To S. M. a young African Painter, on seeing his Works

TO show the lab'ring bosom's deep intent,And thought in living characters to paint,When first thy pencil did those beauties give,And breathing figures learnt from thee to live,How did those prospects give my soul delight,A new creation rushing on my sight?Still, wond'rous youth! each noble path pursue,On deathless glories fix thine ardent view:Still may the painter's and the poet's fireTo aid thy pencil, and thy verse conspire!And may the charms of each seraphic themeConduct thy footsteps to immortal fame!High to the blissful wonders of the skiesElate thy soul, and raise thy wishful eyes.Thrice happy, when exalted to surveyThat splendid city, crown'd with endless day,Whose twice six gates on radiant hinges ring:Celestial Salem blooms in endless spring.Calm and serene thy moments glide along,And may the muse inspire each future song!Still, with the sweets of contemplation bless'd,May peace with balmy wings your soul invest!But when these shades of time are chas'd away,And darkness ends in everlasting day,On what seraphic pinions shall we move,And view the landscapes in the realms above?There shall thy tongue in heav'nly murmurs flow,And there my muse with heav'nly transport glow:No more to tell of Damon's tender sighs,Or rising radiance of Aurora's eyes,For nobler themes demand a nobler strain,And purer language on th' ethereal plain.Cease, gentle muse! the solemn gloom of nightNow seals the fair creation from my sight.

ALL-Conquering Death! by thy resistless pow'r,Hope's tow'ring plumage falls to rise no more!Of scenes terrestrial how the glories fly,Forget their splendors, and submit to die!Who ere escap'd thee, but the saint * of oldBeyond the flood in sacred annals told,And the great sage, + whom fiery coursers drewTo heav'n's bright portals from Elisha's view;Wond'ring he gaz'd at the refulgent car,Then snatch'd the mantle floating on the air.From Death these only could exemption boast,And without dying gain'd th' immortal coast.Not falling millions sate the tyrant's mind,Nor can the victor's progress be confin'd.But cease thy strife with Death, fond Nature, cease:He leads the virtuous to the realms of peace;

His to conduct to the immortal plains,Where heav'n's Supreme in bliss and glory reigns.There sits, illustrious Sir, thy beauteous spouse;A gem-blaz'd circle beaming on her brows.Hail'd with acclaim among the heav'nly choirs,Her soul new-kindling with seraphic fires,To notes divine she tunes the vocal strings,While heav'n's high concave with the music rings.Virtue's rewards can mortal pencil paint?No--all descriptive arts, and eloquence are faint;Nor canst thou, Oliver, assent refuseTo heav'nly tidings from the Afric muse.As soon may change thy laws, eternal fate,As the saint miss the glories I relate;Or her Benevolence forgotten lie,Which wip'd the trick'ling tear from Misry's eye.Whene'er the adverse winds were known to blow,When loss to loss * ensu'd, and woe to woe,Calm and serene beneath her father's handShe sat resign'd to the divine command.No longer then, great Sir, her death deplore,And let us hear the mournful sigh no more,Restrain the sorrow streaming from thine eye,Be all thy future moments crown'd with joy!Nor let thy wishes be to earth confin'd,But soaring high pursue th' unbodied mind.Forgive the muse, forgive th' advent'rous lays,That fain thy soul to heav'nly scenes would raise.