Thus stand the Lictors gazing on a Deed,
Which do's all humane Chastisements exceed;
Enfeebl'd seem their Instruments of smart,
When keener Words can swifter Ills impart.
Thou, Barnabas, though Last, not least our Care,
Seem'st equally employ'd in Praise, and Prayer,
Acknowledging th' Omnipotent Decree,
Yet soft Compassion in thy Face we see:
Whilst lifted Hands implore a kind Relief, 100
Tho' no Impatience animates thy Grief;
But mild Suspence and Charity benign,
Do all th' excesses of thy Looks confine.
Thus far, our slow Imagination goes:
Wou'd the more skill'd Theanor his disclose;
Expand the Scene, and open to our Sight
What to his nicer Judgment gives Delight ;
Whose soaring Mind do's to Perfections climb,
Nor owns a Relish, but for Things sublime :
Then, wou'd the Piece fresh Beauties still present, 110
Nor Length of Time wou'd leave the Eye content:
As moments, Hours; as Hours the Days wou'd seem,
Observing here, taught to observe by Him.
GLASS
O Man! what Inspiration was thy Guide,
Who taught thee Light and Air thus to divide;
To let in all the useful Beams of Day,
Yet force, as subtil Winds, without thy Shash to stay ;
T' extract from Embers by a strange Device,
Then polish fair these Flakes of solid Ice ;
Which, silver'd o'er, redouble all in place,
And give thee back thy well or ill-complexion'd Face.
