PoE kT: 143 
Still, near the wreck of thy demolifh’d ftate, 
Truth and the weeping Mufe with me thall wait ; 
Science fhall teach Britannia’s felf to moan, 
And make, O injur’d friend! thy wrongs her own. 
_. Shall we forget, when, with incefiant toil, 
‘To thee ’twas giv’n to turn the ftubborn foil— 
‘To thee, with How? rs to deck our dreary wadte, 
And kill the pois’nous weeds of vicious ta oF 
‘To pierce the gloom where England’s Gentas flept; 
Long of foft love and tendernefs bereft; 
From his young limbs to tear the bands away; 
And bid the Infant-Giant run and play? 
Dark was the hour, the age an age of ftone, 
When Hudfon claim’d an empire of his own; 
And from the time, when, darting rival light, 
Vandyke and Rubens cheer’d.our northern night; 
Thofe twin ftars fet, the Graces all had fled, 
Yet paus’d, to hover o’er a Lely’s head ; 
And fometimes bent, when won with ear ne pray Ts 
To make the gentle Kneller all their care; 
But ne’er with {miles to gaudy Verrio turn’d, 
No happy incenfe on his altars burn’d. 
O! witnefs, Windfor! thy too paflive walls, 
Thy tortur’d ceilings, thy infulted halls! 
Lo! England’s glory, Edward’s conquering fon, 
Cover’d with fpoils from Poittiers bravely won—~ 
Yet no white plumes, no arms of {able hue, 
Mark the young hero to our ravifh’d view ; 
In bufkin trim and laurell’d helmet bright, 
_ A well-drefs’d Roman meets our puzzled fight ; 
And Gallia’s captive king, how ftrange his doom! 
A Roman too perceives himfelf become. 
See too the miracles of God profan’d, 
By the mad daubings of this impious hand; 
For while the dumb exult in notes of praife, 
While the lame walk, the blind in tranf{ports gaze— 
While vanquifh’d demons Heav’n’s high mandates hear, 
And the pale dead fpring from the filent bier, 
With lac’d cravat, long wig, and carelefs mien, 
‘The Painter’s prefent at the wond’rous fcene ! 
Vanloo and Dahl, thefe may more juftly claim 
A ftep ftill higher on the throne of Fame; 
Yet to the weft their courfe they feem to run, 
The laft red ftreaks of a declining fun. 
And muft we-Jervas name? fo hard and cold, 
In ermine robes, and peruke, only bold’; 
Or, when infpir’d, his rapt’rous pencil own 
The roll’d-up ftocking and the damatk gown! 
. é Behold 
