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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,
Where life awakes, and dawns at ev'ry line;
Or blend in beauteous tints the colour'd mass,
And from the canvas call the mimic face:

Read

Read these instructive leaves, in which confpire
Fresnoy's close art, and Dryden's native fire:
And reading wish, like theirs, our fate and fame,
So mix'd our studies, and so join'd our name,
Like them to shine thro' long succeeding age,
So just thy skill, so regular my rage.

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,
While fummer funs roll unperceiv'd away?
How oft' our flowly-growing works impart,
While images reflect from art to art?

How oft' review; each finding like a friend
Something to blame, and something to commend?

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,
Or feek fome ruin's formidable shade;

While fancy brings the vanish'd piles to view,
And builds imaginary Rome a-new.
Here thy well-study'd marbles fix our eye;
A fading Fresco here demands a figh:
Each heav'nly piece unweary'd we compare,
Match Raphael's grace, with thy lov'd Guido's air,
Carracci's strength, Correggio's softer line,

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,
The tender fifter, daughter, friend and wife;
Bid her be all that makes mankind adore;
Then view this marble, and be vain no more!

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;

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 form, and I a name.

THE

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