ON MR. ALCOCK, OF BRISTOL,

AN EXCELLENT MINIATURE PAINTER.

YE nine, awake the chorded shell,
 Whilst I the praise of Alcock tell
 In truth-dictated lays:
 On wings of genius take thy flight,
 O muse! above the Olympic height,
 Make Echo sing his praise. 

Nature in all her glory drest,
 Her slow'ry crown, her verdant vest,
 Her zone etherial blue,
 Receives new charms from Alcock's hand;
 The eye surveys, at his command,
 Whole kingdoms at a view. 

His beauties seem to roll the eye,
 And bid the real arrows fly,
 To wound the gazer's mind;
 So taking are his men display'd,
 That oft th' unguarded wounded maid,
 Hath wish'd the painter blind. 

His pictures like to nature shew,
 The silver fountains seem to flow;
 The hoary woods to nod:
 The curling hair, the flowing dress,
 The speaking attitude, confess
 The fancy forming god. 

Ye classic Roman-loving fools,
 Say, could the painters of the schools,
 With Alcock's pencil vie? 
He paints the passions of mankind,
 And in the face displays the mind,
 Charming the heart and eye. 

Thrice happy artist, rouse thy powers,
 And send, in wonder-giving show'rs,
 Thy beauteous works to view:
 Envy shall sicken at thy name,
 Italians leave the chair of Fame,
 And own the seat thy due.