Nor serves this sweet instructive art

T’ inform the intellect alone,

But often melts th’ obdurate heart

And wakes it’s pænitential 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,

90 Th’ agonizing God we see---

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?