Melody VII. on the Painting of Poesy

Fair is the star whose golden light Declares the coming day; Fair is the moon's serenest ray That decks the realm of night; Of beauty and of life the sire How fair, O sun, thy sovereign fire! Yet fairer to the mental gaze The sacred song's unrivalled blaze.

O Poesy, enchanting maid! Again I seek thy shrine; Again confess thy power divine, Again implore thy aid. Thy shrine, where rich in varied airs Her harp sweet Harmony prepares; And Fancy waves her magic wand, That lulls the soul in visions bland.

In all her pride tho' beauteous Spring appear, Of brightest tint with many a gem Yet can thy skill adorn her diadem, And with new music bless the ear: To Summer's train can added graces bring, And o'er her bower ethereal roses fling: To Autumn's field far richer stores impart, And teach even Winter's storms to sooth the heart.

Can, Picture, all thy living hues, Can all thy art attire In equal pomp the fairy choir That wait the pensive Muse; When all obedient to her spell, The fluttering idols crowd her cell, Succinct with eager speed to fill The mandates of her mighty will?

The sacred song o'er Virtue's path The blooms of joy can spread, Then crown her pupil's favoured head With Fame's immortal wreath. How many a clime, how many an age May Wisdom reap from Shakespeare's page, Led by his ethic scene to scan The various heart of various man!

Informed with being, tho' the colours rise Beneath the pencil's warmest power, Yet soon, alas, arrives the fatal hour That banishes the fading dyes. But Night resuming her primeval sway, Shall ever hide the golden orb of day, Ere cease the wondering nations to inquire Who Ilium sung? Who tuned the Theban lyre?