TO
MR.
HOLLAND
.
WHAT
numbers
,
Holland
,
can
the
muses
find
,
To
sing
thy
merit
in
each
varied
part
;
When
action
,
eloquence
,
and
ease
combin'd
,
Make
nature
but
a
copy
of
thy
art
.
Majestic
as
the
eagle
on
the
wing
,
Or
the
young
sky-helm'd
mountain-rooted
tree
;
Pleasing
as
meadows
blushing
with
the
spring
,
Loud
as
the
surges
of
the
Severn
sea
.
In
terror's
strain
,
as
clanging
armies
drear
!
In
love
,
as
Jove
,
too
great
for
mortal
praise
,
In
pity
gentle
as
the
falling
tear
,
In
all
superior
to
my
feeble
lays
.
Black
angers
sudden
rise
,
extatic
pain
,
Tormenting
Jealousy's
self-cank'ring
sting
;
Consuming
Envy
with
her
yelling
train
,
Fraud
closely
shrouded
with
the
turtle's
wing
.
Whatever
passions
gall
the
human
breast
,
Play
in
thy
features
,
and
await
thy
nod
;
In
thee
by
art
,
the
daemon
stands
confest
,
But
nature
on
thy
soul
has
stamp'd
the
god
.
So
just
thy
action
with
thy
part
agrees
,
Each
feature
does
the
office
of
a
tongue
;
Such
is
thy
native
elegance
and
ease
,
By
thee
the
harsh
line
smoothly
glides
along
.
At
thy
feign'd
woe
,
we're
really
distrest
,
At
thy
feign'd
tears
we
let
the
real
fall
;
By
every
judge
of
nature
'tis
confest
,
No
single
part
is
thine
,
thou'rt
all
in
all
.
Bristol
,
July
21
.
D.
B.