Then, oh! thou truly “Father of the Art[B]!”
’Twas thine superior vigour to impart;
Illustrious Cimabue! it was thine
To soar beyond Example’s bounded line,
And, as the Heav’n-directed sceptre’s shock,
Produc’d full torrents from the flinty rock,
So streams of taste obey’d thy pencil’s call,
And Nature seem’d to start from out the wall. 
Hail, beauteous art! oh! that in equal lay
Could but my Muse thy various pow’rs convey! 
’Tis thine with silent eloquence to shew
Passion’s strong image, Beauty’s rapt’rous glow,
To soothe the parted lover’s anxious care,
Who owns thee fairest of thy sisters fair;
When waves divide him, still thro’ thee to trace
The dear resemblance of that cherish’d face,
Which he so oft with trembling lips has prest,
So often gaz’d upon, so often blest! 
Thine too it is to seek the verdant plains
Where Peace resides, where Rustic Beauty reigns;
Or bid the torrent on thy canvass roar,
Or calmly spread the yellow winding shore;
Or show, from some vast cliff’s extremest verge,
The frail bark combating the angry surge. 
Oft too on some lone turret wilt thou stand,
To trace the fury of th’ embattled band,
To darken with the clouds of death the skies,
And bid the scenes of blood and havoc rise! 
Such, and far more, thy pow’rs, bless’d art! to thee
Inferior far descriptive Poesy;
And tho’ sweet Music, when she strikes the strings,
When thro’ the grove with seraph-voice she sings,
The soul, enraptur’d with the thrilling stream,
Would hail the Maid of Harmony supreme! 
Yet, while her dulcet sounds enchant, they die;}
So shooting stare illume the midnight sky, }
And, as we wonder, vanish from the eye. }
But when resistless Death, in mournful hour,
Withdraws the drooping painter’s mimic pow’r,
Improv’d by time, his works still charm the sight,
And thro’ successive ages yield delight
Greece early bade the painter’s pencil trace
Each form with force; to force she added grace: 
For this her Zeuxis she a garland wove,
For[C] that Apelles won her grateful love. 
Chiefly she called on Painting’s magic powers
To deck the guardians of her lofty tow’rs;
Here[D] Jove in lightning show’d his awful mien. 
There Venus with her doves was smiling seen! 
Till ruthless Time, with unabating flight,
O’er Grecian grandeur flung the shades of night
Long did they settle o’er the darken’d world. 
Till Raphael’s hand the sable curtain furl’d;
A pious calm, an elevated grace,
Then on the canvass mark’d th’ Apostle’s face;
Devout applauses ev’ry feature drew,
E’en[E] such as graceful Sculpture never knew. 
In nearer times, and on a neighb’ring shore,
Painting but feebly shone, obscur’d by pow’r. 
See Rubens’ soul indignantly advance,
Press’d by the pride and vanity of France;
Behold, [F] in fulsome allegory spread,