Classic Poem

AN EXCELLENT MINIATURE PAINTER .

Y E Nine, awake the chorded shell,
Whilst I the praise of Alcock tell
In truth-dictated lays:
On wings of genius take thy flight,
O Muse! above the Olympic height,
Make echo sing his praise.

Nature, in all her glory drest,
Her flowery crown, her verdant vest,
Her zone ethereal blue,
Receives new charms from Alcock's hand;
The eye surveys, at his command,
Whole kingdoms at a view.

His beauties seem to roll the eye,
And bid the rial arrows fly,
To wound the gazer's mind;
So taking are his men displayed,
That oft th' unguarded wounded maid
Hath wished the painter blind.

His pictures like to nature shew.
The silver fountains seem to flow,
The hoary woods to nod;
The curling hair, the flowing dress,
The speaking attitude, confess
The fancy-forming god.

Ye classic Roman-loving fools,
Say, could the painters of the schools
With Alcock's pencil vie?
He paints the passions of mankind,
And in the face displays the mind,
Charming the heart and eye.

Thrice happy artist, rouse thy powers,
And send, in wonder-giving showers,
Thy beauteous works to view:
Envy shall sicken at thy name.
Italians leave the chair of Fame,
And own the seat thy due.