The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] ... With a Copious Index. To which is prefixed Some Account of his Life. In Four Volumes |
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 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
82
ODE XVI.
The classic Peter adviseth Painters to cultivate Taste—Lasheth some of the Ignorant—Accuseth Painters of an affection for Vulgarity, whom he horse-whippeth—Recommendeth a charming Subject—Telleth the Secret of his Love, and giveth a die-away Sonnet of former Days—Persecuteth Tenier's Devils, but applaudeth the Execution.
Painters, improve your education;
That surely stands in need of reformation.
I've heard that some can neither write nor read,
Which does no honour to the hand or head.
That surely stands in need of reformation.
I've heard that some can neither write nor read,
Which does no honour to the hand or head.
Many, I know, would rather paint a bear,
Or monkey playing his quaint tricks,
Than some sweet damsel, whom all hearts revere,
Would rather see a stump with strength express'd,
Than all the snowy fulness of her breast,
Or lip, that innocence so sweetly moves,
Or smile, the fond Elysium of the loves.
This brings those days to mem'ry, when my tongue
To Cynthia's beauty pour'd my soul in song;
When, on the margin of the murm'ring stream,
My fancy frequent form'd the golden dream
Of Cynthia's grace—of Cynthia's smiles divine,
And made those smiles and peerless beauty mine.
Or monkey playing his quaint tricks,
Than some sweet damsel, whom all hearts revere,
Would rather see a stump with strength express'd,
Than all the snowy fulness of her breast,
Or lip, that innocence so sweetly moves,
Or smile, the fond Elysium of the loves.
This brings those days to mem'ry, when my tongue
To Cynthia's beauty pour'd my soul in song;
When, on the margin of the murm'ring stream,
My fancy frequent form'd the golden dream
Of Cynthia's grace—of Cynthia's smiles divine,
And made those smiles and peerless beauty mine.
It brings to mem'ry too, those dismal times,
When nought my sighs avail'd, and nought my rhimes;
When at the silent, solemn close of day,
My pensive steps would court the darkling grove,
To hear, in Philomela's lonely lay,
The fainting echoes of my luckless love;
Till night's increasing shades around me stole,
And mingled with the gloom that wrapp'd my soul.
When nought my sighs avail'd, and nought my rhimes;
When at the silent, solemn close of day,
My pensive steps would court the darkling grove,
To hear, in Philomela's lonely lay,
The fainting echoes of my luckless love;
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And mingled with the gloom that wrapp'd my soul.
Reader—dost choose a sonnet of those days?
Take it—and say not I'm a foe to praise.
Take it—and say not I'm a foe to praise.
TO CYNTHIA.
O Thou! whose love-inspiring air
Delights, yet gives a thousand woes;
My day declines in dark despair,
And night hath lost her sweet repose;
Delights, yet gives a thousand woes;
My day declines in dark despair,
And night hath lost her sweet repose;
Yet who, alas! like me was blest
To others e'er thy charms were known;
When fancy told my raptur'd breast,
That Cynthia smil'd on me alone?
To others e'er thy charms were known;
When fancy told my raptur'd breast,
That Cynthia smil'd on me alone?
Nymph of my soul! forgive my sighs:
Forgive the jealous fires I feel;
Nor blame the trembling wretch, who dies
When others to thy beauties kneel.
Forgive the jealous fires I feel;
Nor blame the trembling wretch, who dies
When others to thy beauties kneel.
Lo! theirs is every winning art,
With fortune's gifts unknown to me!
I only boast a simple heart,
In love with innocence and thee.
With fortune's gifts unknown to me!
I only boast a simple heart,
In love with innocence and thee.
Build not, alas! your popularity
On that beast's back yclep'd vulgarity;
A beast that many a booby takes a pride in—
A beast beneath the noble Peter's riding.
On that beast's back yclep'd vulgarity;
A beast that many a booby takes a pride in—
A beast beneath the noble Peter's riding.
How should the man who loves to be unchaste,
To feed on carrion dread his hound-like paunch,
Judge of an ortolan's delicious taste,
Or feel the flavour of a fine fat haunch?
Or, wont with bitter purl to wet his clay,
How should he judge of claret or tokay?
To feed on carrion dread his hound-like paunch,
Judge of an ortolan's delicious taste,
Or feel the flavour of a fine fat haunch?
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How should he judge of claret or tokay?
Teniers's devils, witches, monkeys, toads,
That make me shudder whilst I pen these Odes,
Most truly painted, to be pure, you'll find:—
How greater far the excellence, to paint
With heaven-directed eye, the beauteous saint,
And mark th' emotions of her angel-mind!
Envy not such as have in dirt surpast ye;—
'Tis very, very easy to be nasty!
That make me shudder whilst I pen these Odes,
Most truly painted, to be pure, you'll find:—
How greater far the excellence, to paint
With heaven-directed eye, the beauteous saint,
And mark th' emotions of her angel-mind!
Envy not such as have in dirt surpast ye;—
'Tis very, very easy to be nasty!
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |