Where---by th' Historick pencil's aid Whose ages are at once display'd--- Some great event of Rome or Greece Fills perhaps each high wrought piece--- There---some triumphal pomp proceeds--- There---th' impetuous battle bleeds--- Mark! while they engage What ardor what rage, 40 How shields are clash'd with shields--- And with what force up-rais'd in air, Each warrior brawny arm stript bare, Darts th' keen spear, or glittering faulchion wields, And while it aims the stroke, or while repels, How justly each inflated muscle swells---- VI. With the same noble warmth imprest, As with his Lord the gallant beast Was eager to acquire a name, And combated like him for fame, 50 See the generous steed Fierce as CIRCE's high breed Which she stole from her bright-flaming fire, While he springs on the foe, Like the shaft from the bow, Scarce imprint the trod ground; But curvet and bound As if drawn by a pencil of fire---- VII. But what endless length of verse Can suffice me to rehearse 60 Th' enliven'd action of the whole? Squadrons this way, that way bending, The depicted forms contending As instinct with real foul---- VIII. Nay---minutely to describe The varied helm, peculiar shield, The different aspect of each tribe Which animates th' embattled field, Would ask the compass of an age, To mark the whole---must drawl along 70 The tedious circumstantial song, And haply languish through the thousandth page--- IX. But rapidly by Painting's aid Is this intelligence convey'd; E'en in a single moment's space We see th' extensive plan unfold, Omitted not one trifling grace, In full the complex tale is told; The grand exploits of half an Iliad rise, And flash at once on our astonish'd eyes---- 80 X. Nor serves this sweet instructive art T' inform the intellect alone, But often melts th' obdurate heart And wakes it's paenitential groan--- For when in some great Master's draught, With genius as with judgement fraught, Nail'd haply to th' accursed tree, On his tenter'd wounds suspended, Every nerve with torture rended, Th' agonizing GOD we see--- 90 Supported by her weeping train While the dolorous mother stands With anguish'd features, writhen hands, Expressing e'en superior pain; Who but must mingle in this scene of woe, What breast can cease to heave, what eye forbear to flow? XI.