And now for minutes ten there stole
A silence deep o’er every soul—­
When, lo! again before them stands
The courier’s self with empty hands. 
Why, how is this? exclaim’d the twain;
Where are the pictures, sir?  Explain! 
Good sirs, replied the God of Post,
I scarce had reached the other coast,
When Charon told me, one he ferried
Inform’d him they were dead and buried: 
Then bade me hither haste and say,
Their ghosts were now upon the way. 
In mute amaze the Painters stood. 
But soon upon the Stygian flood,
Behold! the spectre-pictures float,
Like rafts behind the towing boat: 
Now reach’d the shore, in close array,
Like armies drill’d in Homer’s day,
When marching on to meet the foe,
By bucklers hid from top to toe,
They move along the dusky fields,
A grizly troop of painted shields: 
And now, arrived in order fair,
A gallery huge they hang in air.

The ghostly croud with gay surprize
Began to rub their stony eyes: 
Such pleasant lounge, they all averr’d,
None saw since he had been interr’d;
And thus, like connoisseurs on Earth,
Began to weigh the pictures’ worth: 
But first (as deem’d of higher kind)
Examin’d they the works of Mind.[4]
Pray what is this? demanded one.—­
That, sir, is Phoebus, alias, Sun: 
A classick work you can’t deny;
The car and horses in the sky,
The clouds on which they hold their way,
Proclaim him all the God of Day. 
Nay, learned sir, his dirty plight
More fit beseems the God of Night. 
Besides, I cannot well divine
How mud like this can ever shine.—­
Then look at that a little higher.—­
I see ’tis Orpheus, by his lyre. 
The beasts that listening stand around,
Do well declare the force of sound: 
But why the fiction thus reverse,
And make the power of song a curse? 
The ancient Orpheus soften’d rocks,
Yours changes living things to blocks.—­
Well, this you’ll sure acknowledge fine,
Parnassus’ top with all the Nine. 
Ah, there is beauty, soul and fire,
And all that human wit inspire!—­
Good sir, you’re right; for being stone,
They’re each to blunted wits a hone. 
And what is that? inquir’d another.—­
That, sir, is Cupid and his Mother.—­
What, Venus? sure it cannot be: 
That skin begrim’d ne’er felt the sea;
That Cupid too ne’er knew the sky;
For lead, I’m sure, could never fly.—­
I’ll hear no more, the Painter said,
Your souls are, like your bodies, dead!

With secret triumph now elate,
His grinning Rival ’gan to prate. 
Oh, fie! my friends; upon my word,
You’re too severe:  he should be heard;
For Mind can ne’er to glory reach,
Without the usual aid of speech. 
If thus howe’er, you seal his doom,
What hope have I unknown to Rome? 
But since the truth be your dominion,
I beg to hear your just opinion.