Three poetical epistles To Mr. Hogarth, Mr. Dandridge, and Mr. Lambert, masters in the art of painting. Written by Mr. Mitchell |
 |
| 1. |
| 2. | THE SECOND EPISTLE.
|
| 3. |
 | Three poetical epistles |  |
6
THE SECOND EPISTLE.
To Mr. DANDRIDGE. An Eminent Face Painter.
------ Neque Te silebo.
Hor.
Hor.
Unskill'd in Painting, vain were my Essay
To sing its Progress to the present Day,
From what Beginnings its Perfection came,
And when it flourish'd with the greatest Fame,
What it has suffer'd by Barbarian Rage,
What Masters have excell'd in ev'ry Age,
The Character of each how diff'rent been,
And by what Marks their various Manner seen.
To sing its Progress to the present Day,
From what Beginnings its Perfection came,
And when it flourish'd with the greatest Fame,
What it has suffer'd by Barbarian Rage,
What Masters have excell'd in ev'ry Age,
The Character of each how diff'rent been,
And by what Marks their various Manner seen.
Nor wou'd I, partial or audacious strive,
To shew what Artists most excel alive;
What British Masters Rivals are confest;
Who have most Bus'ness, and who's deem'd the best;
How Thornhill, Jervas, Richardson, and Kent,
Lambert and Hogarth, Zinks and Aikman paint;
What Semblance in the Vanderbanks I see,
And wherein Dall and Highmore disagree;
How Wooten, Harvey, Tilliman, and Wright,
To one great End, in diff'rent Roads delight;
And why a thousand nameless Names contend
For Fame, without a Genius, or a Friend.
To shew what Artists most excel alive;
7
Who have most Bus'ness, and who's deem'd the best;
How Thornhill, Jervas, Richardson, and Kent,
Lambert and Hogarth, Zinks and Aikman paint;
What Semblance in the Vanderbanks I see,
And wherein Dall and Highmore disagree;
How Wooten, Harvey, Tilliman, and Wright,
To one great End, in diff'rent Roads delight;
And why a thousand nameless Names contend
For Fame, without a Genius, or a Friend.
Be it the Purport of my meaning Muse
To sing of Dandridge, and his noble Views,
How well the Master manages the Strife,
To wake the senseless Canvass into Life;
How Nature yields obedient to his Will,
And new Creations wait upon his Skill:
What Warmth and Spirit in his Colours glow,
What lovely Likeness all his Figures show,
In Attitude such Grace, in Air such Fire,
As jealous Rivals envy and admire:
All inly own what frankly few declare,
But the most spiteful of like Skill despair.
To sing of Dandridge, and his noble Views,
How well the Master manages the Strife,
To wake the senseless Canvass into Life;
How Nature yields obedient to his Will,
And new Creations wait upon his Skill:
What Warmth and Spirit in his Colours glow,
What lovely Likeness all his Figures show,
In Attitude such Grace, in Air such Fire,
As jealous Rivals envy and admire:
All inly own what frankly few declare,
But the most spiteful of like Skill despair.
8
When fam'd Apelles drew the Cyprian Queen,
The several Charms of fairest Nymphs were seen,
From each, a fav'rite Part he, cautious, took,
(For no one Mortal so divine cou'd look:)
But Dandridge, from Ideas of his own,
And Master of each Master's Talent known,
Collects the glorious Attributes of Fame,
And to all Beauties lays a rightful Claim.
Him it suffices not a Sketch to show,
A Surface, but the Treasures hid below.
He dives in Nature's Mines, extracts the Ore,
And stamps Distinction on the precious Store.
His Shadows all like Substances appear.
We see a Soul, and living Language hear.
To his great Pencil no Attempt proves vain.
He draws a Muse as easie as a Man.
The various Beauties of the Ancients blends,
And makes the Greek and Roman Masters Friends.
We see Vandyke in every finish'd Face,
With Rubens' Colours, and with Raphael's Grace.
Here, he presents a Guido's manly Air,
The glowing Beauties of a Titian, There.
In This, Carrachi's noble Strength appears,
That, all the Softness of Corregio bears.
No stiffen'd Strokes betray a labouring Hand,
For Paulo's Freedom is his full Command.
The several Charms of fairest Nymphs were seen,
From each, a fav'rite Part he, cautious, took,
(For no one Mortal so divine cou'd look:)
But Dandridge, from Ideas of his own,
And Master of each Master's Talent known,
Collects the glorious Attributes of Fame,
And to all Beauties lays a rightful Claim.
Him it suffices not a Sketch to show,
A Surface, but the Treasures hid below.
He dives in Nature's Mines, extracts the Ore,
And stamps Distinction on the precious Store.
His Shadows all like Substances appear.
We see a Soul, and living Language hear.
To his great Pencil no Attempt proves vain.
He draws a Muse as easie as a Man.
The various Beauties of the Ancients blends,
And makes the Greek and Roman Masters Friends.
We see Vandyke in every finish'd Face,
With Rubens' Colours, and with Raphael's Grace.
Here, he presents a Guido's manly Air,
The glowing Beauties of a Titian, There.
In This, Carrachi's noble Strength appears,
That, all the Softness of Corregio bears.
9
For Paulo's Freedom is his full Command.
Never had bold Prometheus thrown away
His Heaven-rap'd Fires upon inglorious Clay,
But courted Forms more worthy noble Thoughts,
Had He, O Dandridge, seen thy finish'd Draughts.
Such mimick Thunder had Salmonius made,
Never had Jove, by real, struck him dead,
But of a rival Godhead been afraid;
Preserv'd his Magazine for Self-Defence,
And stood the Siege of great Omnipotence.
His Heaven-rap'd Fires upon inglorious Clay,
But courted Forms more worthy noble Thoughts,
Had He, O Dandridge, seen thy finish'd Draughts.
Such mimick Thunder had Salmonius made,
Never had Jove, by real, struck him dead,
But of a rival Godhead been afraid;
Preserv'd his Magazine for Self-Defence,
And stood the Siege of great Omnipotence.
I hail thy noble Labours, where Design,
Postures, and Shade, and just Proportion, shine:
Where all that's bold, soft, beautiful, and strong,
A Genius shew, and must be honour'd long.
If ought is wanting to express thy Art,
And thy due Fame to future Times impart,
That will each Month, each rolling Moment, give;
Age will not rob, but make thy Glories live.
Postures, and Shade, and just Proportion, shine:
Where all that's bold, soft, beautiful, and strong,
A Genius shew, and must be honour'd long.
If ought is wanting to express thy Art,
And thy due Fame to future Times impart,
That will each Month, each rolling Moment, give;
Age will not rob, but make thy Glories live.
O cou'd thy Pencil to my Pen transfer
Immortal Life, and make my Muse a Star!
Cou'd I but hope that, mingling Flame with Flame,
Like friendly Colours, I cou'd join my Name,
And still contract new Strength from Thee to pass,
Thro' Time, uninjur'd as the lasting Brass,
With what vast Toil, ambitious, wou'd I write,
That, like our Souls, our Honours might unite?
But vain my Wish, as weak my Muse's Pow'r.
Time soon will modern Poets Lays devour.
The best is limited to narrow Space,
And can but flourish in his native Place.
The Painter claims each Climate as his own,
Speaks every Tongue, and seizes on Renown.
Free of each Region is his Godlike Hand,
And Worlds are subject to his wide Command.
Immortal Life, and make my Muse a Star!
10
Like friendly Colours, I cou'd join my Name,
And still contract new Strength from Thee to pass,
Thro' Time, uninjur'd as the lasting Brass,
With what vast Toil, ambitious, wou'd I write,
That, like our Souls, our Honours might unite?
But vain my Wish, as weak my Muse's Pow'r.
Time soon will modern Poets Lays devour.
The best is limited to narrow Space,
And can but flourish in his native Place.
The Painter claims each Climate as his own,
Speaks every Tongue, and seizes on Renown.
Free of each Region is his Godlike Hand,
And Worlds are subject to his wide Command.
Boldly proceed, as thy good Stars direct,
Nor, vainly dubious, thy great Pencil check.
Let more exalted Works thy Genius dare,
And Emulation animate thy Care.
Suffice it not to drudge on petty Draughts,
But be thy Strokes extensive as thy Thoughts.
Summon each living Image in thy Breast,
And on the Canvass be thy Soul exprest.
What are the Shrubs, compar'd to lofty Trees?
Such single Pieces are to Histories.
Nor, vainly dubious, thy great Pencil check.
Let more exalted Works thy Genius dare,
And Emulation animate thy Care.
Suffice it not to drudge on petty Draughts,
But be thy Strokes extensive as thy Thoughts.
Summon each living Image in thy Breast,
And on the Canvass be thy Soul exprest.
11
Such single Pieces are to Histories.
'Tis true indeed, and pity 'tis so true,
The Times oblige Thee to contract thy View;
Painters, as well as Poets, must have Bread;
The Belly lays down Orders for the Head.
Who nobly rises that receives no Pay?
The World rewards but in a selfish way.
Hence thou too oft art doom'd to draw a Fool,
And I, alas, sometimes to turn a Tool;
Yet diff'rent far the Fate of what we do.
Thou doubly gain'st from the inglorious Crew.
Tho' Sister Arts we boast, the eldest mine,
The best Encouragement is always thine.
And 'tis not strange; for, by thy matchless Skill,
Beauty it self is made more beauteous still.
Oft, in thy Postures, Folly's taught to sink,
And the consummate Blockhead seems to think.
But whensoe'er a venal Verse I write,
I earn no Fame, and scarce a Dinner by't.
The flatter'd Patron may perhaps be pleas'd,
But no new Trophy's to my Honour rais'd.
The Times oblige Thee to contract thy View;
Painters, as well as Poets, must have Bread;
The Belly lays down Orders for the Head.
Who nobly rises that receives no Pay?
The World rewards but in a selfish way.
Hence thou too oft art doom'd to draw a Fool,
And I, alas, sometimes to turn a Tool;
Yet diff'rent far the Fate of what we do.
Thou doubly gain'st from the inglorious Crew.
Tho' Sister Arts we boast, the eldest mine,
The best Encouragement is always thine.
And 'tis not strange; for, by thy matchless Skill,
Beauty it self is made more beauteous still.
Oft, in thy Postures, Folly's taught to sink,
And the consummate Blockhead seems to think.
But whensoe'er a venal Verse I write,
I earn no Fame, and scarce a Dinner by't.
The flatter'd Patron may perhaps be pleas'd,
But no new Trophy's to my Honour rais'd.
12
How long, good Heav'n, shall Souls, like ours, be crost,
And, unrewarded, genuine Virtues lost?
How long shall worthless Wretches meet Respect,
And covet Fame, unconscious of Defect?
Diff'rent had been our Fate in other Times,
And boundless all thy Drawings and my Rhimes.
No vile Resemblance had been sav'd by Thee,
And nought, but Merit, ever sung by Me.
And, unrewarded, genuine Virtues lost?
How long shall worthless Wretches meet Respect,
And covet Fame, unconscious of Defect?
Diff'rent had been our Fate in other Times,
And boundless all thy Drawings and my Rhimes.
No vile Resemblance had been sav'd by Thee,
And nought, but Merit, ever sung by Me.
But Fate's imperial Will must ever stand,
And we be subject to supreme Command.
Happy if, struggling well against the Stream,
We keep our Quiet, and an honest Name.
For Me, while Dandridge stands my Friend confest,
No adverse Storms of Life shall wreck my Rest.
But doubly blest shou'd my Existence prove,
Cou'd I be useful to the Man I love.
And we be subject to supreme Command.
Happy if, struggling well against the Stream,
We keep our Quiet, and an honest Name.
For Me, while Dandridge stands my Friend confest,
No adverse Storms of Life shall wreck my Rest.
But doubly blest shou'd my Existence prove,
Cou'd I be useful to the Man I love.
November 20th, 1730.
| Three poetical epistles | |