Classic Poem

What numbers, Holland, can the muses find,
To sing thy merit in each varied part,
When action, eloquence, and ease combined,
Make nature but a copy of thy art?

Majestic as the eagle on the wing,
Or the young sky-helm'd, mountain-rooted tree;
Pleasing as meadows blushing with the spring,
Loud as the surges of the Severn sea.

In terror's strain, as clanging armies drear;
In love, as Jove, too great for mortal praise;
In pity, gentle as the falling tear;
In all, superior to my feeble lays.

Black Anger's sudden rise, ecstatic Pain;
Tormenting Jealousy's self-cank'ring sting;
Consuming Envy, with her yelling train;
Fraud, closely shrouded with the turtle's wing:

Whatever passions gall the human breast,
Play in thy features, and await thy nod.
In thee, by art, the demon stands confest,
But nature on thy soul has stamped the god.

So just thy action with thy part agrees,
Each feature does the office of a tongue;
Such is thy native elegance and ease,
By thee the harsh line smoothly glides along.

At thy feigned woe, we're rially distrest,
At thy feigned tears, we let the rial fall;
By every judge of nature 'tis confest,
No single part is thine, thou'rt all in all.