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The Ode performed at the new Exhibition Room of the

Royal Incorporated Society of Artists of Great Britain, written by E. Lloyd.

............ Ingenuas didicisse fideliter Artes
Emollit mores, nec sinit esse feros.

"Twas where grim Mars with ruin strew'd the

And wide displayed the terrors of his reign,
While discord way'd her crimson wings,
Dripping with the blood of Kings,
Britannia wept forlorn to see,

Death revel 'midst her progeny:
Then asked of Heav'n to temper, not debase,
The savage fierceness of her warlike race.

Ye powers ! sooth a mother's care;
Propitious to a mother's prayer,
Vouchsafe a boon that may assuage
My martial island's burning rage!
The pen, the pencil, and the lyre,
Might gentler bravery inspire,
And manners mild infuse-
Then send, O Heaven! the muse,

Her pray'r prevail'dfrom Heav'n the muse

descends, And in her train each liberal art attends.

In softer murmurs let the hills
Pour down fresh heliconian rills;
Ye vales, with groves of laurel swell,
The muse now deigns with you to dwell.
Hark! thro' the enchanted isle

The choir of Phoebus sings !
They teach the warriors brow to smile,

And tame the hearts of Kings !
Tame, not enfeeble--firmer is the steel
When made the polish of the file to feel.

The sister of the pencil came
With these, another and the same,
She came and lent her plastic hand
To humanize the savage land:
Iris on her steps attended
And the mimic colours blended.

Hail! wond'rous art! whose pow'r is such

With mightiest magic fraught, It gives with a promethean touch

To colour, life, and thought!

Not Egypt's skill so well can save,
And give the form to elude the grave;
When fate condemns, thy hand reprieves,
And after death the person lives!
Vain are the ravages of time;
Thy pencil gives eternal prime:
When Delia moulders in the tomb,
On canvas she retains her bloom.
From thee a new creation grew,
Adorn'd with every living hue
That Phoebus' orb illumes:

Each moral quality, no more

Abstracted notions, as before, A person'd shape assumes.

Each passion by the pencil dress'd
Is better to the mind express'd

Than in the writer's page;
And virtues, which with langour pine
When pedant moralists define

In cherub forms engage.
Picture, music of the eye,
Might tempt a seraph from the sky
'Mid kindred forms on earth to roam,
And think it his celestial home.

Less is the ardour cold narration gives

Or fame historic kindles in the breast, Than when the war in glowing colours lives,

And heroes on the canvas field contest; And less energic holy prelates call To penitence than Raphael's pictur'd Paul. What were life without the muse? Toil that wisdom would refuse; Nought of living but the breath; Days of blood, and nights of death. Genius of arts ! here turn thine eyes, Behold to thee this temple rise ! Lo! thy priests, a sacred band, Round thy altar musing stand; The sweet enthusiasts deign to inspire, And fill their breasts with thoughts of fire! When living tables they design, Stamp thou thyself on every line; Teach the passions how to glow, And virtue's comely semblance shew: Bid her every charm untold, And men reform as they behold. Let vice with gorgon terrors scare, And bid her votaries beware Open Clio's brightest page Where honour's noblest deeds engage!

To make her charms still more inflame,
Contrast them with the shade of shame!
Let Brutus here each danger brave,
And Cæsar stab, his Rome to save.
There teams of slaves in tyrant's chain
Teach Britons slavery to disdain;
And from Britannia's annals bring
The portraits of a patriot King.

Albion, thus thy gifts possessing,
Shall abound in every blessing;
Greater shall her monarchs be,
Nobler her nobility;
To patriots shall her peasants turn,

And with the love of freedom burn.
The power descends! from his auspicious nod
The temple lives, and shews the present God.

Behold! the arts around us bloom,
And this muse-devoted dome
Rivals the works of Athens and of Rome.

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