The Pencil's glowing Lines and vast Command,
And Mankind rising from the Painter's Hand,
The awful Judge array'd in beamy Light,
And Spectres trembling at the dreadful Sight,
To sing, O Muse, the pious Bard inspire,
And waken in his Breast the sacred Fire.

The hallow'd Field, a bare white Wall of late,
Now cloath'd in gaudy Colours, shines in State;
And lest some little Interval confess
Its antient simple Form and homely Dress,
The skilful Artist laid o'er every Part
The first Foundation of his future Art:
O'er the wide Frame his ductile Colours led,
And with strong Primings all the Wall o'erspread.

As e'er yon' spangling Orbs were hung on high,
Lest one great Blank should yawn thro' boundless Sky,
Thro' the wide heavenly Arch and trackless Road
In Azure Volumes the pure Æther flow'd;
The Sun at length burns out intensely bright,
And the pale Crescent sheds her borrow'd Light.
With thick--sown Stars the radient Pole is crown'd,
Of milky Glories a long Tract is found,
O'erflows, and whitens all the Heavens around.

So when the Ground--work of the Piece was laid;
Nor yet the Painter had his Art display'd,
With slower Hand, and Pencil more divine,
He blends each Colour, heightens every Line;
Till various Forms the breathing Picture wears,
And a mute Groupe of Images appears.

Celestial Guards the topmost Height attend,
And Crowds of Angels o'er the Wall descend;
With their big Cheeks the deaf'ning Clarions wind,
Whose dreadful Clangors startle all Mankind:
E'en the Dead hear; the lab'ring Graves conceive,
And the swoln Clod in Picture seems to heave.
Ten thousand Worlds revive to better Skies,
And from their Tombs the thronging Coarses rise.

So when fam'd Cadmus sow'd the fruitful Field,
With pregnant Throws the quicken'd Furrow swell'd;
From the warm Soil sprung up a warlike Train,
And human Harvests cover'd all the Plain.

And now from ev'ry Corner of the Earth
The scatter'd Dust is call'd to second Birth;
Whether in Mines it form'd the rip'ning Mass,
Or humbly mix'd, and flourish'd in the Grass.
The sever'd Body now unites again,
And kindred Atoms rally into Men.
The various Joints resume their antient Seats,
And every Limb its former Task repeats.
Here, an imperfect Form returns to Light,
Not half renew'd, dishonest to the Sight;
Maim'd of his Nose appears his blotted Face,
And scarce the Image of a Man we trace:
Here, by Degrees infus'd, the vital Ray
Gives the first Motion to the panting Clay:
Slow to new Life, the thawing Fluids creep,
And the stiff Joints wake heavily from Sleep.
Here, on the guilty Brow pale Horrors glare,
And all the Figure labours with Despair.

From Scenes like these now turn thy wond'ring Sight,
And, if thou canst, withstand such Floods of Light,
Look! where thy Saviour fills the middle Space,
The Son of God, true Image of his Face,
Himself eternal God, e'er Time began her Race.
See! what mild Beams their gracious Influence shed,
And how the pointed Radiance crowns his Head!
Around his Temples lambent Glories shine,
And on his Brow sits Majesty divine!
His Eye--balls lighten with Celestial Fires,
And every Grace to speak the God conspires!

But, ah! how chang'd! ah! how unlike the same
From him, who patient wore the mortal Frame;
Who thro' a Scene of Woes drew painful Breath,
And struggled with a sad, slow, long--drawn Death;
Who gave on Golgotha the dreadful Groan,
Bearer of other's Sins, and Suff'rings not his own.
But Death and Hell subdu'd, the Deity
Ascends triumphant to his native Sky;
And rising far above th' Æthereal Height,
The Sun and Moon diminish to his Sight.

And now to View he bare'd his bleeding Side,
And his pierc'd Hands and Feet in Crimson dy'd;
Still did the Nails the recent Scars reveal,
And bloody Tracks of the transfixing Steel.
Hither in Crouds the Blessed shape their Flight,
And throng the Mansions of immortal Light.

The menial Twelve, an ever faithful Band,
Around their Master sit on either Hand.
Each Martyr--Saint in Glory shines confest,
Immortal Pleasures rushing to his Breast;
Sees Worlds up--rising from the silent Tomb
To final Judgement and eternal Doom:
They mark each fatal Word, each dreadful Nod,
And bless the righteous Sentence of their God.
The fruitful Matron, and the spotless Maid,
And Infants, with a longer Life repaid:
Stand round, and drinking in, Celestial Rays,
On their Redeemer fix with ardent Gaze,
And all the Heavens resound with Hymns of Praise.
Each Bosom kindles with seraphick Joy,
And conscious Extasies the Soul employ.
Not equal Raptures swell the Sibyl's Breast,
When by the inmate Deity possess'd;
When Phoebus, the prophetick Maid, inspires,
And her Limbs tremble with convulsive Fires.

But whence this sudden Blaze of dazling Light!
What mitred Brow is that which greets my Sight?
Forth from a stately Tomb I see him rise,
And mount with Guards of Angels to the Skies.
I know the Form--alike the Look and Mien,
Another Wainflet in his Face is seen.
When will, alas! such spotless Worth be found?
When will a Mind with equal Virtues crown'd?
Fearless he sees Almighty Vengeance rise,
And fixes on his God his guiltless Eyes.

But now, far diff'rent Scenes our Wonder claim,
Horrent with Darkness and malignant Flame:
The labour'd Wall delusive Picture hides,
And liquid Sulphur rolls in burning Tides.
So strong, so fierce, the painted Flames arise,
The pale Spectator views them with Surprize;
Believes the blazing Wall indeed to burn,
And fears the Frame should into Ashes turn.
Hither in ghastly Crouds the Guilty haste,
Obscene with Horror, and with Shame defac'd:
With haggard Looks the gloomy Fiends appear;
They gnash their foamy Teeth, and frown severe:
A stern Avenger with relentless Mind,
Waving a flamey Faulchion, stalks behind;
With which, as once from Paradise he drove,
He drives the Sinner from the Joys above.
What shall he do forlorn? or wither fly,
To shun the Ken of an All--seeing Eye?
What would he give among the Just to shine,
And fall before Omnipotence divine?
But, oh! too late in Sighs he vents his Woe,
Too late his Eyes with gushing Tears o'erflow!
Vain are his Sighs, and fruitless are his Tears,
Vengeance and Justice stop th' Almighty's Ears.

See! with what various Charms the Piece is fraught,
And with what pregnant Marks of Judgement wrought;
With how much Grace the living Colours glow:
Not brighter Colours paint the wat'ry Bow;
When the fresh Show'rs her various Lustre share,
And ev'ry Drop with Spangles decks the Air.

O may the Painter's Labours never fade,
Nor wasteful Time their shining Charms invade.
No envious Darkness shade the beauteous Tints,
Till the Piece sees the Last Great Day it Paints.