The BEAUTIES.

An EPISTLE to Mr. ECKARDT the PAINTER.

DEsponding artist, talk no more
Of Beauties of the days of yore,
Of Goddesses renown'd in Greece,
And ZEUXIS' composition-piece,
Where every nymph that could at most
Some single grace or feature boast,
Contributed her favourite charm
To perfect the ideal form.
'Twas CYNTHIA'S brow, 'twas LESBIA'S eye,
'Twas CLOE'S cheeks' vermilion dye;
ROXANA lent the noble air,
Dishevell'd flow'd ASPASIA'S hair,
And CUPID much too fondly press'd
His mimick mother THAIS' breast.
Antiquity, how poor thy use!
A single Venus to produce!
Friend Eckardt, ancient story quit,
Nor mind whatever Pliny writ;
Felibien and Fresnoy declaim,
Who talk of Raphael's matchless fame,
Of Titian's tints, Corregio's grace,
And Carlo's each Madonna face,
As if no Beauties now were made,
But Nature had forgot her trade.
'Twas Beauty guided Raphael's line
From heavenly Women, styl'd divine;
They warm'd old Titian's fancy too,
And what he could not taste he drew:
Think you Devotion warm'd his breast
When Carlo with such looks express'd
His virgins, that her vot'ries feel
Emotions — not, I'm sure, of zeal?

In Britian's isle observe the Fair,
And curious chuse your models there;
Such patterns as shall raise your name
To rival sweet Corregio's fame:
Each single piece shall be a test,
And Zeuxis' patchwork be a jest;
Who ransack'd Greece, and cull'd the age
To bring one Goddess on the stage:
On your each convass we'll admire
The charms of the whole heav'nly choir.

Majestick Juno shall be seen
In HARVEY'S glorious aweful mien.
Where FITZROY moves, resplendent Fair;
So warm her bloom, sublime her air;
Her ebon tresses, form'd to grace,
And heighten while they shade her face:
Such troops of martial youth around,
Who court the hand that gives the wound;
'Tis Pallas, Pallas stands confess'd,
Tho' STANHOPE'S more than Paris bless'd.
So CLEVELAND shown in warlike pride,
By Lilly's pencil defy'd:
So GRAFTON, matchless dame, commands
The fairest work of Kneller's hands:
The blood that warm'd each amorous court,
In veins as rich still loves to sport:
And George's age beholds restor'd,
What William boasted, Charles ador'd.

For Venuses the Trojan ne'er
Was half so puzzled to declare:
Ten Queens of Beauty, sure I see!
Yet sure the true is EMILY:
Such majesty of youth and air,
Yet modest as the village fair:
Attracting all, indulging none,
Her beauty like the glorious Sun
Thron'd eminently bright above,
Impartial warms the world to love.

In smiling CAPEL'S beauteous look
Rich Autumn's Goddess is mistook,
With poppies and with spiky corn,
Eckardt, her nut-brown curls adorn;
And by her side, in decent line,
Place charming BERKLEY, Proserpine.
Mild as a summer sea, serene,
In dimpled beauty next be seen,
 AYLESBURY like hoary Neptune's Queen.

With her the light-dispensing Fair,
Whose beauty gilds the morning air,
And bright as her attendant sun,
The new Aurora, LYTTLETON.
Such Guido's pencil beauty-tip'd,
And in ethereal colours dip'd.
In measur'd dance to tuneful song
Drew the sweet Goddess, as along
Heaven's azure 'neath their light feet spread,
The buxom Hours she fairest led.
The crescent on her brow display'd,
In curls of loveliest brown inlaid,
With every charm to rule the night,
Like Dian, STRAFFORD woos the sight;
The easy shape, the piercing eye,
The snowy bosom's purity,
The unaffected gentle phrase
Of native wit in all she says;
Eckardt, for these thy art's too faint:
You may admire, but cannot paint.

How Hebe smil'd, what bloom divine
On the young Goddess lov'd to shine,
From CARPENTER we guess, or see
All-beauteous MANNERS beam for thee.
How pretty Flora, wanton maid,
By Zephyr woo'd in noon-tide shade,
With rosy hand coquetly throwing
Pansies, beneath her sweet touch blowing;
How blithe she look'd let FANNY tell;
Let Zephyr own if half so well.

Another Goddess of the year,
Fair Queen of Summer, see, appear;
Her auburn locks with fruitage crown'd,
Her panting bosom loosely bound,
Ethereal beauty in her face,
Rather the beauties of her race,
Whence ev'ry Goddess, envy smit,
Most own each Stonehouse meets in PITT,

Exhausted all the heav'nly train,
How many Mortals yet remain,
Whose eyes shall try your pencil's art,
And in my numbers claim a part!
Our sister Muses must describe
 CHUDLEIGH, or name her of the tribe;
And JULIANA with the Nine
Shall aid the melancholy line,
To weep her dear Resemblance gone,
Where all these beauties met in One.
Sad fate of beauty! more I see,
Afflicted, lovely family!
Two beauteous Nymphs, here, Painter, place,
Lamenting o'er their sister Grace;
 One, matron-like, with sober grief,
Scarce gives her pious sighs relief;
While other lovely Maid appears
In all the melting pow'r of tears;
The softest form, the gentlest grace,
The sweetest harmony of face;
Her snowy limbs, and artless move
Contending with the Queen of Love,
While bashful Beauty shuns the prize,
Which EMILY might yield to EVELYN'S eyes.