TO Sir GODFREY KNELLER, ON HIS PICTURE of the KING.

KNELLER, with silence and surprize
 We see Britannia's Monarch rise,
 A Godlike Form, by Thee display'd
 In all the force of Light and Shade;
 And, Aw'd by thy delusive Hand,
 As in the Presence-chamber stand. 

The Magick of thy Art calls forth
 His Secret Soul and Hidden Worth,
 His Probity and Mildness shows,
 His Care of Friends, and Scorn of Foes:
 In ev'ry Stroke, in ev'ry Line,
 Does some exalted Vertue shine,
 And Albion's Happiness we trace
 Through all the Features of his Face. 

O may I live to hail the Day,
 When the glad Nation shall survey
 Their Sov'reign, through his wide Command,
 Passing in Progress o'er the Land! 
Each Heart shall bend, and ev'ry Voice
 In loud applauding Shouts rejoice,
 Whilst All his Gracious Aspect praise,
 And Crowds grow Loyal as they Gaze. 

This Image on the Medal place'd,
 With its Bright Round of Titles grace'd,
 And Stamp'd on British Coins shall Live;
 To Richest Ores the Value give,
 Or, wrought within the Curious Mould,
 Shape and adorn the Running Gold. 
To bear this Form, the Genial Sun
 Has daily, since his Course begun,
 Rejoice'd the Metal to Refine,
 And Ripen'd the Peruvian Mine. 

Thou, Kneller, long with noble Pride
 (The Foremost of thy Art) ha'st vied
 With Nature in a gen'rous Strife,
 And touch'd the Canvas into Life. 
Thy Pencil has, by Monarchs sought,
 From Reign to Reign in Ermine wrought,
 And, in their Robes of State array'd,
 The Kings of half an Age display'd. 

Here swarthy Charles appears, and there
 His Brother with Dejected Air;
 Triumphant Nassau here we find,
 And with him bright Maria join'd;
 There Anna, Great as when she sent
 Her Armies through the Continent,
 E'er yet her Hero was disgrac't:
 O may fam'd BRUNSWICK be the Last,
 (Though Heav'n shou'd with my Wish agree,
 And long preserve thy Art in Thee)
 The Last, the Happiest British King,
 Whom Thou shalt paint, or I shall sing! 

Wise Phidias, thus his Skill to prove,
 Through many a God advanc'd to Jove,
 And taught the polish'd Rocks to shine
 With Airs and Lineaments divine;
 Till Greece, amaz'd, and half-afraid,
 Th' Assembled Deities survey'd. 

Great Pan, who wont to chase the Fair,
 And lov'd the spreading Oak, was there;
 Old Saturn too with up-cast Eyes
 Beheld his Abdicated Skies;
 And mighty Mars, for War renown'd,
 In Adamantine Armour frown'd;
 By Him the childless Goddess rose,
 Minerva, studious to compose
 Her twisted Threads; the Webb she strung,
 And o'er a Loom of Marble hung:
 Thetis the troubled Ocean's Queen,
 Match'd with a Mortal, next was seen
 (Reclining on a Fun'ral Urn)
 Her short-liv'd Darling Son to Mourn. 
The Last was He, whose Thunder slew
 The Titan-race, a Rebel Crew,
 That from a Hundred Hills, allie'd
 In impious Leagues, their King defie'd. 

This Wonder of the Sculptor's Hand
 Produc'd, his Art was at a stand:
 For who wou'd hope New Fame to raise,
 Or risque his well-establish'd Praise,
 That, his high Genius to approve,
 Had drawn a GEORGE, or carv'd a Jove!