Poetics Or, a series of poems, and disquisitions on poetry. By George Dyer |
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| XV. | ODE XV. TO A MINIATURE PAINTER,
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 | Poetics |  |
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ODE XV. TO A MINIATURE PAINTER,
ON HER TAKING THE CORRECT LIKENESSES OF TWO ESTEEMED FRIENDS.
Artist, think not I lightly prize,
Tho' you may call it small, the art,
Which gives to life the light of Annette's eyes,
Which shews so well the language of her heart.
Tho' you may call it small, the art,
Which gives to life the light of Annette's eyes,
Which shews so well the language of her heart.
Think not, but that I must admire,
The touch so soft, the skill so true,
Which gives to her a lover's soul of fire,
That sets to me a friend so full in view.
The touch so soft, the skill so true,
Which gives to her a lover's soul of fire,
That sets to me a friend so full in view.
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The eye, which speaks the soul divine,
The face, which shews the nobler mind,
As on the mirror living objects shine,
In earth or heavens, what beams there so refin'd?
The face, which shews the nobler mind,
As on the mirror living objects shine,
In earth or heavens, what beams there so refin'd?
And can thy colors copy these,
And teach them how to reach the heart?
Then shall not gentle Betham fail to please,
Nor I to prize as great, her pleasing art.
And teach them how to reach the heart?
Then shall not gentle Betham fail to please,
Nor I to prize as great, her pleasing art.
Why do we hail yon orb of day,
But that we feel its ardors glow?
And that, while spreading wide its vivid ray,
It adds, with light, new life to all below?
But that we feel its ardors glow?
And that, while spreading wide its vivid ray,
It adds, with light, new life to all below?
Go then, fair friend, with genius blest,
Still give with care each fleeting grace;
And all the finer movements of the breast,
Shew us with colors on the magic face.
Still give with care each fleeting grace;
And all the finer movements of the breast,
Shew us with colors on the magic face.
Bid all the mother rise to view,
The silent smile, the fond caress,
The glow of soul romantic, yet so true,
That something, which no mother can express.
The silent smile, the fond caress,
The glow of soul romantic, yet so true,
That something, which no mother can express.
Paint us the sire, like him of Troy,
With care, but more with love opprest;
And paint their fondest hopes, their infant boy,
Close-clinging to its mother's beating breast.
With care, but more with love opprest;
And paint their fondest hopes, their infant boy,
Close-clinging to its mother's beating breast.
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Paint, for you can, the patriot youth,
Whose mind direct no arts can move;
And, in some female face, unalter'd Truth,
And virgin Innocence, and artless Love.
Whose mind direct no arts can move;
And, in some female face, unalter'd Truth,
And virgin Innocence, and artless Love.
Paint, for you can, the brow of thought,
The open front, the eye of fire,
As tho' some sage his weightiest precept taught,
Or poet, rapt in visions, struck the lyre.
The open front, the eye of fire,
As tho' some sage his weightiest precept taught,
Or poet, rapt in visions, struck the lyre.
Paint us the hero, all on flame,
Ardent thro' life, and brave in death,
As tho' his country's love, no empty name,
Could but expire with his last heaving breath.
Ardent thro' life, and brave in death,
As tho' his country's love, no empty name,
Could but expire with his last heaving breath.
So when, at length, our friends may die,
And Death—how near he takes his stand!
Tho' to the grave we bear them with a sigh,
Still shall they live by Betham's skilful hand.
And Death—how near he takes his stand!
Tho' to the grave we bear them with a sigh,
Still shall they live by Betham's skilful hand.
| Poetics | |