Reach distant MUNDY, Muse, with sounding strains, Th' excelling maid that wastes her time in plains; Certain as Fate, and swift as feather'd darts, Oh, WILLIAMSON! thy arrows pierce our hearts; Once with an equal right to glory shin'd A signal charmer of thy own bright kind ; Once-but remorseless death too quickly seiz'd This finish'd object, that so vastly pleas'd; No respite from concern our souls could find, Did she not leave thee here, a wonder still behind. Like banks adorn'd with Nature's flowery train, ALSTON'S Sweet look delights th' admiring swain: Pleas'd, not content, he lets his wishes rise, And would regale more senses than his eyes, But, hid in bloom, that serpent, scorn, destroys The lover's fondest hopes, and poisons all his joys. The DASHWOODS are a family of charms, Each Nymph's appointed with resistless arms, So soft, so sweet, so artless, and so young, Pride of the sight, and pleasure of the tongue. Nor less renown'd in charms the HERVEYS stand: To reign at large, and spread her mighty power; Her numerous treasures to that darling Line. Can SMITH unnoted pass, so fram'd for praise ? Who can express which season cheers him most? Bright as the stone, with which the glass we wound, Inspiring as the juice, which with the glass is crown'd. Oh, WILKINSON! who can of beauty sing, And not an offering to thy altar bring? Who can describe the young, the sweet, the fair, And not thy charms, thy wondrous charms declare ? Unsullied lustre dwells upon thy face, Nor eye can find a stain, nor fancy mend a grace. One pleasure more, indulgent Muse, afford, Scorch'd with the sun, might tell the fiercest ray; But with his parching heat alike he charges all the beams. Ye numerous CHARMERS, who remain unsung, No more my present raptures can pursue, But when my Muse takes breath, I'll soar, and sing of you. EPISTLE XI. THE BEAUTIES. ΤΟ MR. ECKARDT, The Painter. BY THE HONORABLE HORACE WALPOLE. DESPONDING Artist, talk no more Where ev'ry nymph that could at most Some single grace or feature boast, Contributed her favorite charm To perfect the ideal form. 'Twas CYNTHIA's brów, 'twas LESBIA's eye, 'Twas CLOE's cheeks' vermilion dye; ROXANA lent the noble air, Dishevell'd flow'd ASPASIA's hair, |