TO David Polhill Esq

AN Answer to an Infamous SATYR, CALL'D, Advice to a Painter, Written chiefly against King WILLIAM III. Of Glorious Memory.

PART I.

AND must the Hero that redeem'd our Land
 Here in the Front of Vice and Scandal stand? 
The Man of Wondrous Soul, that Scorn'd his Ease
 Tempting the Winters and the faithless Seas,
 And paid an Annual Tribute of his Life
 To guard his England from the Irish Knife
 And crush the French Dragoon? Must WILLIAM's Name
 That brightest Star that gilds the Wings of Fame,
 WILLIAM the Brave, the Pious, and the Just
 Adorn these gloomy Scenes of Tyranny and Lust? 

POLHILL, my Blood's a Fire, my Spirits flame;
 Vengeance and Darkness on the Poets Name:
 Why smoak the Skies not? Why no Thunders roll? 
Nor kindling Lightnings blast his guilty Soul? 
Audacious Wretch! to stab a Monarch's Fame,
 And fire his Subjects with a Rebel-Flame,
 To call the Painter to his Black Designs
 To draw our Guardian's Face in Hellish Lines:
 Painter beware! the Monarch can be shown
 Under no Shape but Angels or his own,
 GABRIEL or WILLIAM on the Brittish Throne. 

Oh! could my Thoughts but grasp the vast Design,
 And Words with Infinite Ideas joyn,
 I'de rouse Apelles from his Iron Sleep,
 And bid him trace the Warriour o're the Deep:
 Trace him Apelles, o're the Belgian Plain,
 Fierce, how he climbs the Mountains of the Slain
 Scattering Just Vengeance thro' the Red Campaign. 
Then dash the Canvas with a flying Stroke
 Till it be lost in Clouds of Fire and Smoak,
 And say, 'Twas thus the Conqueror thro' the Squadrons broke. 
Mark him again emerging from the Cloud
 Far from his Troops; there like a Rock he stood
 His Countries Single Barrier in a Sea of Blood. 
Calmly he leaves the Pleasures of a Throne,
 And his MARIA Weeping; whilst alone
 He wards the Fate of Nations, and provokes his own:
 But Heav'n secures its Champion; o're the Field
 Paint hov'ring Angels; tho' they fly conceal'd,
 Each intercepts a Death, and wears it on his Shield. 

Now, noble Pencil; lead him to our Isle,
 Mark how the Skies with Joyful Lustre smile,
 Then imitate the Glory; on the Strand
 Spread half the Nation longing till he Land. 
Wash off the Blood, and take a peaceful Teint,
 All Red the Warriour, White the Ruler paint,
 Abroad a Hero, and at Home a Saint. 
Throne him on high upon a shining Seat,
 Lust and Prophaneness dying at his Feet,
 While round his Head the Lawrel and the Olive meet,
 The Crowns of War and Peace; and may they blow
 With Flow'ry Blessings ever on his Brow. 
At his right Hand pile all the English Laws
 In Sacred Volumes; thence the Monarch draws
 His Wise and Just Commands —
 Rise ye Old Sages of the Brittish Isle,
 On the fair Tablet cast a reverend Smile
 And bless the Peice; these Statutes are your own,
 That sway the Cottage, and direct the Throne;
 People and Prince are one in WILLIAM's Name,
 Their Joys, their Dangers, and their Laws the same. 
Let Liberty and Right with Plumes display'd
 Clap their glad Wings around their Guardian's Head,
 Religion o're the rest her Starry Pinions spread. 
Religion guards him; round the Imperial Queen,
 Place waiting Vertues, each of Heav'nly Mien;
 Learn their bright Air, and paint it from his Eyes,
 The Just, the Bold, the Temperate, and the Wise
 Dwell in his Looks: Majestick, but Serene;
 Sweet, with no Fondness; Cheerful, but not Vain:
 Bright without Terror; Great, without Disdain. 
His Soul inspires us what his Lips command,
 And spreads his brave Example thro' the Land,
 Not so the former Reigns; —
 Bend down his Ear to each afflicted Cry,
 Let Beams of Grace dart gently from his Eye;
 But the bright Treasures of his Sacred Breast
 Are too Divine, too Vast to be exprest,
 Colours must fail where Words and Numbers faint,
 And leave the Hero's Heart for Thought alone to paint. 

PART II.

NOW Muse, pursue the Satyrist again,
 Wipe off the Blotts of his Invenom'd Pen;
 Hark, how he bids the Servile Painter draw
 In monstrous Shapes the Patrons of our Law;
 At one slight Dash he cancels every Name
 From the white Rolls of Honesty and Fame:
 This Scribbling Wretch marks all he meets for Knave,
 Shoots sudden Bolts promiscuous at the Base and Brave,
 And with unpardonable Malice sheds
 Poison and Spite on undistinguish'd Heads. 
Painter, forbear; or if thy bolder Hand
 Dares to attempt the Villains of the Land,
 Draw first this Poet, like some baleful Star
 With silent Influence shedding Civil War;
 Or Factious Trumpeter, whose Magick Sound
 Calls off the Subjects to the Hostile Ground,
 And scatters Hellish Feuds the Nation Round. 
These are the Imps of Hell, that cursed Tribe
 That first create the Plague, and then the Pain describe. 

Draw next above, the Great Ones of our Isle,
 Still from the Good distinguishing the Vile;
 Seat 'em in Pomp, in Grandeur, and Command,
 Feeling the Subjects with a greedy Hand:
 Paint forth the Knaves that have the Nation sold,
 And tinge their greedy Looks with sordid Gold. 
Mark what a selfish Faction undermines
 The Pious Monarch's generous Designs,
 Spoil their own Native Land as Vipers do,
 Vipers that tear their Mothers Bowels thro'. 
Let great NASSAW beneath a careful Crown
 Mournful in Majesty, look gently down,
 Mingling soft Pity with an Awful Frown:
 He grieves to see how long in vain he strove
 To make us blest, how vain his Labours prove
 To save the stubborn Land he condescends to Love.