FUSELI.
The Poet attacketh Mr. Fuseli for attempting sublime Subjects—also for vainly supposing he hath caught a Shred of the Mantle of Michael Angelo—He commendeth his Picture of Beaufort, but hinteth his Suspicion of its being a smuggled Affair—He wondereth that the Ghosts of Shakespeare and Milton do not leave their Tombs, to punish the Painter for the Disgrace brought upon them by the Imbecility of his Pencil.—The Poet concludeth with Advice of much Humanity.
Ah, Master Fuseli! are you here,
To whom Abuse's speech is dear;
Whose jaundic'd eye can rarely merit see!
Well, since thy penchant is a grin,
It will not be a mortal sin
To give the world a gentle grin at thee.
What dæmon put it in thy head,
To fix on Beaufort's dying bed?
Was it the rage of Criticism to rouse?—
Speak!—was it thy ambitious hope,
With Reynolds, of high fame, to cope,
And envious tear the laurel from his brows!
Fuseli, thou callest Beaufort thine—
Speak truth—is this thy own design?
But mum—this is a very ticklish theme—
The palsied hand, that ne'er was found
To lift a weight beyond a pound,
Will ne'er be thought to raise a weaver's beam.
Thy friends, or rather foes, declare,
Thou often dost sublimely dare,
And makest Michael Angelo thy model;
Moreover, that thou dost inherit
Large portions of that painter's spirit—
God still their tongues, or mend each crazy noddle!
They tell thee that thou art a whale,
Thy mind on Nature's noblest scale!—
The folk who flatter thus, mean arrant mockery!
They call thee a fine China jar—
But this I humbly beg to bar,
They should have said, a pipkin of brown crockery!
Now let not wicked people say,
I wander far from Truth away:—
Truth, heaven-born Truth, presides o'er ev'ry stricture:
Fuseli, indeed, I don't deny
Thou e'er hadst Michael in thine eye;
But say, thou never found'st him in thy picture.
How dares thy hand, that cannot hit
The features of a poor tom-tit,
Attempt the eagle's fury in its flight—
That cannot paint a tame tom-cat,
Or muzzle of a mouse, or rat,
Attempt the lordly lion in his might?
Oh! why in colour dip thy brush,
And, mad, upon thy ruin rush,
And yield thy back to meet the lash of Satire?
Thy blue and green flesh (let me say)
No compliment to Beauty pay—
A putrid carcase is not charming nature.
Fuseli, whose hand with Nature wars,
Inform me, what provok'd thy stars.
To make thee serve a 'prenticeship to Paint?—
What crimes have thy forefathers done,
That thus they should condemn the son
To bid him daub the cloth with devil and saint!
Thou really wantest not discerning—
Hast gain'd a little classic learning—
And mayest in thy proper sphere be jogging;
And as ill-nature much is thine,
A pedagogue had been thy line,
Then, like Orbilius, thou hadst shone in flogging.
There are some rooms thou callest thine
,
Replete with workmanship divine;
Of Grecian art—the connoisseurs don't doubt 'em—
Say, Fuseli, did these rare antiques
Ne'er give thee grins, and cuffs, and kicks,
For daring to inform thy boys
about 'em?
Lo, from their graves, in glory laid,
Each bard, a long-lamented shade,
Shall start with horror from his sweet repose;
The ghost of Shakespeare shall arise,
And Milton, with his darken'd eyes,
To pull the daring dauber by the nose!
Thou hast a place, both nice and snug;
Good victuals, and a good warm rug—
Let not a false ambition prompt thee further:
Then bid thy cruel labours cease,
And let the canvass sleep in peace,
Nor make it cry out ‘Murther! murther! murther!
The Lord is call'd a man of war—
Beyond thy pow'rs how distant far!
But, shouldst thou dare attempt the form—I fear
Thy mangling hand would make sad work;
And, with the fierceness of a Turk,
Cut down the Thunderer to a privateer!
Remark.—Mr. Fuseli should expect no lenity from the rod of Criticism, after having himself uttered the following sarcasm upon a brother-artist, Opie, at a time too when he was in apparent friendship with that ingenious painter—‘Dere is dat poo-re dogue Opee—de failow can paaynt notin but teeves an morederers—an wen de dogue paaynts a teef or a morederer, he lookes in de glass.’
