An essay on sculpture In a series of epistles to John Flaxman, Esq. R. A.: With notes. By William Hayley |
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EPISTLE THE SIXTH.
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 | An essay on sculpture |  |
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EPISTLE THE SIXTH.
------ Tu quoque magnam
Partem opere in tanto, sineret dolor, Icare, haberes.
Virgil.
Partem opere in tanto, sineret dolor, Icare, haberes.
Virgil.
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ARGUMENT OF THE SIXTH EPISTLE.
The Author laments with his friend the fate of his disciple, a promising young Sculptor, forced to quit his profession by a severe loss of health.— A character of that disciple, and the interest he still takes in the prosperity and honour of his beloved Master, conclude the Poem.
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Arts were an early gift of heavenly grace,
To chear and strengthen man's afflicted race;
And now, dear Flaxman! in thy art I find
A lenient med'cine for a tortur'd mind:
Else, in this season of paternal grief,
When, from dark sickness that eludes relief,
Thy dear disciple's pangs my spirit pierce,
Could I resume this long-suspended verse!
Years have elaps'd, and years that have impress'd
Deepest affliction on my wounded breast,
Since, at the sight of malady unknown
That prey'd on health far dearer than my own,
The lyre, whose chords should with thy glory swell,
From my fond hand, by sorrow palsied, fell;
And all my faculties of heart and soul
Had but one aim—to make the sickly whole.
But Heaven still tries the never-failing truth
Of patient virtue in this suff'ring youth.
Sunk as he is, and doom'd in pain to gasp,
(A young Prometheus in a vulture's clasp!)
His purer spirit does not Heaven arraign,
Or breathe a murmur on his galling chain:
But on the master, to his heart endear'd,
Whose powers he idoliz'd, whose worth rever'd,
His generous thoughts with just attachment turn,
And for thy honour boast a brave concern.
Fondly he bids his father's falt'ring hand
Resume th'unfinish'd work by Friendship plann'd.
Forgive the filial love that deems thy friend,
Weak as he is, may yet thy fame extend!
The wish of filial excellence distress'd
To me is sacred as a God's behest:
Hence I with fond precipitancy frame
The verse devoted to thy honour'd name.
Pardon, if trouble can but ill achieve
What joy should execute, with leisure's leave!
To chear and strengthen man's afflicted race;
And now, dear Flaxman! in thy art I find
A lenient med'cine for a tortur'd mind:
Else, in this season of paternal grief,
When, from dark sickness that eludes relief,
Thy dear disciple's pangs my spirit pierce,
Could I resume this long-suspended verse!
Years have elaps'd, and years that have impress'd
Deepest affliction on my wounded breast,
156
That prey'd on health far dearer than my own,
The lyre, whose chords should with thy glory swell,
From my fond hand, by sorrow palsied, fell;
And all my faculties of heart and soul
Had but one aim—to make the sickly whole.
But Heaven still tries the never-failing truth
Of patient virtue in this suff'ring youth.
Sunk as he is, and doom'd in pain to gasp,
(A young Prometheus in a vulture's clasp!)
His purer spirit does not Heaven arraign,
Or breathe a murmur on his galling chain:
But on the master, to his heart endear'd,
Whose powers he idoliz'd, whose worth rever'd,
His generous thoughts with just attachment turn,
And for thy honour boast a brave concern.
Fondly he bids his father's falt'ring hand
Resume th'unfinish'd work by Friendship plann'd.
Forgive the filial love that deems thy friend,
Weak as he is, may yet thy fame extend!
157
To me is sacred as a God's behest:
Hence I with fond precipitancy frame
The verse devoted to thy honour'd name.
Pardon, if trouble can but ill achieve
What joy should execute, with leisure's leave!
Here, if these sketches of thy art succeed,
Her ancient reign the fair and young may read;
Her modern empire, and her future power,
May form my subject in a happier hour,
If happier hours may to that heart be given
Which leans, with unexhausted hope, on Heaven.
Her ancient reign the fair and young may read;
Her modern empire, and her future power,
May form my subject in a happier hour,
If happier hours may to that heart be given
Which leans, with unexhausted hope, on Heaven.
Whatever lot, excelling friend! is mine,
I bend, with gratitude, to power divine
That thou, whose progress in thy noble aim
I deem a portion of my country's fame—
That thou enjoy'st the spirit's genuine wealth,
Unfetter'd genius, and unfading health!
The bards of Greece have twin'd thy laurel crown,
And form'd the prelude of thy rich renown:
Homer and Æschylus thy mind inspire
With all their varied grace, and vivid fire:
Deck'd by thy pencil, they with joy assign
To thee the social palm of pure design;
And Britain, while her naval triumphs blaze
Above the boast of Græcia's brightest days,
Looks to thy talent with a parent's pride,
Pleas'd to thy skill her glory to confide,
Fit to record, with monumental art,
The simple grandeur of her seaman's heart.
I bend, with gratitude, to power divine
That thou, whose progress in thy noble aim
I deem a portion of my country's fame—
That thou enjoy'st the spirit's genuine wealth,
Unfetter'd genius, and unfading health!
The bards of Greece have twin'd thy laurel crown,
And form'd the prelude of thy rich renown:
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With all their varied grace, and vivid fire:
Deck'd by thy pencil, they with joy assign
To thee the social palm of pure design;
And Britain, while her naval triumphs blaze
Above the boast of Græcia's brightest days,
Looks to thy talent with a parent's pride,
Pleas'd to thy skill her glory to confide,
Fit to record, with monumental art,
The simple grandeur of her seaman's heart.
O, while with joy to Honour's noblest height
I view, in fancy, thy Dædalean flight!
Thy little Icarus I yet must mourn,
Soon, from thy side, by cruel sickness torn,
(Not rashly drown'd in fond Ambition's sea,)
Still breathing, still in heart attach'd to thee!
I know he still, though distant from thy care,
Lives in thy love, and prospers in thy prayer;
For I beheld in thy parental eyes
The tear of tender admiration rise,
When noble labours of his crippled hand,
Achiev'd by courage, by affection plann'd,
Drew from thy judgment that sweet praise sincere
Which even Agony has smil'd to hear.
That crippled hand, so skill'd, in early youth,
To seize the graceful line of simple Truth,
More by increasing malady oppress'd,
Sinks, in its fetters, to reluctant rest;
And thy dark veil, Futurity! enshrouds
Its distant fortune in no common clouds.
Magnanimous and grateful to the last,
The suff'rer blesses Heaven for bounties past:
Pleas'd under Flaxman to have studied Art,
(Child of thy choice, and pupil of thy heart!)
His spirit trusts that, where thy talents reign,
His virtuous wish may yet be known, though vain;
His wish to rise, by filial duty's flame,
Friend of thy life, and partner of thy fame!
I view, in fancy, thy Dædalean flight!
Thy little Icarus I yet must mourn,
Soon, from thy side, by cruel sickness torn,
(Not rashly drown'd in fond Ambition's sea,)
Still breathing, still in heart attach'd to thee!
I know he still, though distant from thy care,
Lives in thy love, and prospers in thy prayer;
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The tear of tender admiration rise,
When noble labours of his crippled hand,
Achiev'd by courage, by affection plann'd,
Drew from thy judgment that sweet praise sincere
Which even Agony has smil'd to hear.
That crippled hand, so skill'd, in early youth,
To seize the graceful line of simple Truth,
More by increasing malady oppress'd,
Sinks, in its fetters, to reluctant rest;
And thy dark veil, Futurity! enshrouds
Its distant fortune in no common clouds.
Magnanimous and grateful to the last,
The suff'rer blesses Heaven for bounties past:
Pleas'd under Flaxman to have studied Art,
(Child of thy choice, and pupil of thy heart!)
His spirit trusts that, where thy talents reign,
His virtuous wish may yet be known, though vain;
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Friend of thy life, and partner of thy fame!
Yes, should thy genius, like Augustan power,
Spread o'er the earth, prosperity its dower,
Thy heart, my tender friend! however high
Thy just renown, will often, with a sigh,
Fondly regret thy art's intended heir,
(The young Marcellus of thy soft'ring care!)
Whose mild endurance of a storm so great
May charm the roughness of relenting fate.
Spread o'er the earth, prosperity its dower,
Thy heart, my tender friend! however high
Thy just renown, will often, with a sigh,
Fondly regret thy art's intended heir,
(The young Marcellus of thy soft'ring care!)
Whose mild endurance of a storm so great
May charm the roughness of relenting fate.
That youth of fairest promise, fair as May,
Pensively tender, and benignly gay,
On thy medallion still retains a form,
In health exulting, and with pleasure warm.
Teach thou my hand, with mutual love, to trace
His mind, as perfect as thy lines his face!
For Nature in that mind was pleas'd to pour
Of intellectual charms no trivial store;
Fancy's high spirit, talent's feeling nerve,
With tender modesty, with mild reserve,
And those prime virtues of ingenuous youth,
Alert benevolence, and dauntless truth;
Zeal, ever eager to make merit known,
And only tardy to announce its own;
Silent ambition, but, though silent, quick,
Yet softly shaded with a veil as thick
As the dark glasses tinted to descry
The sun, so soften'd not to wound the eye;
Temper by nature and by habit clear
From hasty choler, and from sullen fear,
Spleen and dejection could not touch the mind
That drew from solitude a joy refin'd,
To nurse inventive fire, in silence caught,
And brood successful o'er sequester'd thought.
Pensively tender, and benignly gay,
On thy medallion still retains a form,
In health exulting, and with pleasure warm.
Teach thou my hand, with mutual love, to trace
His mind, as perfect as thy lines his face!
For Nature in that mind was pleas'd to pour
Of intellectual charms no trivial store;
Fancy's high spirit, talent's feeling nerve,
With tender modesty, with mild reserve,
161
Alert benevolence, and dauntless truth;
Zeal, ever eager to make merit known,
And only tardy to announce its own;
Silent ambition, but, though silent, quick,
Yet softly shaded with a veil as thick
As the dark glasses tinted to descry
The sun, so soften'd not to wound the eye;
Temper by nature and by habit clear
From hasty choler, and from sullen fear,
Spleen and dejection could not touch the mind
That drew from solitude a joy refin'd,
To nurse inventive fire, in silence caught,
And brood successful o'er sequester'd thought.
Such was the youth, who, in the flatt'ring hour
Of Health's fair promise and unshaken power,
The favour'd pupil of thy friendly choice,
Drew art, and joy, and honour from thy voice;
Whose guidance, then his healthy day's delight,
Still forms the vision of his sickly night.
Could I, dear Flaxman! with thy skill express
Virtue's firm energy in long distress,
And all his merit, 'gainst affliction proof,
Since sickness forc'd him from thy guardian roof;
Thou might'st suppose I had before thee brought
A Christian martyr, by Ghiberti wrought:
So Pain has crush'd his frame with dire control,
And so the seraph Patience arm'd his soul.
Of Health's fair promise and unshaken power,
The favour'd pupil of thy friendly choice,
Drew art, and joy, and honour from thy voice;
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Still forms the vision of his sickly night.
Could I, dear Flaxman! with thy skill express
Virtue's firm energy in long distress,
And all his merit, 'gainst affliction proof,
Since sickness forc'd him from thy guardian roof;
Thou might'st suppose I had before thee brought
A Christian martyr, by Ghiberti wrought:
So Pain has crush'd his frame with dire control,
And so the seraph Patience arm'd his soul.
But not for notes like these my lyre was strung;
It promis'd joyous hymns, to happy Genius sung;
And Truth and Nature will my heart confess,
Form'd to exult in such a friend's success.
Yet will that friend, whose glory I esteem
My cordial pleasure and my fav'rite theme,
Forgive paternal pain, that wildly flings
An agitated hand across the strings,
A shade of sorrow o'er his triumph throws,
And sighing, bids th'imperfect pæan close.
It promis'd joyous hymns, to happy Genius sung;
And Truth and Nature will my heart confess,
Form'd to exult in such a friend's success.
Yet will that friend, whose glory I esteem
My cordial pleasure and my fav'rite theme,
Forgive paternal pain, that wildly flings
An agitated hand across the strings,
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And sighing, bids th'imperfect pæan close.
THE END OF THE POEM.
| An essay on sculpture | |