O true descendant of a patriot line,
  Who, while thou shar’st their lustre, lend’st them thine! 
  Vouchsafe this picture of thy soul to see;
  ’Tis so far good, as it resembles thee: 
  The beauties to the original I owe;
  Which when I miss, my own defects I show:  200
  Nor think the kindred Muses thy disgrace: 
  A poet is not born in every race. 
  Two of a house few ages can afford;
  One to perform, another to record. 
  Praiseworthy actions are by thee embraced;
  And ’tis my praise, to make thy praises last. 
  For even when death dissolves our human frame,
  The soul returns to heaven from whence it came;
  Earth keeps the body—­verse preserves the fame.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES: 

[Footnote 24:  ‘John Dryden:’  this poem was written in 1699; the person to whom it is addressed was cousin-german to the poet, and a younger brother of the baronet.  He repaid this poem by a ‘noble present’ to his kinsman.]

[Footnote 25:  ‘Rebecca’s heir:’  he inherited his mother’s fortune.]

[Footnote 26:  ‘Gibbons:’  Dr Gibbons, physician.]

[Footnote 27:  ‘Maurus:’  Sir Richard Blackmore.]

[Footnote 28:  ‘Milbourn:’  the foe of Dryden’s ‘Virgil,’ and a clergyman.]

[Footnote 29:  ‘Garth:’  author of ‘The Dispensary.’]

[Footnote 30:  ‘Namur subdued:’  in 1695, King William took Namur, after a siege of one month.]

[Footnote 31:  ‘Treaty:’  the treaty of Ryswick, concluded in September 1697.]

* * * * *

EPISTLE XIV.[32]

TO SIR GODFREY KNELLER, PRINCIPAL PAINTER TO HIS MAJESTY.

  Once I beheld the fairest of her kind,
  And still the sweet idea charms my mind: 
  True, she was dumb; for Nature gazed so long,
  Pleased with her work, that she forgot her tongue;
  But, smiling, said, She still shall gain the prize;
  I only have transferr’d it to her eyes. 
  Such are thy pictures, Kneller:  such thy skill,
  That Nature seems obedient to thy will;
  Comes out and meets thy pencil in the draught;
  Lives there, and wants but words to speak her thought. 10
  At least thy pictures look a voice; and we
  Imagine sounds, deceived to that degree,
  We think ’tis somewhat more than just to see.

    Shadows are but privations of the light;
  Yet, when we walk, they shoot before the sight;
  With us approach, retire, arise, and fall;
  Nothing themselves, and yet expressing all. 
  Such are thy pieces, imitating life
  So near, they almost conquer in the strife;
  And from their animated canvas came, 20
  Demanding souls, and loosen’d from the frame.