Classic Poem

The book that in your lap reclines,
Where many a leaf like zephyr wavers,
Within its ample cope combines
The skill of Britain's best engravers,
Fishers are there, with humid nets,
Dutch boors, intent upon their duties,
And Egypt's mendicant brunettes,
And mild Circassia's snowy beauties.

Mountains whereon the clouds recline,
Whence many a Tuscan bravo sallies,
Castles that crown the rapid Rhine,
Cots that repose in Arno's valleys,
Divers, o'er Indian surge reclined,
(Where Phaebus glares with added brightness,)
Delving for pearls, ordained to find
On arms like yours a rival whiteness.

Great painters here their colours strike,
Rubens no longer feeds on roses,
In sober brown reclines Vandyke,
Untinted Titian here reposes.
Artists whose palettes to the sight
Presents a gay prismatic olio,
Array'd in modest black and white,
Repose within this huge portfolio.

Yet not even Bartolozzi's school
Can give all copies equal spirit;
Vainly the graver plies his tool,
To give to all impartial merit.
Each, with what skill soever plann'd.
Grows than its predecessor fainter,
Fall faded from his wearied hand,
And disappoints the peevish painter.

Would he a gainful trade pursue,
His now superfluous labour saving,
Let the glad artist learn of you,
Lady, the art of true engraving.
You, who at every glance awake
A portrait teeming with expression,
And cleverly contrive to make,
Where'er you go — a Proof Impression!