thee, on Raphael's monument I mourn F6 Withe Or wait inspiring dreams at Maro's urn: With thee repofe, where Tully once was laid, While fancy brings the vanish'd piles to view, Paulo's free stroke, and Titian's warmth divine. A 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 The living image in the painter's breast? Thence endless streams of fair ideas flow, Strike in the sketch, or in the picture glow; Thence beauty, waking all her forms, supplies An angel's sweetness, or Bridgewater's eyes. Muse! at that name thy facred forrows shed, Those tears eternal, that embalm the dead: Call round her tomb each object of defire, Each purer frame inform'd with purer fire: * Fresnoy employ'd above twenty years in finishing this poem. Bid her be all that chears or foftens life, Yet still her charms in breathing paint engage; Her modeft cheek shall warm a future age. Beauty, frail flow'r that ev'ry season fears, Blooms in thy colours for a thousand years. Thus Churchill's race shall other hearts furprize, And other Beauties envy Wortley's eyes, Each pleasing Blount shall endless smiles bestow, And foft Belinda's blush for ever glow. Oh lasting as those colours may they shine, Free as thy stroke, yet faultless as thy line! New graces yearly, like thy works, display; Soft without weakness, without glaring gay; Led by fome rule, that guides, but not conftrains; And finish'd more thro' 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 breath an air divine on ev'ry face; Yet should the muses bid my numbers roll, Strong as their charms, and gentle as their foul; |