To
his
Excellency
the
Lord
Carteret
.
Occasion'd
by
seeing
a
Poem
,
intitled
,
The
Birth
of
Manly
Virtue
.
The
Picture
strikes
—
'tis
drawn
with
wond'rous
Art
;
Well
has
the
Poet
play'd
the
Painter's
Part
.
Tho'
'tis
your
Glory
,
yet
,
my
Lord
,
I
own
,
I
grieve
the
Features
fit
yourself
alone
.
But
know
,
tho'
All
agree
the
Picture's
yours
,
'Tis
Steadiness
alone
your
Claim
secures
.
With
Pleasure
now
your
Image
you
furvey
;
But
should
you
from
the
Rules
of
Virtue
stray
,
Should
e'er
degrading
Vice
deform
your
Frame
,
You'd
start
,
like
Io
from
the
crystal
Stream
.
When
Kneller
has
display'd
,
with
matchless
Grace
,
The
fleeting
Glories
of
Clarinda's
Face
;
She
sighs
,
to
think
how
Time
will
soon
devour
The
lovely
Bloom
,
which
gives
her
now
such
Pow'r
:
But
yours
,
a
Likeness
of
a
nobler
Kind
,
Displays
the
deathless
Beauties
of
the
Mind
:
Be
it
your
Glory
to
surpass
the
Paint
,
And
make
the
finish'd
Picture
look
too
faint
.
Why
is
he
hid
,
who
,
with
such
matchloss
Art
,
Calls
forth
the
Graces
that
adorn
your
Heart
?
True
Poets
in
their
deathless
Lays
should
live
,
And
share
that
Immortality
they
give
.