I Yield, O Kneller , to superior Skill,
Thy Pencil triumphs o'er the Poet's Quill:
If yet my vanquish'd Muse exert her Lays,
It is no more to Rival thee, but Praise.
Oft have I try'd, with unavailing Care,
To trace some Image of the much lov'd Fair;
But still my Numbers ineffectual prov'd,
And rather shew'd how much, than whom, I lov'd.
But thy unerring Hands, with matchless Art,
Have shewn my Eyes th' Impression in my Heart;
The bright Idea both exists and lives,
Such vital Heat thy genial Pencil gives:
Whose daring Point, not to the Face confin'd,
Can penetrate the Heart, and paint the Mind.
Others some faint Resemblance may express,
Which, as 'tis drawn by Chance, we find by Guess.
Thy Pictures raise no Doubts, when brought to View,
At once they're known, and seem to know us too.
Transcendent Artist! How complete thy Skill!
Thy Pow'r to act, is equal to thy Will.
Nature and Art, in thee, alike contend,
Not to oppose each other, but befriend:
For what thy Fancy has with Fire design'd,
Is by thy Skill, both temper'd and resin'd.
As in thy Pictures, Light consents with Shade,
And, each, to other is subservient made,
Judgment and Genius so concur in thee,
And both unite in perfect Harmony.
But after-Days, my Friend, must do thee Right,
And set thy Virtues in unenvy'd Light.
Fame due to vast Desert, is kept in Store,
Unpay'd, 'till the Deserver is no more.
Yet, thou, in present, the best Part hast gain'd,
And from the Chosen Few Applause obtain'd:
Ev'n He who best cou'd judge and best cou'd praise,
Has high extoll'd thee, in his deathless Lays;
Ev'n Dryden has immortaliz'd thy Name;
Let that alone suffice thee, think That, Fame.
Unfit I follow, where he led the Way,
And court Applause, by what I seem to pay.
Myself I praise, while I thy Praise intend,
For 'tis some Virtue, Virtue to commend:
And next to Deeds, which our own Honor raise,
Is, to distinguish them who merit Praise.