And in his numbers bade thy memory live; 490 Gave thee those soft sensations which might move And warm the coldest anchorite to love; Gave thee that virtue, which could curb desire, Refine and consecrate love's headstrong fire; Gave thee those griefs, which made the Stoic feel, And call'd compassion forth from hearts of steel; Gave thee that firmness, which our sex may shame, And make man bow to woman's juster claim; So that our tears, which from compassion flow, Seem to debase thy dignity of woe. 500 But, oh, how much unlike! how fallen! how changed! How much from Nature and herself estranged! How totally deprived of all the powers To show her feelings, and awaken ours, Doth Sigismunda now devoted stand, The helpless victim of a dauber's hand! But why, my Hogarth, such a progress made, So rare a pattern for the sign-post trade, In the full force and whirlwind of thy pride, Why was heroic painting laid aside? 510 Why is it not resumed? thy friends at court, Men all in place and power, crave thy support; Be grateful then for once, and through the field Of politics thy epic pencil wield; Maintain the cause, which they, good lack! avow, And would maintain too, but they know not how. Through every pannel let thy virtue tell How Bute prevail'd, how Pitt and Temple fell; How England's sons (whom they conspired to bless. Against our will, with insolent success) 520 Approve their fall, and with addresses run-- How got, God knows--to hail the Scottish sun;[131] Point out our fame in war, when vengeance, hurl'd From the strong arm of Justice, shook the world; Thine, and thy country's honour to increase, Point out the honours of succeeding peace; Our moderation, Christian-like, display, Show what we got, and what we gave away; In colours, dull and heavy as the tale, Let a state-chaos through the whole prevail. 530 But, of events regardless, whilst the Muse, Perhaps with too much heat, her theme pursues; Whilst her quick spirits rouse at Freedom's call, And every drop of blood is turn'd to gall; Whilst a dear country, and an injured friend, Urge my strong anger to the bitterest end; Whilst honest trophies to Revenge are raised, Let not one real virtue pass unpraised; Justice with equal course bids Satire flow, And loves the virtue of her greatest foe. 540 Oh! that I here could that rare virtue mean, Which scorns the rule of envy, pride, and spleen, Which springs not from the labour'd works of art, But hath its rise from Nature in the heart; Which in itself with happiness is crown'd, And spreads with joy the blessing all around! But truth forbids, and in these simple lays, Contented with a different kind of praise, Must Hogarth stand; that praise which Genius gives, In which to latest time the artist lives, 550 But not the man; which, rightly understood,