The Works, In Verse and Prose, of Leonard Welsted ... Now First Collected. With Historical Notes, And Biographical Memoirs of the Author, by John Nichols |
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THE PORTRAITURE. |
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 | The Works, In Verse and Prose, of Leonard Welsted |  |
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THE PORTRAITURE.
When Titian did in lights and shades disclose
The Nymph he languish'd for, a Venus rose:
He touch'd her beauties, and surpass'd his art;
Beauties which Love had painted on his heart:
Carnation-freshness on her cheek he shed,
And temper'd, as it grew, the kindling red:
Through its fine progress all her shape he trac'd,
Deduc'd in soft proportion to her waist:
With whitest blossoms did her bosom vie:
Her bosom panted to the cheated eye!
The finish'd form, the lovely painted Maid,
To every land the Painter's fame convey'd;
All eyes beheld her beauty with despair,
And pin'd in secret for a fancy'd Fair.
The Nymph he languish'd for, a Venus rose:
He touch'd her beauties, and surpass'd his art;
Beauties which Love had painted on his heart:
Carnation-freshness on her cheek he shed,
And temper'd, as it grew, the kindling red:
Through its fine progress all her shape he trac'd,
Deduc'd in soft proportion to her waist:
With whitest blossoms did her bosom vie:
Her bosom panted to the cheated eye!
The finish'd form, the lovely painted Maid,
To every land the Painter's fame convey'd;
All eyes beheld her beauty with despair,
And pin'd in secret for a fancy'd Fair.
If Poesy on Picture may refine:
Or could I call that Roman's genius mine!
Since one my fate in love, and like my flame,
My art ally'd to his, or near the same:
Thy fame, Zelinda, should unrival'd be,
And Titian's Mistress yield the prize to Thee:
Unfaded should'st thou wear thy youthful prime;
And count, my Love, among thy conquests, Time:
Thy eye's lost lustre should no day upbraid,
Or see thy temples want their golden shade:
Thy smooth soft neck despoil'd no year should show,
Nor age pollute its everlasting snow.
Or could I call that Roman's genius mine!
Since one my fate in love, and like my flame,
My art ally'd to his, or near the same:
Thy fame, Zelinda, should unrival'd be,
And Titian's Mistress yield the prize to Thee:
Unfaded should'st thou wear thy youthful prime;
And count, my Love, among thy conquests, Time:
Thy eye's lost lustre should no day upbraid,
Or see thy temples want their golden shade:
Thy smooth soft neck despoil'd no year should show,
Nor age pollute its everlasting snow.
What lies within the compass of my art,
All that I can, my Charmer, I impart;
Oft strive thy beauties to reveal to sight,
And shew thee in the Muse's shade and light:
Now to thy cheek its blushing stain I give,
And bid the undissembled roses live;
Now imitate thy hand, or veiny wrist;
Now thy white neck reclining to be kiss'd;
Now one, and then by turns another charm;
Thy lip soft-swelling, or thy ivory arm:
At leisure, then the Portrait I review,
And with the copy'd Nymph compare the true:
Oh, with what languor is the work sustain'd!
How does the genuine Maid surpass the feign'd!
How short an abstract is the painted Fair!
How little of th' original is there!
All that I can, my Charmer, I impart;
Oft strive thy beauties to reveal to sight,
And shew thee in the Muse's shade and light:
Now to thy cheek its blushing stain I give,
And bid the undissembled roses live;
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Now thy white neck reclining to be kiss'd;
Now one, and then by turns another charm;
Thy lip soft-swelling, or thy ivory arm:
At leisure, then the Portrait I review,
And with the copy'd Nymph compare the true:
Oh, with what languor is the work sustain'd!
How does the genuine Maid surpass the feign'd!
How short an abstract is the painted Fair!
How little of th' original is there!
Oft as thou sitt'st, sweet-smiling in my eye;
A thousand charms, unfound before, I spy:
A thousand soft results of air and mien,
That 'scap'd the curious sight till now, are seen;
A thousand more lie hid, and wait alone
The seasons and inducements to be shewn:
No hour, but whence its birth some beauty dates,
And scarce a gesture but a grace creates;
Not any passion but restores to view
The dormant beauties, or produces new;
No grief, but every feature does alarm;
No joy, but varies or exalts a charm:
Each added charm into the piece I cast;
Yet ne'er can call the charm, I add, the last:
In vain a single picture strives to trace,
Through every attitude, thy matchless face;
Nor one, but many plans it would require,
To paint thee all, and give the Nymph entire.
A thousand charms, unfound before, I spy:
A thousand soft results of air and mien,
That 'scap'd the curious sight till now, are seen;
A thousand more lie hid, and wait alone
The seasons and inducements to be shewn:
No hour, but whence its birth some beauty dates,
And scarce a gesture but a grace creates;
Not any passion but restores to view
The dormant beauties, or produces new;
No grief, but every feature does alarm;
No joy, but varies or exalts a charm:
Each added charm into the piece I cast;
Yet ne'er can call the charm, I add, the last:
In vain a single picture strives to trace,
Through every attitude, thy matchless face;
Nor one, but many plans it would require,
To paint thee all, and give the Nymph entire.
Thus do I start, and thus pursue my game,
Solicitous to raise thy Beauty's fame:
Nor shall thy Beauty's fame, if I presage
Aright, not last beyond the present age;
Nor shall thy bloom, a fading essence, die,
But charm posterity's admiring eye:
Zelinda was not destin'd to decay,
Or but to reign the Goddess of a day,
Like vulgar Virgins, of an humbler lot,
Prais'd in one age, and in the next forgot!
Solicitous to raise thy Beauty's fame:
Nor shall thy Beauty's fame, if I presage
Aright, not last beyond the present age;
Nor shall thy bloom, a fading essence, die,
But charm posterity's admiring eye:
Zelinda was not destin'd to decay,
Or but to reign the Goddess of a day,
Like vulgar Virgins, of an humbler lot,
Prais'd in one age, and in the next forgot!
| The Works, In Verse and Prose, of Leonard Welsted | |