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Then shall they triumph, and the Britis ftage
Improve her manners, and refine her rage,
More noble characters expofe to view,
And draw her finisht heroines from you.

Nor you the kind indulgence will refuse,
Skill'd in the labours of the deathless Muse:
The deathless Muse with undiminisht rays
Through distant times the lovely dame conveys :
To Gloriana Waller's harp was ftrung;.
The Queen ftill shines, because the Poet fung.
Even all those graces, in your frame combin’d,
The common fate of mortal charms may find;
(Content our short-live'd praises to engage,
The joy and wonder of a single age,)
Unless some Poet in a lafting song
To late pofterity their fame prolong,
Instruct our sons the radiant formn to prize,
And see your beauty with their fathers' eyes.

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KNELLER, with silence and surprize

We see Britannia's Monarch rise,
A godlike form, by thee display'd
In all the force of light and shade;
And, aw'd by thy delufive hand,
As in the presence-chamber ftand.

The magick of thy art calls forth
His secret foul and hidden worth,
His probity and mildness shows,
His care of friends, and scorn of foes :
In every stroke, in every line,
Does some exalted virtue shine,
And Albion's happiness we trace
Through all the features of his face.

O may I live to hail the day,
When the glad nation shall furvey
Their Sov’reign, through his wide command,
Passing in progress o'er the land !
Each heart shall bend, and every voice
In loud applauding shouts rejoice,
Whilst all his gracious aspect praise,
And crowds grow loyal as they gaze.

This image on the medal placed,
With its bright round of titles graced,
And frampt on British coins shall live,
To richest ores the value give,
Or, wrought within the curious mould,
Shape and adorn the running gold.
To bear this form, the genial Sun
Has daily, since his course begun,
Rejoice'd, the metal to refine,
And ripen'd the Peruvian mine.

Thou, Kneller, long with noble pride,
The foremost of thy art, haft vie’d
With nature in a generous strife,
And touch'd the canvas into life.
Thy pencil has, by Monarchs fought,
From reign to reign in ermine wrought,
And, in their robes of state array'd,
The Kings of half an age display'd.

Here swarthy Charles appears, and there His Brother with dejected air :

Triumphant Nassau here we find,
And with him bright Maria join'd;
There Anna, great as when she sent
Her armies through the continent,
Ere yet her Hero was disgrac't:
O may fam'd Brunswick be the last,
(Though heaven should with my wish agree,
And long preserve thy art in thee)
The last, the happiest British King,
Whom thou shalt paint, or I shall fing!

Wise Phidias, thus his skill to prove,
Through many a God advanced to Jove.
And taught the polisht rocks to shine
With airs and lineaments divine;
'Till Greece, amaz'd, and half-afraid,
Th'assembled deities survey'd.

Great Pan, who wont to chase the fair,
And lov'd the spreading oak, was there ;
Old Saturn too with up-cat eyes
Beheld his abdicated skies ;
And mighty Mars, for war renown'd,
In adamantine armour frown'd;
By him the childless goddess rose,
Minerva, studious to compose:
Her twisted threads; the webb she ftrung,
And o’er a loom of marble hung:
Thetis the troubled ocean's Queen,
Match'd with a mortal, next was feen,



Reclining on a funeral urn,
Her short-liv'd darling Son to mourn.
The last was he, whose thunder flew
The Titan-race, a rebel crew,
That from a hundred hills ally'd
In impious leagues their King defy'd.

This wonder of the sculptor's hand
Produced, his art was at a stand :
For who would hope new fame to raise,
Or risque his well-establish'd praise,
That, his high genius to approve,
Had drawn a.GEORGE, or carv'd a-Jove !

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