 | The battle of Niagara |  |
[_]
The following lines were hastily—very hastily written, on seeing the celebrated Mr. Wood touch off a likeness—as usual—in the twinkling of an eye.
To the Genius of Painting.
YOUNG wanton of our sunniest dreaming!Dear child of heaven!
With lighted eye—and loose-hair streaming,
Like meteors o'er the brow of even!
Who comest—strangely fair,
And sittest on the air,
With pencil dripping light!—and eye
Intent on nature's imagery,
To catch her fleetest, loveliest beaming.
O stay thy fairy mimickry—
Suspend thy life-enkindling power—
One moment—wanton!—while I try
To show thee to the world, as I
Have seen thee in my lonely hour:
O, grant my prayer!
Withhold thy hand awhile—
Thy wondrous hand—and smile—
Bind up thy streaming hair,
That I may catch thee, child of heaven!
And show thee—as to me thou'rt given.
See ye—'tis there!—how blithsomely it goes—
With every feather trembling—round it flows,
An air-spun mantle, coloured with the rose.
Suspend thy life-enkindling power—
One moment—wanton!—while I try
To show thee to the world, as I
Have seen thee in my lonely hour:
266
Withhold thy hand awhile—
Thy wondrous hand—and smile—
Bind up thy streaming hair,
That I may catch thee, child of heaven!
And show thee—as to me thou'rt given.
See ye—'tis there!—how blithsomely it goes—
With every feather trembling—round it flows,
An air-spun mantle, coloured with the rose.
That is the genius!—see!
How gloriously, wild and free—
All light, and fire, and energy!
How carelessly he treads the air,
Collecting hues and sun-beams there—
And flashing—sprinkling—all about—
The canvass that's before him—
Ten thousand tints of nameless hue—
Of mingling sunshine—tender blue—
The gushing of the happy heart,
The lustre of the kindling eye—
When lifted to the evening sky—
Now pausing—dwelling—touching out
The secret meaning of each part—
The faint and tearful tenderness—
The thought that nothing can express—
O, who would not adore him!
How gloriously, wild and free—
All light, and fire, and energy!
How carelessly he treads the air,
Collecting hues and sun-beams there—
And flashing—sprinkling—all about—
The canvass that's before him—
Ten thousand tints of nameless hue—
Of mingling sunshine—tender blue—
The gushing of the happy heart,
The lustre of the kindling eye—
When lifted to the evening sky—
Now pausing—dwelling—touching out
The secret meaning of each part—
The faint and tearful tenderness—
The thought that nothing can express—
O, who would not adore him!
'Tis done—the mingling tints grow warm—
Within the wash appears a form,
Peering like Iris thro' the storm;—
The lightning—that he caught but now
From yonder cloud—beneath a brow,
Of loveliness and roguery,
Is flashing fast and wickedly.
You've “seen it!”—hey?—you “know that face?”—
“The young coquette!”—all light and grace:
'Tis she indeed—and now, the tint
That on his fire-tipped pencil dwelt—
A rose-bud's heart that seemed to melt—
Is changed into a lip—and now the dew,
That he just pilfered from a flower—
Yet freshly weeping from a shower,
Is sprinkled o'er its pulpy red—
And now —
[OMITTED]
My conscience! what a chase I'm led
This painting—sure—the devil's in't.
Within the wash appears a form,
Peering like Iris thro' the storm;—
267
From yonder cloud—beneath a brow,
Of loveliness and roguery,
Is flashing fast and wickedly.
You've “seen it!”—hey?—you “know that face?”—
“The young coquette!”—all light and grace:
'Tis she indeed—and now, the tint
That on his fire-tipped pencil dwelt—
A rose-bud's heart that seemed to melt—
Is changed into a lip—and now the dew,
That he just pilfered from a flower—
Yet freshly weeping from a shower,
Is sprinkled o'er its pulpy red—
And now —
[OMITTED]
My conscience! what a chase I'm led
This painting—sure—the devil's in't.
| The battle of Niagara | |