The Picture strikes--'tis drawn with won d'rous Art; <br />Well has the Poet play'd the Painter's Part. <br />Tho' 'tis your Glory, yet, my Lord, I own, <br />I grieve the Features fit yourself alone. <br />But know, tho' All agree the Picture's yours, <br />'Tis Steadiness alone your Claim secures. <br />With Pleasure now your Image you furvey; <br />But should you from the Rules of Virtue stray, <br />Should e'er degrading Vice deform your Frame, <br />You'd start, like Io from the crystal Stream. <br /> <br />When Kneller has display'd, with matchless Grace, <br />The fleeting Glories of Clarinda's Face; <br />She sighs, to think how Time will soon devour <br />The lovely Bloom, which gives her now such Pow'r: <br />But yours, a Likeness of a nobler Kind, <br />Displays the deathless Beauties of the Mind: <br />Be it your Glory to surpass the Paint, <br />And make the finish'd Picture look too faint. <br /> <br />Why is he hid, who, with such matchloss Art, <br />Calls forth the Graces that adorn your Heart? <br />True Poets in their deathless Lays should live, <br />And share that Immortality they give.<br /><br />Mary Barber<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-his-excellency-the-lord-carteret/
