Nor think the Muse by SATIRE'S law confin'd:
She yields description of the noblest kind,
Inferior art the landskip may design,
And paint the purple evening in the line:
Her daring thought essays a higher plan;
Her hand delineates passion, pictures man.
And great the toil, the latent soul to trace,
To paint the heart, and catch internal grace;
By turns bid vice or virtue strike our eyes,
Now bid a  or a  rise;
Now with a touch more sacred and refin'd,
Call forth a CHESTERFIELD'S or LONSDALE'S mind.
Here sweet or strong may ev'ry colour flow,
Here let the pencil warm, the canvass glow:
Of light and shade provoke the noble strife,
And wake each striking feature into life.