Poems and Plays :: :: University of Virginia Library

Introduction—The flourishing state of Art in this country—Disadvantages attending the modern Painter of Portraits—Short encomium on this branch of Art, with the account of its origin in the story of the Maid of Corinth—Superiority of Historical Painting—Some account of the Greeks who excelled in it—Its destruction and revival in Italy—Short account of the most eminent Italian and Spanish Painters—Those of Flanders and France—The corruption of Art among the latter.

Blest be the hour, when fav'ring gales restore
The travell'd Artist to his native shore!
His mind enlighten'd, and his fancy fraught
With finest forms by ancient genius wrought;
Whose magic beauty charm'd, with spell sublime,
The scythe of Ruin from the hand of Time,
And mov'd the mighty leveller to spare
Models of grace so exquisitely fair.

While you, whom Painting thus inspir'd to roam,
Bring these rich stores of ripen'd judgment home;
While now, attending my accomplish'd friend,
Science and Taste his soften'd colours blend;
Let the fond Muse, tho' with a transient view,
The progress of her sister art pursue;

Eager in tracing from remotest time
The steps of Painting through each favour'd clime,
To praise her dearest sons, whose daring aim
Gain'd their bright stations on the heights of fame,
And mark the paths by which her partial hand
Conducts her Romney to this radiant band.

Painting, sweet Nymph! now leaves in lifeless trance
Exhausted Italy and tinsel France,
And sees in Britain, with exulting eyes,
Her vot'ries prosper, and her glories rise.
Yet tho', my friend, thy art is thus carest,
And with the homage of the public blest,
And flourishes with growing beauty fair,
The child of Majesty's adoptive care,
The youthful artist still is doom'd to feel
Obstruction's chilling hand, that damps his zeal:
Th' imperious voice of Vanity and Pride
Bids him from Fancy's region turn aside,
And quit the magic of her scene, to trace
The vacant lines of some unmeaning face:
E'en in this work his wishes still are crost,
And all the efforts of his art are lost;
For when the canvas, with the mirror's truth,
Reflects the perfect form of age or youth,

The fond affections of the partial mind
The eye of judgment with delusion blind:
Each mother bids him brighter tints employ,
And give new spirit to her booby boy;
Nor can the painter, with his utmost art,
Express the image in the lover's heart:
Unconscious of the change the seasons bring,
Autumnal beauty asks the rose of spring,
And vain self-love, in every age the same,
Will fondly urge some visionary claim.
The luckless painter, destin'd to submit,
Mourns the lost likeness which he once had hit,
And, doom'd to groundless censure, bears alone
The grievous load of errors not his own.

Nor is it Pride, or Folly's vain command,
That only fetters his creative hand;
At Fashion's nod he copies as they pass
Each quaint reflection from her crowded glass.
The formal coat, with intersecting line,
Mars the free graces of his fair design;
The towering cap he marks with like distress,
And all the motley mass of female dress.
The hoop extended with enormous size,
The corks that like a promontory rise;

The stays of deadly steel, in whose embrace
The tyrant Fashion tortures injur'd Grace.
But Art, despairing over shapes like these
To cast an air of elegance and ease,
Invokes kind Fancy's aid—she comes to spread
Her magic spells—the Gothic forms are fled;
And see, to crown the painter's just desire,
Her free positions, and her light attire!
Th' ambitious artist wishes to pursue
This brilliant plan with more extensive view,
And with adopted character to give
A lasting charm to make the portrait live;
All points of art by one nice effort gain,
Delight the learned, and content the vain;
Make history to life new value lend,
And in the comprehensive picture blend
The ancient hero with the living friend.
Most fair device! “but, ah! what foes to sense,
What broods of motley monsters rise from hence!”
The strange pretensions of each age and sex
These plans of fancy and of taste perplex;

For male and female, to themselves unknown,
Demand a character unlike their own,
Till oft the painter to this quaint distress
Prefers the awkward shapes of common dress.
Sweet girls, of mild and pensive softness, choose
The sportive emblems of the comic Muse;
And sprightly damsels are inclin'd to borrow
The garb of penitence, and tears of sorrow:
While awkward pride, tho' safe from war's alarms,
Round his plump body buckles ancient arms,
And, from an honest justice of the peace,
Starts up at once a demi-god of Greece;
Too firm of heart by ridicule to fall,
The finish'd hero crowns his country hall,
Ordain'd to fill, if fire his glory spare,
The lumber-garret of his wiser heir.
Not less absurd to flatter Nero's eyes
Arose the portrait of colossal size:
Twice fifty feet th' enormous sheet was spread,
To lift o'er gazing slaves the monster's head,
When impious Folly sway'd Oppression's rod,
And servile Rome ador'd the mimic God.

Think not, my friend, with supercilious air,
I rank the portrait as beneath thy care.
Blest be the pencil! which from death can save
The semblance of the virtuous, wife, and brave;
That youth and emulation still may gaze
On those inspiring forms of ancient days,
And, from the force of bright example bold,
Rival their worth, “and be what they behold.”
Blest be the pencil! whose consoling pow'r,
Soothing soft Friendship in her pensive hour,
Dispels the cloud, with melancholy fraught,
That absence throws upon her tender thought.
Blest be the pencil! whose enchantment gives
To wounded Love the food on which he lives.
Rich in this gift, tho' cruel ocean bear
The youth to exile from his faithful fair,
He in fond dreams hangs o'er her glowing cheek,
Still owns her present, and still hears her speak:
Oh! Love, it was thy glory to impart
Its infant being to this magic art!
Inspir'd by thee, the soft Corinthian maid
Her graceful lover's sleeping form portray'd:

Her boding heart his near departure knew,
Yet long'd to keep his image in her view:
Pleas'd she beheld the steady shadow fall,
By the clear lamp upon the even wall:
The line she trac'd with fond precision true,
And, drawing, doated on the form she drew;
Nor, as she glow'd with no forbidden fire,
Conccal'd the simple picture from her sire:
His kindred fancy, still to nature just,
Copied her line, and form'd the mimic bust.
Thus from thy power, inspiring Love, we trace
The modell'd image, and the pencil'd face!

We pity Genius, when, by interest led,
His toils but reach the semblance of a head;
Yet are those censures too severe and vain,
That scorn the Portrait as the Painter's bane.
Tho' up the mountain winds the arduous road
That leads to pure Perfection's bright abode,
In humbler walks some tempting laurels grow,
Some flowers are gather'd in the vale below:
Youth on the plain collects increasing force,
To climb the steep in his meridian course.
While Nature sees her living models share
The rising artist's unremitting care,

She on his mind her every charm imprints,
Her easy postures, and her perfect tints,
Till his quick pencil, in maturer hour,
Becomes her rival in creative power.

Yet in these paths disdain a long delay,
While eager Genius points a nobler way:
For see! expanding to thy raptur'd gaze,
The epic field a brighter scene displays!
Here stands the temple, where, to merit true,
Fame gives her laurel to the favour'd few:
Whose minds, illumin'd with cœlestial fire,
Direct the pencil, or awake the lyre;
Who trace the springs of nature to their source,
And by her guidance, with resistless force,
The tides of error and of transport roll
Thro' every channel of the human soul!

How few, my friend, tho' millions boast the aim,
Leave in this temple an unclouded name!
Vain the attempt, in every age and clime,
Without the slow conductors toil and time;
Without that secret, soul-impelling power,
Infus'd by Genius in the natal hour;
And vain with these, if bright occasion's ray
Fail to illuminate the doubtful way.

The elders of thy art ordain'd to stand
In the first circle of this honour'd band,
(Whose pencil, striving for the noblest praise,
The heart to soften and the mind to raise,
Gave life and manners to the finish'd piece)
These sons of glory were the sons of Greece!
Hail! throne of genius, hail! what mighty hand
Form'd the bright offspring of this famous land?
First in the annals of the world they shine:
Such gifts, O Liberty, are only thine;
Thy vital fires thro' kindling spirits run,
Thou soul of life, thou intellectual sun;
Thy rays call forth, profuse and unconfin'd,
The richest produce of the human mind.
First taught by thee, the Grecian pencil wrought
The forceful lessons of exalted thought,
And generously gave, at glory's call,
The patriot picture to the public hall.

'Twas then Panæus drew, with freedom's train,
The Chief of Marathon's immortal plain,
In glorious triumph o'er the mighty host
That Persia pour'd in torrents on their coast.

There Polygnotus, scorning servile hire,
Display'd th' embattled scene from Homer's lyre.
His country view'd the gift with fond regard,
And rank'd the painter with their noblest bard.

Thy tragic pencil, Aristides, caught
Each varied feeling, and each tender thought;
While moral virtue sanctified thy art,
And passion gave it empire o'er the heart.

Correct Parrhasius first to rich design
Gave nice proportion, and the melting line,
Whose soft extremes from observation fly,
And with ideal distance cheat the eye.

The gay, the warm, licentious Zeuxis drew
Voluptuous Beauty in her richest hue:
Bade in one form her scatter'd rays unite,
And charm'd the view with their collected light.

But Grace consign'd, while her fair works he plann'd,
Her softest pencil to Apelles' hand:
Yet oft to gain sublimer heights he strove,
Such strong expression mark'd his mimic Jove,

Inimitably great he seem'd to tower,
And pass the limits of the pencil's power.

Ye sons of art, tho' on the gulph of years
No floating relic of your toil appears,
Yet glory shews, in every cultur'd clime,
Your names still radiant thro' the clouds of time.

Thy pride, O Rome, inclin'd thee to abhor
Each work that call'd thee from thy sphere of war:
By Freedom train'd, and favour'd by the Nine,
The powers of eloquence and verse were thine,
While chilling damps upon the pencil hung,
Where Tully thunder'd and where Virgil sung,
Yet Grecian artists had the splendid fate
To triumph o'er the Romans' scornful hate.
Their matchless works profusion toil'd to buy,
Their wonders glitter'd in the public eye,
Till Rome's terrific pomp, and letter'd pride,
Were sunk in Desolation's whelming tide.

Oh! lovely Painting! long thy cheering light
Was lost and buried in barbaric night;
The furious rage of Anarchy effac'd
Each hallow'd character thy hand had trac'd,

And Ign'rance, mutt'ring in her monkish cell,
Bound thy free soul in her lethargic spell.

At length from this long trance thy spirit rose,
In that sweet vale where silver Arno flows;
There studious Vinci treasur'd every rule,
To form the basis of a rising school:
Like early Hesiod, 'twas his fate to shine,
The herald of a master more divine.

Inflam'd by Genius with sublimest rage,
By toil unwearied, and unchill'd by age,
In the fine phrenzy of exalted thought
Gigantic Angelo his wonders wrought;
And high, by native strength of spirit rais'd,
The mighty Homer of the pencil blaz'd.

Taste, Fancy, Judgment, all on Raphael smil'd,
Of Grandeur and of Grace the darling child:
Truth, passion, character, his constant aim,
Both in the human and the heavenly frame,
Th' enchanting painter rules the willing heart,
And shines the finish'd Virgil of his art.

The daring Julio, tho' by Raphael train'd,
Reach'd not the summit where his master reign'd;
Yet to no common heights of epic fame
True Genius guided his adventurous aim.
Thus Statius, fraught with emulous regard,
Caught not the spirit of the Mantuan bard:
Tho' rival ardour his ambition fir'd,
And kindred talents his bold verse inspir'd.

More richly warm, the glowing Titian knew
To blend with Nature's truth the living hue:
O! had sublime design his colours crown'd!
Then had the world a finish'd painter found:
With powers to seize the highest branch of art,
He fix'd too fondly on an humbler part;
Yet this low object of his partial care
Grew from his toil so exquisitely fair,
That dazzled judgment, with suspended voice,
Fears to condemn the error of his choice.
Thus pleas'd a flowery valley to explore,
Whence never Poet cull'd a wreath before,

Lucretius chose the epic crown to lose
For the bright chaplets of an humbler muse.

Soft as Catullus, sweet Corregio play'd
With all the magic charms of light and shade.
Tho' Parma claim it for her rival son,
The praise of sweetest grace thy pencil won:
Unhappy Genius! tho' of skill divine,
Unjust neglect and penury were thine.
Lamenting o'er thy labours unrepaid,
Afflicted Art opprest with wrongs decay'd,
Till with pure judgment the Caracci came,
And, raising her weak powers and sinking frame,
Reclaim'd the pencil of misguided youth
From Affectation's glare to tints of modest Truth.
They form'd the Pencil, to whose infant fame
Young Zampieri ow'd his nobler name:
Profoundly skill'd his figures to dispose,
The learned Lanfranc in their school arose,

And, train'd to glory, by their forming care,
The tender Guido caught his graceful air.

Nor shall ye fail your well-earn'd praise to gain,
Ye! who adorn'd with art your native Spain!
The unfrequented shore, that gave you birth,
Tempts not the faithful Muse to hide your worth:
Just to all regions, let her voice proclaim
Titian's mute scholar, rival of his fame.
The power, that Nature to his lips denied,
Indulgent Art, with fonder care, supplied:
The cruel bar his happy genius broke;
Tho' dumb the painter, all his pictures spoke.

And thou, Velasquez, share the honour due
To forceful tints, that fascinate the view!
Thy bold illusive talents soar'd so high,
They mock'd, with mimic life, the cheated eye.
Thou liberal artist! 'twas thy praise to guide
Thy happy scholar with parental pride;
Thy care the soft, the rich Murillo form'd,
And, as thy precept taught, thy friendship warm'd.

Yet other names, and not a scanty band!
Have added lustre to th' Iberian land;
But generous Italy, thy genial earth
Superior numbers bore of splendid worth!
And rais'd amidst them, in thy golden days,
No mean historian to record their praise.

On Thee, whom Art, thy patroness and pride,
Taught both the pencil and the pen to guide;
Whose generous zeal and modest truth have known
To blazon others' skill, not boast thy own;
On thee, Vasari, let my verse bestow
That just applause, so freely seen to flow
From thy ingenuous heart and liberal hand,
To each great artist of thy native land!
Tho' many shine in thy elaborate page,
And more have risen since thy distant age,
Their various talents, and their different fame,
The Muse, unskilful, must decline to name,
Lest in the nice attempt her judgment fail
To poise their merits in Precision's scale.

E'en public Taste, by no determin'd rule,
Has class'd the merit of each nobler school:

To Rome and Florence, in Expression strong,
The highest honours of Design belong;
On her pure Style see mild Bologna claim
Her fairest right to secondary fame;
Tho' prouder Venice would usurp that praise,
Upon the splendid force of Titian's golden rays.
But ill they know the value of their art,
Who, flattering the eye, neglect the heart.
Tho' matchless tints a lasting name secure,
Tho' strong the magic of the clear-obscure,
These must submit, as a dependant part,
To pure Design, the very soul of Art;
Or Fame, misguided, must invert her course,
And Raphael's Grace must yield to Rembrandt's Force;
Fancy's bold thought to Labour's patient touch,
And Rome's exalted genius to the Dutch.
Yet, Holland, thy unwearied labours raise
A perfect title to peculiar praise:
Thy hum'rous pencil shuns the epic field,
The blazing falchion, and the sanguine shield;

But hap'ly marks the group of rural Mirth,
In social circle round the chearful hearth;
And rustic Joy, from busy cares releas'd,
To the gay gambols of the village feast:
While Nature smiles her very faults to view,
Trac'd with a skill so exquisitely true.
These faults, O Rembrandt, 'twas thy praise to hide!
New pow'rs of Art thy fertile mind supplied;
With dazzling force thy gorgeous colouring glows,
And o'er each scene an air of grandeur throws:
The meanest Figures dignity assume,
From thy contrasted light, and magic gloom.
These strong illusions are supremely thine,
And laugh at Imitation's vague design:
So near to blemishes thy beauties run,
Those who affect thy splendor are undone:
While thy rash rivals, loose and incorrect,
Miscall their shadowy want of truth Effect,
And into paths of affectation start:
Neglect of Nature is the bane of Art.
Proud of the praise by Rubens' pencil won,
Let Flanders boast her bold inventive son!

Whose glowing hues magnificently shine
With warmth congenial to his rich design:
And him, her second pride, whose milder care
From living Beauty caught its loveliest air!
Who truth of character with grace combin'd,
And in the speaking feature mark'd the mind,
Her soft Vandyke, while graceful portraits please,
Shall reign the model of unrivall'd ease.
Painting shall tell, with many a grateful thought,
From Flanders first the secret pow'r she caught,
To grace and guard the offspring of her toil,
With all the virtues of enduring oil;
Tho' charm'd by Italy's alluring views,
(Where sumptuous Leo courted every Muse,
And lovely Science grew the public care)
She fix'd the glories of her empire there;
There in her zenith soon she ceas'd to shine,
And dated, passing her meridan line,
From the Caracci's death her period of decline.
Yet in her gloomy and disgraceful hour
Of faded beauty, and enfeebled power,

With talents flowing in free Nature's course,
With just exertion of unborrow'd force,
Untrodden paths of art Salvator tried,
And daring Fancy was his favourite guide.
O'er his wild rocks, at her command, he throws
A savage grandeur, and sublime repose;
Or gives th' historic scene a charm as strong
As the terrific gloom of Dante's song.
His bold ideas, unrefin'd by taste,
Express'd with vigour, tho' conceiv'd in haste,
Before slow judgment their defects can find,
With awful pleasure fill the passive mind.
Nor could one art, with various beauty fraught,
Engross the ardor of his active thought:
His pencil pausing, with satiric fire
He struck the chords of the congenial lyre;
By generous verse attempting to reclaim
The meaner artist from each abject aim.
But vain his satire! his example vain!
Degraded Painting sinks with many a stain:
Her clouded beams, from Italy withdrawn,
On colder France with transient lustre dawn.

There, in the arms of Roman science nurs'd,
In every work of ancient genius vers'd,
The sage Poussin, with purest fancy fraught,
Portray'd the classic scene, as Learning taught:
But Nature, jealous of her sacred right,
And piqu'd that his idolatry should slight
Her glowing graces, and her living air,
To worship marble with a fonder care,
Denied his pencil, in its mimic strife,
The bloom of beauty, and the warmth of life.

Then rose Le Brun, his scholar, and his friend,
More justly skill'd the vivid tints to blend;
Tho' with exalted spirit he present
The generous victor in the suppliant tent,
Too oft the genius of his gaudy clime
Misled his pencil from the pure sublime.

Thy dawn, Le Sueur, announc'd a happier taste,
With fancy glowing, and with judgment chaste:
But Art, who gloried in thy rising bloom,
Shed fruitless tears upon thy early tomb.

These lights withdrawn, Confusion and Misrule
Seize the vain pencil of the Gallic school:
Tho' Fresnoy teaches, in Horatian song,
The laws and limits that to Art belong;
In vain he strives, with Attic judgment chaste,
To crush the monsters of corrupted taste:
With ineffectual fire the poet sings,
Prolific still the wounded Hydra springs:
Gods roll'd on gods encumber every hall,
And saints, convulsive, o'er the chapel sprawl.
Bombast is Grandeur, Affectation Grace,
Beauty's soft smile is turn'd to pert grimace;
Loaded with dress, supremely fine advance
Old Homer's heroes, with the airs of France.
Indignant Art disclaim'd the motley crew,
Resign'd their empire, and to Britain flew.

END OF THE FIRST EPISTLE.

Unde prius nulli velarunt Tempora Musæ. Lucretius, Lib. iv. Ver. 5.