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Lettered inside image: "40 | By mortal hand--it merits a divine: | *Angels should paint it, angels over there; | There on a post of honour, and of joy. | Dare I presume then? but PHILANDER bids, | And glory tempts, and inclination calls: | Yet am I struck; as struck the soul beneath | Aerial groves' impenetrable gloom; | Or in some mighty ruin's solemn shade; | Or gazing by pale lamps on high-born dust | In vaults; thin courts of poor unflatter'd kings! | Or at the midnight altar's hallow'd flame: | It is religion to proceed: I pause-- | And enter, awed, the temple of my theme: | Is it his death-bed? no--it is his shrine: | Behold him, there, just rising to a god. | The chamber, where the good man meets his fate, | Is privileged beyond the common walk | Of virtuous life, quite in the verge of heaven. | Fly, ye profane! if not, draw near with awe, | Receive the blessing, and adore the chance | That threw in this Bethesda your disease; | If unrestored by this, despair your cure: | For here resistless demonstration dwells; | A death-bed's a detector of the heart; | Here tired dissimulation drops her mask, | Through life's grimace that mistress of the scene! | Here real and apparent are the same-- | You see the man; you see his hold on heaven; | If sound his virtue, as PHILANDER'S sound. | Heaven waits not the last moment; owns her friends"; lower left: "inv & s | WB"; lower left: "London, Pubd. Jan: 4, 1797. by R. Edwards. 142 New Bond Street."