Reach distant MUNDY, Muse, with sounding

strains,

Th' excelling maid that wastes her time in plains;
Bid her appear and bless the longing sight:
Retirement 's wrong for youth, for age 'tis right.
Say, that her presence to the world is due:
Aspects so brilliant are ordain'd for view.
The Sun, whose glory's but to match her eyes,
Flashes diffusive beams, and brightens all the skies.

Certain as Fate, and swift as feather'd darts, Oh, WILLIAMSON! thy arrows pierce our hearts; Once with an equal right to glory shin'd A signal charmer of thy own bright kind; Once-but remorseless death too quickly seiz'd This finish'd object, that so vastly pleas'd; No respite from concern our souls could find, Did she not leave thee here, a wonder still behind.

Like banks adorn'd with Nature's flowery train, ALSTON'S sweet look delights th' admiring swain: Pleas'd, not content, he lets his wishes rise, And would regale more senses than his eyes, But, hid in bloom, that serpent, scorn, destroys The lover's fondest hopes, and poisons all his joys.

The DASHWOODS are a family of charms, Each Nymph's appointed with resistless arms, So soft, so sweet, so artless, and so young,

Pride of the sight, and pleasure of the tongue.:
Dearly we pay for such immoderate light,

Beauty 's, like Love, severely exquisite;
Our souls are wound to that excessive height,
We suffer, not enjoy, the vast delight.

Nor less renown'd in charms the HERVEYS stand:
How fair they seem! how fashion'd for command!
Each of herself might singly challenge praise,
One were a tempting task for endless lays,
Did not Another and Another shine,

Splendid alike, and equally divine,
As if imperial Beauty meant no more

To reign at large, and spread her mighty power;
But with unequal favor would confine

Her numerous treasures to that darling Line.

Can SMITH unnoted pass, so fram'd for praise?
Ev'n Britain's court grows brighter with her rays.
Oh lovely conflict of her varying hue !
Lily and Rose by grateful turns subdue.
Promiscuous charms our ravish'd senses greet,
Here April's bloom, and August's ripeness meet ;
Delights, which seem but to salute the year,
Eternally reside, and florish here;

Who can express which season cheers him most?
How gay the minutes fly, when she's the toast!

Bright as the stone, with which the glass we wound, Inspiring as the juice, which with the glass is

crown'd.

Oh, WILKINSON! who can of beauty sing, And not an offering to thy altar bring? Who can describe the young, the sweet, the fair, And not thy charms, thy wondrous charms declare ? Unsullied lustre dwells upon thy face,

Nor eye can find a stain, nor fancy mend a grace.

One pleasure more, indulgent Muse, afford, Pleasure supreme, when ForRESTER's the word ! Desert so vast commands thy utmost lays, And sure 'tis almost impious not to praise; Praise dare I call it, when each boldest line Shows like weak twilight to meridian shine ? Lo! mien, complexion, features, voice, conspire, Perfection's brands, to set the world on fire; Oh she's all wonders! Heaven's whole excellence Meets in her frame, and fills our every sense ; That grace, which most ennobles who can name, Where all 's divinely great, entitled all to fame ? As well the man, who travels all the day Scorch'd with the sun, might tell the fiercest ray; He knows the lucid author of his flames,

But with his parching heat alike he charges all the Ye numerous CHARMERS, who remain unsung,

Forgive th' unequal tribute of my tongue,
Not that your conquests fail, my strains expire,
I own your pow'rs and feel a silent fire;

No more my present raptures can pursue,
But when my Muse takes breath, I'll soar, and sing

of you.

EPISTLE XI.

THE

BEAUTIES.

TO

MR. ECKARDT,

The Painter.

BY THE HONORABLE

HORACE WALPOLE.

DESPONDING Artist, talk no more
Of Beauties of the days of yore,
Of Goddesses, renown'd in Greece,
And ZEUXIS' composition-piece,
Where ev'ry nymph that could at most
Some single grace or feature boast,
Contributed her favorite charm

To perfect the ideal form,

'Twas CYNTHIA's brów, 'twas LESBIA'seye, 'Twas CLOE's cheeks' vermilion dye;

ROXANA lent the noble air,
Dishevell'd flow'd ASPASIA'S hair,
And CUPID much too fondly press'd
His mimic mother THAIS' breast.
Antiquity how poor thy use!.