The Works of Richard Owen Cambridge Including several pieces never before published: with an account of his life and character, by his son, George Owen Cambridge |
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ON PAINTING;
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 | The Works of Richard Owen Cambridge |  |
323
ON PAINTING;
ADDRESSED TO Mr. PATCH, A CELEBRATED PICTURE CLEANER.
THY pen in haste, Thalia, snatch,To sing of Titian and Carach,—
Bassan, and Tintoret—and Patch.
'Tis Exeter demands the strain;
Shall Burleigh's master ask in vain?
Burleigh, the place where every Muse
Her favourite elegance may chuse.
For there the Romans and Venetians
Display a shew, which all the Grecians,
Whate'er ingenious Webb may say,—
Could ne'er have equall'd in their day.
Protogenes and famed Apelles—
The story well enough to tell is,
How one could colour, t'other draw—
But were their colours warm or raw?
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Except the historian and the poet.
And shall we trust that wanton tribe
Who all, with fancy's pen describe.
No Patch.—but had thy healing hand
Been present in Achaia's land,
Their art divine had now been known,
Their tints in all their lustre shone.
Honours divine you must have shared,
A mortal with the gods compared.
Did Grecian god or Romish saint
E'er match the wonders of thy paint?
In miracles you far excel 'em.—
How shall the Muse attempt to tell 'em?
When human forms displease your taste,
Ill drawn, ill colour'd, or ill placed;
Or when unskilful hand has hurt 'em,
To rock or fountain you convert 'em—
Make Niobe marble, Battus touchstone,
(Salvator never painted such stone)
Or change, like Jove, to bull or swan,
Ill moulded horse or graceless man.
Turn we from poets to the church?
You leave all fiction in the lurch,
Tho' beads and reliques oft have fail'd,
Your pencil ever has prevail'd.
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Oft in effect has proved precarious;
Nor has the thundering mountain stopt
Its lava, tho' his blood has dropt.
But you at once can make it still,
Or run on either side the hill.
Your art miraculous the same,
Administer'd to blind or lame.
You cure the darkest drop serene:
Give eyes to see and to be seen.
Heal the poor martyr flay'd and rackt,
Shrivel'd and scorcht, and torn and hackt.
Restore the decollated head,
Revive the dying and the dead.
Your charity you ne'er withhold
From bodies naked, raw or cold;
And when you find an arm or shape awry,
Hide the defect with flowing drapery.
When wanton Eve and carnal Adam,
Drunk with that fruit their God forbad 'em,
Lie at their length, in fond embraces,
With bodies naked as their faces,
You cover Adam's limbs and Eve's
With thick festoons of flowers and leaves;
So draw the eyes of every prude,
To weep the children in the wood.
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Bent to disclose his father's shame;
And, spite of modest Shem and Japhet,
Persist the boozy sire to laugh at,
You aid the pious brother's cares:
Your delicacy suits with theirs.
So when each over-curious elder,
(As if to look for Hans-en-kelder)
Tugs hard, with trembling hand, to lift
The folds of chaste Susanna's shift;
If Time, whose trick is to discover,
As much as any tatling lover,
Should make a third with these unfolders,
And leave her bare to all beholders;
A veil, by your propitious art,
White and unspotted as her heart,
O'er the much-injured matron hung,
Shall shield her from the censuring tongue.
Alcides's ill-directed wife,
Gave him a shirt, which cost his life:
You gave his Omphale a shift,
Which proves a better-fated gift,
It sits so gracefully upon her,
And recommends her to his Honour .
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From dull obscurity to raise,
From all those evils that assault 'em,
From gums, from oils, from deadly spaltum;
And give to works almost divine,
Once more in native tints to shine.
Then I, like Newton's bard, may write,
Patch waved his brush, and all was light.
| The Works of Richard Owen Cambridge | |