TO
Sir
GODFREY
KNELLER
,
ON
HIS
PICTURE
of
the
KING
.
KNELLER
,
with
silence
and
surprize
We
see
Britannia's
Monarch
rise
,
A
Godlike
Form
,
by
Thee
display'd
In
all
the
force
of
Light
and
Shade
;
And
,
Aw'd
by
thy
delusive
Hand
,
As
in
the
Presence-chamber
stand
.
The
Magick
of
thy
Art
calls
forth
His
Secret
Soul
and
Hidden
Worth
,
His
Probity
and
Mildness
shows
,
His
Care
of
Friends
,
and
Scorn
of
Foes
:
In
ev'ry
Stroke
,
in
ev'ry
Line
,
Does
some
exalted
Vertue
shine
,
And
Albion's
Happiness
we
trace
Through
all
the
Features
of
his
Face
.
O
may
I
live
to
hail
the
Day
,
When
the
glad
Nation
shall
survey
Their
Sov'reign
,
through
his
wide
Command
,
Passing
in
Progress
o'er
the
Land
!
Each
Heart
shall
bend
,
and
ev'ry
Voice
In
loud
applauding
Shouts
rejoice
,
Whilst
All
his
Gracious
Aspect
praise
,
And
Crowds
grow
Loyal
as
they
Gaze
.
This
Image
on
the
Medal
place'd
,
With
its
Bright
Round
of
Titles
grace'd
,
And
Stamp'd
on
British
Coins
shall
Live
;
To
Richest
Ores
the
Value
give
,
Or
,
wrought
within
the
Curious
Mould
,
Shape
and
adorn
the
Running
Gold
.
To
bear
this
Form
,
the
Genial
Sun
Has
daily
,
since
his
Course
begun
,
Rejoice'd
the
Metal
to
Refine
,
And
Ripen'd
the
Peruvian
Mine
.
Thou
,
Kneller
,
long
with
noble
Pride
(
The
Foremost
of
thy
Art
)
ha'st
vied
With
Nature
in
a
gen'rous
Strife
,
And
touch'd
the
Canvas
into
Life
.
Thy
Pencil
has
,
by
Monarchs
sought
,
From
Reign
to
Reign
in
Ermine
wrought
,
And
,
in
their
Robes
of
State
array'd
,
The
Kings
of
half
an
Age
display'd
.
Here
swarthy
Charles
appears
,
and
there
His
Brother
with
Dejected
Air
;
Triumphant
Nassau
here
we
find
,
And
with
him
bright
Maria
join'd
;
There
Anna
,
Great
as
when
she
sent
Her
Armies
through
the
Continent
,
E'er
yet
her
Hero
was
disgrac't
:
O
may
fam'd
BRUNSWICK
be
the
Last
,
(
Though
Heav'n
shou'd
with
my
Wish
agree
,
And
long
preserve
thy
Art
in
Thee
)
The
Last
,
the
Happiest
British
King
,
Whom
Thou
shalt
paint
,
or
I
shall
sing
!
Wise
Phidias
,
thus
his
Skill
to
prove
,
Through
many
a
God
advanc'd
to
Jove
,
And
taught
the
polish'd
Rocks
to
shine
With
Airs
and
Lineaments
divine
;
Till
Greece
,
amaz'd
,
and
half-afraid
,
Th'
Assembled
Deities
survey'd
.
Great
Pan
,
who
wont
to
chase
the
Fair
,
And
lov'd
the
spreading
Oak
,
was
there
;
Old
Saturn
too
with
up-cast
Eyes
Beheld
his
Abdicated
Skies
;
And
mighty
Mars
,
for
War
renown'd
,
In
Adamantine
Armour
frown'd
;
By
Him
the
childless
Goddess
rose
,
Minerva
,
studious
to
compose
Her
twisted
Threads
;
the
Webb
she
strung
,
And
o'er
a
Loom
of
Marble
hung
:
Thetis
the
troubled
Ocean's
Queen
,
Match'd
with
a
Mortal
,
next
was
seen
(
Reclining
on
a
Fun'ral
Urn
)
Her
short-liv'd
Darling
Son
to
Mourn
.
The
Last
was
He
,
whose
Thunder
slew
The
Titan-race
,
a
Rebel
Crew
,
That
from
a
Hundred
Hills
,
allie'd
In
impious
Leagues
,
their
King
defie'd
.
This
Wonder
of
the
Sculptor's
Hand
Produc'd
,
his
Art
was
at
a
stand
:
For
who
wou'd
hope
New
Fame
to
raise
,
Or
risque
his
well-establish'd
Praise
,
That
,
his
high
Genius
to
approve
,
Had
drawn
a
GEORGE
,
or
carv'd
a
Jove
!