ODE VI.
Peter flattereth Mr. Mason Chamberlin—and that
most brilliant Landscape Painter, Mr. Loutherbourgh
—Peter admireth, praiseth, and consoleth
the English Claude, Wilson.
Thy portraits, Chamberlin, may be
A likeness, far as I can see;
But, faith! I cannot praise a single feature:
Yet, when it so shall please the Lord,
To make his people out of board,
Thy pictures will be tolerable nature.
And Loutherbourgh, when Heav'n so wills
To make brass skies, and golden hills,
With marble bullocks in glass pastures grazing;
Thy reputation too will rise,
And people, gaping with surprise,
Cry, ‘Monsieur Loutherbourgh is most amazing!’
But thou must wait for that event;
Perhaps the change is never meant—
Till then, with me, thy pencil will not shine:
Till then, old red-nos'd Wilson's art
Will hold its empire o'er my heart,
By Britain left in poverty to pine.
But, honest Wilson, never mind;
Immortal praises thou shalt find,
And for a dinner have no cause to fear.
Thou start'st at my prophetic rhimes:
Don't be impatient for those times;
Wait till thou hast been dead a hundred year.
