The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Poet inquireth into the State of the Exhibition—Lasheth Father Time for making great Geniuses, and destroying them—Praiseth Reynolds—Fancieth a very curious Dialogue between King Alexander and the Deer, the Subject of Mr. West's Picture—Turneth to Mr. West's Resurrection.

Well, Muse! what is there in the Exhibition?
How thrive the beauties of the graphic art?
Whose racing genius seems in best condition
For Glory's plate to start?
Say, what sly rogues old Fame cajole?
Speak,—who hath brib'd her trumpet, or who stole?

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For much is prais'd that ought in fires to mourn—
Nay, what would ev'n disgrace a fire to burn.

What artist boasts a work sublime,
That mocks the teeth of raging Time?
Old fool! who after he hath form'd with pains,
A genius rare,
To make folks stare,
Knocks out his brains:
Like children, dolls creating with high brags;
Then tearing all their handy works to rags.

Lo! Reynolds shines with undiminish'd ray!
Keeps, like the bird of Jove, his distant way—
Yet simple portrait strikes too oft our eyes,
Whilst hist'ry, anxious for his pencil, sighs.

We don't desire to see on canvass live
The copy of a jowl of lead;
When for th' original we wou'd not give
A small pin's head.

This year, of picture, Mr. West
Is quite a Patagonian maker—
He knows that bulk is not a jest;
So gives us painting by the acre:

But, ah! this artist's brush can never brag
Upon King Alexander and the stag:
For as they play'd at loggerheads a rubber;
We surely ought to see a handsome battle
Between the monarch and the piece of cattle;
Whereas each keeps his distance, like a lubber.

His Majesty upon his breech laid low,
Seems preaching to his horned foe;
Observing what a very wicked thing
To hurt the sacred person of a king:
And seems, about the business, to entreat him
To march, for fear the hounds should eat him.

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The stag appears to say in plaintive note,
‘I own, King Alexander, my offence:
True! I've not show'd my loyalty, nor sense;
So bid your huntsman come and cut my throat.’

The cavalry, adorn'd with fair stone bodies,
Seem on the dialogue, with wonder, staring;
And on their flinty backs a set of noddies,
Not one brass farthing for their master caring.

Behold! one fellow lifts his mighty spear,
To save the owner of the Scottish crown;
Which, harmless hanging o'er the gaping deer,
Seems in no mighty hurry to come down.

Another on a Pegasus comes flying!
His phiz his errand much belying;
For if he means to baste the beast so cruel,
God knows, 'tis with a face of water-gruel.

So then, sweet Muse, the picture boasts no merit—
As flat as dish-water, or dead small-beer—
Or (what the mark is tolerably near)
As heads of aldermen devoid of spirit.

Well then! turn round—view t'other side the room,
And see his Saviour mounting from the tomb:
Is this piece too with painting sins so cramm'd,
Born to increase the number of the damn'd!

My sentiments by no means I refuse—
Was our Redeemer like that wretched thing,
I should not wonder that the cunning Jews
Scorn'd to acknowledge him for king.