"Twas thine to decorate the gorgeous scene,
Where Arts were proud to aid the Carian queen.
Richly fhe rais'd, for widow'd love's relief,
The grand memorial of imperial grief,
The Mausoleum, whofe immortal name
Records her forrow, and preferves her fame.
Of feelings exquifite, to fondness prone,
And pleas'd to make peculiar praise thy own,
Praxiteles! the power that sway'd thee most,
Made it thy joy, thy privilege, thy boast,
To fee coy Beauty own thy kind control,
And show each foft emotion of her foul;
While breathing stone accomplish'd thy behest,
And every charm of tender grace express'd;
Till thy fine Work fuch perfect life display'd,
Venus with pride her marble self survey'd.
Enchanting artist! whose warm heart was seen
Devoting all thy skill to Beauty's queen!
'Twas not thy fate to serve a thankless power;
Her smile is gratitude, delight her dower.
Love, her young darling, thy dear Art carefs'd,
Child of thy genius, fovereign of thy breast!
Thy sportive patronefs to thy embrace
Confign'd the fairest of her Grecian race,
Whose wit to beauty could new charms impart,
Pleas'd to infpirit and reward thy art.
This playful fair would fecret knowledge seek,
Which her unboafting friend declin'd to speak:
She wish'd to know (a wish in vain exprefs'd)
Which of his happy works he deem'd the best:
The best is hers, if she the best will choose,
But felf-applause his modeft lips refuse,
A subtle fiction aids her ftrong defire :
"Praxiteles! thy gallery's on fire !"
With fear well feign'd the fond enthusiast cries.
Quick, in alarm, the man of art replies:
"Oh, angry Vulcan ! mar each meaner shape,
"But let my Cupid and my Faun escape !”
The smiling fair relieves him in a trice,
And Cupid, foon her own, repays the fond device *.
Of fterner spirit, and with bold defign, Toiling in two congenial arts to fhine,
With energetic truth Euphranor wrought
The forceful features of heroic thought;
And ere the youth a vanquish'd world o'errun,
In glory's car he feated Philip's fon *.
Hail to that graceful youth! whofe fervid mind
Feeling and tafte in early life refin'd;
Who on the foul of cherish'd art impress'd
That zeal for glory which his own confefs'd!
Let the ftern fage chastise with Reason's rod,
Ambition's victim, and Delirium's god,
More pleafing duties to the bard belong,
While tracing Sculpture's march in moral song.
Honour's just tribute to the prince he pays,
Who view'd her beauty with a lover's gaze;
And nobly fav'd it from a quick decline
By liberal care, and bounty's warmth benign:
Who bade her favourite fon his power surpass,
And call to life in fame-conferring brass
(A work, where Gratitude with glory blends!) His guardian group, his felf-devoted friends.
Proud of the victor's praife, and pleas'd to aid
A hero's spirit by affection sway'd,
With fuch enchanting skill Lyfippus' hand
Rais'd to diftinction this devoted band,
That as each Macedon their forms beheld,
With kindred fire each martial bofom fwell'd;
Each for their lot would gladly yield his breath,
And deem their honor cheaply bought by death.
How bleft, Lyfippus! was thy fignal fate,
Whofe genius found all graces in the great!
Nature and Fortune feem'd for thee to blend,
In one bright form, the model, patron, friend.
His taste enlighten'd whom his power sustain’d,
And in the fculptor's heart the hero reign'd.
Hence, for thy godlike Ammon 'twas thy praise
Each varying semblance of his form to raise;
Marking of changeful life the gradual course,
From childhood's tenderness to manhood's force;
And these appropriate images to fill
With fuch felicity of latent skill
As labour, led by love alone, can find,
By love, the offspring of a grateful mind.
Ever, Lyfippus! be thy name rever'd,
By moral dignity of mind endear'd!
Glory, well-pleas'd, thy double worth beheld,
The matchless artist by the man excell'd;
Thy upright spirit, firm in manly sense,
Scorning to favour impious Pride's pretence,
Reprov'd thy friend Apelles, that he ftrove
To lavish lightning on a fancied Jove;
And to thy ftatue, rationally grand,
Gave the just weapon of a hero's hand.
Thy taste ador'd, with Virtue's temperate flame,
Truth, as the fountain both of art and fame;
Yet no ill-founded rule, no fervile fear,
Chain'd thy free mind in Fancy's fav'rite sphere.
Thy dauntless thought, proportion for its guide,
From life's trite field each brave excurfion tried:
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