The Poetical Works of Laman Blanchard With a Memoir by Blanchard Jerrold |
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| XX. |
| XXI. |
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| III. | IIITHE CRITICISMS OF THE SITTERS—THE MORAL. |
 | The Poetical Works of Laman Blanchard |  |
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III
THE CRITICISMS OF THE SITTERS—THE MORAL.
‘Can this be me! do look, mamma!’
Poor Jane begins to whimper;
‘I have a smile, 'tis true;—but, pa!
This gives me quite a simper.’
Poor Jane begins to whimper;
‘I have a smile, 'tis true;—but, pa!
This gives me quite a simper.’
Says Tibb, whose plays are worse than bad,
‘It makes my forehead flat:’
And being classical, he'll add,
‘I'm blowed if I'm like that,’
‘It makes my forehead flat:’
And being classical, he'll add,
‘I'm blowed if I'm like that,’
Courtly, all candour, owns his portrait true;
'Oh, yes, it's like; yes, very; it will do.
Extremely like me—every feature—but
That plain pug-nose; now mine's the Grecian cut!
'Oh, yes, it's like; yes, very; it will do.
Extremely like me—every feature—but
That plain pug-nose; now mine's the Grecian cut!
Her Grace surveys her face with drooping lid;
Prefers the portrait which Sir Thomas did;
Owns that o'er this some traits of truth are sprinkled;
But views the brow with anger-‘Why, it's wrinkled!’
‘Like me!’ cries Sir Turtle; ‘I'll lay two to one
It would only be guessed by my foes;
No, no, it is plain there are spots in the sun,
Which accounts for these spots on my nose.’
‘A likeness!’ cries Crosslook, the lawyer, and sneers;
‘Yes, the wig, throat, and forehead I spy,
And the mouth, chin, and cheeks, and the nose and the ears,
But it gives me a cast in the eye!’
Prefers the portrait which Sir Thomas did;
Owns that o'er this some traits of truth are sprinkled;
But views the brow with anger-‘Why, it's wrinkled!’
‘Like me!’ cries Sir Turtle; ‘I'll lay two to one
It would only be guessed by my foes;
No, no, it is plain there are spots in the sun,
Which accounts for these spots on my nose.’
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‘Yes, the wig, throat, and forehead I spy,
And the mouth, chin, and cheeks, and the nose and the ears,
But it gives me a cast in the eye!’
Thus needs it the courage of old Cousin Hotspur,
To sit to an artist who flatters no sitter;
Yet self-love will urge us to seek him, for what spur
So potent as that, though it make the truth bitter!
And thus are all flocking, to see Phœbus mocking,
Or making queer faces, a visage per minute;
And truly 'tis shocking, if winds should be rocking,
The building, or clouds darken all that's within it,
To witness the frights
Which shadows and lights
Manufacture, as like as an owl to a linnet.
For there, while you sit up,
Your countenance lit up,
The mists fly across, a magnificent rack;
And your portrait's a patch with its bright and its black,
Out-Rembrandting Rembrandt, in ludicrous woe,
Like a chimney-sweep caught in a shower of snow.
Yet nothing can keep the crowd below,
And still they mount up stair by stair;
And every morn, by the hurry and hum,
Each seeking a prize in the lottery there
You fancy the ‘last day of drawing’ has come.
To sit to an artist who flatters no sitter;
Yet self-love will urge us to seek him, for what spur
So potent as that, though it make the truth bitter!
And thus are all flocking, to see Phœbus mocking,
Or making queer faces, a visage per minute;
And truly 'tis shocking, if winds should be rocking,
The building, or clouds darken all that's within it,
To witness the frights
Which shadows and lights
Manufacture, as like as an owl to a linnet.
For there, while you sit up,
Your countenance lit up,
The mists fly across, a magnificent rack;
And your portrait's a patch with its bright and its black,
Out-Rembrandting Rembrandt, in ludicrous woe,
Like a chimney-sweep caught in a shower of snow.
Yet nothing can keep the crowd below,
And still they mount up stair by stair;
And every morn, by the hurry and hum,
Each seeking a prize in the lottery there
You fancy the ‘last day of drawing’ has come.
| The Poetical Works of Laman Blanchard | |