CANTATA III. The PAINTER

Sweet mimick thou of nature's face, Thy pencil take, thy colour spread; On thy canvas curious trace Every virtue, every grace, That hovers round our WILLIAM's head.

Let Victory before him fly, And Fortitude with stedfast eye; Let Prudence with her mirror haste Studious of future by the past; With Industry in vigour blooming, And Science knowing much, yet less assuming. To group the piece and swell the train With Hydra heads, Rebellion draw, Spouting at ev'ry vein The blood of thousands slain; Thousands too few to glut her rav'nous maw: Paint her panting, sinking, dying, Paint her sons at distance flying. Paint Britannia full of smiles, Scarce recover'd from her toils: Paint Justice ready to avenge her pain, Dragging the Monster in her massy chain: Near her paint Mercy crown'd; soft-smiling let her stand, With arm out-stretch'd to stop her just, determin'd hand.

Cease to declaim, the artist cries, Of ev'ry virtue, ev'ry grace,— See, by degrees the features rise: Behold them all in WILLIAM's face.