Viewing page 258 of 285

This transcription has been completed. Contact us with corrections.

206  ANNUAL REGISTER  For the YEAR 1772.  207

The ODE performed at the opening of the New Exhibition Room of the Royal Incorporated Society of Artists of Great-Britain, written by E. Lloyd, Author of "the Powers of the Penn," Ec. and set to Music by Mr. Hook.

---------Ingenuas didicisse fideliter Artes
Emollit Mores, nec sinit esse feros.

  'Twas where grim Mars with ruin strew'd the plain,
  And wide display'd the terrors of his reign,
  While Discord wav'd her crimson wings,
  Dripping with the blood of Kings,
  Britannia wept forlorn to see,
  Death revel 'midst her progeny;
Then ask'd of heav'n to temper, not debase,
The savage fierceness of her warlike race.

  Ye Powers! soothe a mother's care;
  Propitious to a mother's prayer,
  Vouchsafe a boon that may assuage
  My martial Island's burning rage!
  The Pen, the Pencil, and the Lyre,
  Might gentler bravery inspire,
  And manners mild infuse--
  Then send, O Heaven! the Muse.

Her pray'r prevail'd--from Heav'n the Muse descends,
And in her train each liberal Art attends.

  In softer murmurs let the hills
  Pour down fresh Heliconian rills;
  Ye vales, with groves of laurel swell,
  The muse now deigns with you to dwell.

  Hark! thro' the enchanted isle
    The choir of Poebus sings!
   The teach the Warrior's brow to smile,
    And tame the hearts of Kings!

Tame, no enfeeble--firmer is the steel
When made the polish of the file to feel.

  The sister of the Pencil came
  With these--another and the same--
  She came and lent her plastic hand
  To humanize the savage land:
  Iris on he rsteps attended,
  And the mimic colours blended.

    Hail!

  Hail! wond'rous art! whose pow're is such
    With mightiest magic fraught,
  It gives with a Promethean touch
    To colour life and thought!
  Not Aegypt's skill so well can save,
  And give the form t' elude the Grave;
  When Fate condemns, thy hand reprieves,
  And after Death the person lives!
  Vain ae the ravages of Time;
  Thy Pencil gives eternal prime:
  When Delia moulders in the tomb,
  On Canvas she retains her bloom.

  From thee a new Creation grew,
  Adorn'd with ev'ry living hue
    That Poebus' orb illumes:
  Ech moral quality, no more
  Abstracted notions, as before,
    A person'd shape assumes.

  Each Passion by the Pencil Dress'd
  Is better to the mind
    Than in the Writer's page;
  And Virtues, which with languor pine
  When pedant Moralists define
  In Cherub forms engage.

  Picture, Music of the Eye,
  Might tempt a Seraph from the sky,
  'Mid kindred forms on earth to roam,
  And think it his celestial home.
Less is the ardour cold Narration gives,
  Or Fame historic kindles in the breast,
Than when the war in glowing colours lives,
  And Heroes on the canvas field contest;
And less energic holy Prelates call
To penitence than Raphael's pictur'd Paul.
  What were life without the Muse?
  Toil that Wisdom would refuse;
  Nought of living but the breath,
  Days of blood, and nights of death.
Genius of Arts! here turn they eyes,
Behold to thee this Temple rise!
Lo! thy Priests, a sacred band,
Round thy Altar musing stand;
The sweet Enthusiasts deign t' inspire,
And fill their breasts with thoughts of fire!
When living tables they design,
Stamp thou thyself on ev'ry lin;
    Teach