EPISTLE XII.

TO

SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS,

PRESIDENT

OF THE ROYAL ACADEMY.

You But preserve a Form. Pope.

'PAINTER, vain 's thy utmost art, • To draw the Idol of my heart! Thy canvass never can receive The varied charms her features give. • When grave, she wears the awful grace • That reigns in regal JUNO's face; • When on her cheeks the smiles appear, ''Tis VENUs' better self is there;

And when she looks with studious eye, Another PALLAS we descry.

'Painter, thy pencil well may trace 'A JUNO's awful, heavenly grace; • Upon your canvass may be seen • Chaste Beauty's fair, impérial Queen; 'E'en Wisdom's Goddess may appear • In all her native splendor there.

But in my breast alone can be

• The perfect Image of the Three.","

Thus did the Muse the Art defy : Thy pencil, eager to reply, Dash'd on the cloth in colors warm The semblance of MARIA's form; And soon I saw her cheeks disclose The lily mingled with the rose ; And soon her beaming eyes dispense The soften'd rays of manly sense : Her graceful form, her auburn hair, All, all thy magic power declare. Loose flow'd her robe upon the ground, And many a Cupid flutter'd round. The bending branches kindly spread Their verdant beauties o'er her head, And far beyond the hills arise, And seem to mingle with the skies. At length, in all your art array'd, The canvass' spreading form display'd The beauties of my charming Maid. You shew'd the piece-I saw your pride, And thus the wayward Muse reply'd:

Ah happy canvass, that dost bear The features of my lovely Fair! • Upon thy surface, mild and clear, ' I see my heavenly Maid appear, • With all the glories of her face, ' Her winning smiles, and gentle grace. -But where's the virtue of her mind, • Which makes her of angelic kind?

• Where is the softness of her heart, • To pity prone, and void of art ? These cannot on thy bosom shine• They 're only to be found in mine.'

Thus, Sir, the Muse pursued her song,

Nor did she mean to do you wrong!
The splendid gifts that partial Art,
By Genius aided, does impart,
She knows are thine-Thy talents bear
The marks of their united care.
But frolic Nature will outdo

The works of Art and Genius too :
Her cunning patterns render vain
The Painter's toil, the Sculptor's pain.
All of my Fair that Art could give,
Did on the glossy canvass live.

With joy the picture home I bore, And, smiling, view'd it o'er and o'er l And, when MARIA was away,

Gaz'd on it all the live-long day;

And hop'd that there her cheeks would bloom

In all their glow for years to come.

:

Oft did the tear bedew my eye,

To think that if my Love should die,

My every joy and every care

Of future life would center there.

But as I thus enraptur'd stand
Before the wonders of your hand,
I see the lively tints decay,
The vivid colors melt away;

And ere twelve fleeting months were o'er,
The lovely Charmer blush'd no more.

Her features sunk, her roses lost,
MARIA stood a pallid Ghost:

Her looks were haggard, and her eyes
Now started forth with wild surprise;
And where their lustre should appear,
The faded tints had form'd a tear.
The spreading branches lose their green,
The azure sky no more is seen,
And the far mountain's distant blue
Is clouded with a sable hue.

Upon my sight the colors fade;
No more I see my heavenly Maid;
Her form is mingled with the shade,
And seems, in one eternal moan,
To weep like NIOBE-in stone.

MARIA now, in Country Hall,
Adorns the rude, old-fashion'd wall,
And holds her venerable place
'Mid Dames and Lords of ancient race.
At her the wond'ring Rustics stare,
As at the oldest picture there:

Nor will the curious Crowd believe
That 'tis my Lady now alive.
But when the Metzotinto's shewn,
They all a strong resemblance own.

Unhappy Artist, to survive

The means by which your fame should live!
And on the Scraper's art rely
For hopes of immortality.

Your pencil summon'd into life, For GARRICK's choice, the ardent strife. I saw the sad, but stately Queen That stalks amid the tragic scene: Around her floats the purple stole; The dagger and the fatal bowl Are not unseen-and to the sky Her finger guides th' attentive eye. 'Tis vain:-Her mad-cap Rival's leer, With roguish look and playful sneer, From Madam Grave-Airs wins the field, And RoscIUS yields-where all would yield. Who would not to the covert fly With all-enchanting Comedy ?

But now I'm told, and fear it true, That Garrick's face is black and blueAs if he'd run the risk of life

From jealousies of either wife;