An essay on sculpture :: :: University of Virginia Library

An essay on sculpture

In a series of epistles to John Flaxman, Esq. R. A.: With notes. By William Hayley

Hayley, William (1745-1820)

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[AN ESSAY ON SCULPTURE.]

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[AN ESSAY ON SCULPTURE.]

EPISTLE THE FIRST.

Cognatas artes, studiumque affine sequamur! Milton.

ARGUMENT OF THE FIRST EPISTLE.

Fervent wishes for the safety of the Sculptor, returning from Rome.—A sketch of the studies and situation of the Author and his friend.—The aim of the former in the present composition.

Infuriate War! whose gory flags unfurl'd,
Waft dire contagion round the madd'ning world,
Spare, in thy rage, or in thy pride defend,
Art's hallow'd pilgrim, Virtue's gifted friend,
The travell'd Sculptor, after years of toil,
Nobly pursu'd on many a foreign soil,
Hast'ning, with deep-stor'd mind and practis'd hand,
To prize and decorate his native land!
Fierce as thou art, those shadowy forms revere,
By Science hoarded, and to Fancy dear;

Which in the plastic soul of Genius rest,
Folded, like future gems, in Nature's breast!
To peaceful Sculpture's unarm'd son accord
Safety and honour for no mean reward:
He can requite thy favour—he can give
Thy dear lost heroes yet again to live;
And faithful still to thee, with martial fire
To speak in marble, e'en till War expire.

Thus, ardent Flaxman! while you now review
Rome's sculptur'd glories in a fond adieu,
Now haste, admonish'd by instructive Time,
With filial pride to England's rougher clime.
The studious hermit, who, in that dear isle,
You left depriv'd of Health's inspiring smile,
To prosper your return, with votive lays
Resumes the lyre of friendship and of praise.

Dear Student! active as the Greeks of old,
In toil as steady, as in fancy bold;
Blending of discipline each separate part,
Diffusive knowledge with concenter'd art;

And adding, as you climb Discovery's hill,
The scholar's learning to the sculptor's skill;
Those years that roll'd o'er thee with lustre kind,
Rip'ning thy labours much, and more thy mind,
Those years, that gave thy faculties to shine,
In mists of malady enshrouded mine.

Think with what grief the spirit of thy friend,
Anxious as thine, but anxious to no end,
Year after year, of feverish sloth the prey,
Has seen each project of his mind decay,
And drop, like buds that, (when the parent rose,
Sick'ning in drought where no kind current flows,
Feels parching heat its genial powers enthrall,)
Unblown, unscented, and discolour'd, fall.

Disease, dread fiend! whatever name thou bear,
I most abhor thee as the child of Care;
Nor fix'd of feature, nor of station sure,
Thy power as noxious as thy shape obscure;
While thy cold vapours, with a baleful gloom,
Blight intellectual fruits howe'er they bloom:

Yet e'en o'er thee, in thy despotic hours,
When thou hast chain'd the mind's excursive powers,
Though to thy gloomy keep by pain betray'd,
That mind can triumph by celestial aid:
From thee, dull monitor! e'en then can learn
A mental lesson of most high concern—
To know the suffering spirit's sure resource,
And hail the hallow'd fount of human force.

God of those grateful hearts that own thy sway,
Howe'er their fibres flourish or decay,
Safe in thy goodness, with no will but thine,
Thy dearest gifts I cherish or resign!
Yet, if by storms of many a season tried,
And toss'd, not sunk, by life's uncertain tide,
I yet may view, benevolently gay,
A brighter evening to my darken'd day:
Grace it, blest Power! whate'er its date may be,
With lustre worthy of a gift from thee!

Poets, dear Sculptor! who to fame aspire,
Fearless pretend to inspiration's fire.

We boast of Muses, who, without reward,
Furnish the favour'd harp with golden chord:
Yet, to be frank, though pensive from my youth,
I play'd with Fiction as a child of Truth.
When my free mind in health's light vest was clad,
A feeling heart was all the lyre I had:
But quick as Memnon's statue felt the day,
And spoke responsive to the rising ray;
So quick the fibres of that heart I deem,
Of excellence, new risen, to feel the beam;
Feel the pure light a vocal transport raise,
And fondly hail it with melodious praise.
But Pain, dear Flaxman! the dull tyrant Pain,
A new Cambyses, broke this lyre in twain:
Still, like the statue sever'd on the ground,
Though weaker, still its wonted voice is found:
Warm'd by that light they love, the very fragments sound.

O could the texture of this suffering brain
The pleasing toil of patient thought sustain,
Unwearied now, as when in Granta's shade
Friendship endear'd the rites to Learning paid;
When keen for action, whether weak or strong,
My mind-disdain'd repose; and to prolong
The literary day's too brief delight,
Assign'd to social study half the night!
With ardour then, proportion'd to thy own,
My verse, dear Flaxman! in a louder tone
Should lead thy country, with a parent's hope,
To give thy talents animating scope;
Pleas'd, ere thy genius its best record frame,
To sound a prelude to thy future fame.

But worn with anguish, may thy bard command
Such notes as flow'd spontaneous from his hand
In that blest hour, when his applauded Muse,
Fond of no theme but what his heart might choose,
Appear'd that heart's ambitious hope to crown,
The happy herald of a friend's renown;

When Truth re-echoed her ingenuous praise,
And our lov'd Romney triumph'd in her lays.

The Arts and Friendship are angelic powers,
Worshipp'd by me through all my chequer'd hours;
My early offerings at their feet I cast:
Be theirs my present song, and theirs my last!
If Health to him, who oft, with fruitless sighs,
Watches the glance of her averted eyes,
Those eyes, whose light can wither'd minds renew,
Those stars, that shed an intellectual dew—
If Health will yet her inspiration give,
Call into life my verse, and bid it live!

Years that, like visions, vanish all by stealth,
When Time is dancing to the harp of Health—
But long, long links of an oppressive chain,
When his dull steps are told by lassitude and pain—
Years have elaps'd since, full of hope for thee,
Thy bard, though wreck'd on Study's restless sea,

Yet aim'd to give, by friendship's kind controul,
Miltonic temper to thy fervent soul;
And well hast thou, to make those years conduce
To future honour and immediate use,
Assign'd of early life thy studious prime
To bright Italia's art-enlighten'd clime;
That clime, where Milton, at an age like thine,
Imbib'd the fervour of sublime design,
As emulation wing'd his soul with fire,
In song to triumph o'er the Tuscan quire;
And Tasso's Muse, with epic glory bright,
Impell'd his fancy to a nobler flight:
So may the modern lord of Sculpture's sphere,
Whose mighty hand to many an art was dear—
May lofty Angelo thy mind inflame,
As happily to vie with Tuscan fame!
Then shall thy country, while thy works display
Force, feeling, truth, and beauty's moral sway,

Radiant, at last, with sculptural renown,
(A gem long wanting in her lucid crown,)
Feel new distinction animate her heart,
And high precedence hold in every art.

Pass not this presage in Detraction's eyes
For partial friendship's weak or vain surmise;
'Tis hope well grounded, such as heaven inspires
When man submits to heaven his proud desires.
May'st thou, my friend! whose well-instructed youth
Grav'd on thy heart this animating truth,
“Talents are power which men from God deduce,
“And best acknowledge by benignant use;”—
May'st thou, by years of prosperous study, reach
Remote Perfection, that no precepts teach!
May'st thou, like Angelo and Milton, close
A life of labour in divine repose,
In that calm vale of years, by Science blest,
Where well-earn'd honour warms the veteran's breast,
Acknowledg'd (to reward his mental strife)
A sovereign of the art to which he gave his life!

Enough for me, whose thrilling nerves confess
Sincerest transport in a friend's success—
For me, who hold, in life's autumnal days,
Private esteem more dear than public praise—
If I may pour, benevolently clear,
Incentive notes in Friendship's partial ear;
By zealous verse uninjur'd minds inflame
To toils of highest hope and hardest aim,
Urge those I love in lovely arts to shine,
And make their triumphs by affection mine.
As when, through hazards on a sea untried,
Philanthropy and Fame the vessel guide,
A crippled boatswain, for Old England's sake,
By his shrill note may abler seamen wake
To happier service than himself could yield,
If yet unshatter'd on the watery field.

O generous passion, under just command,
Enlighten'd fondness for our native land!
Thy potent fire the Grecian arts refin'd,
And made them idols of the cultur'd mind:

From thee the hero, as the artist, caught
Vigour of nerve and dignity of thought.
Great were thy wonders in the world of old,
When glory triumph'd o'er inferior gold.
But sceptics say that, in the modern breast,
The patriot passion is a sordid jest;
The knavish politician's pompous mask,
That to the wise betrays his secret task
To cheat a nation with fictitious zeal,
And ape the noble warmth he ne'er can feel.

O, blind to Nature the false sage, who thinks
That by the touch of Time her treasure sinks!
The mighty Parent draws from heaven the power
Freely to lavish her exhaustless dower;
That useful pride which, under many a name
The spring of action in the human frame,
Gives, at all periods, through her wide domain,
Force to the heart, and fancy to the brain—
The fruit may fail, as time and chance decree,
But every age and soil produce the tree—

That pride, the generous root of Grecian praise,
Lives yet, unweaken'd lives in modern days;
And oft it shoots, as many bards attest,
With attic vigour in an English breast!

Say, servent Flaxman! when, with new delight,
Thy travels led thee first to feast thy sight
Where Sculpture reigns, and holds her triumph still,
With hoarded miracles of ancient skill;
When first thine eyes those darling forms survey'd
That make the colours of description fade,
Feeling their potent charms in every vein,
Till admiration rose almost to pain—
Prov'd not thy swelling heart a proud desire
That, if pure Health will guard thy mental fire,
Thou, by impassion'd Toil's repeated touch,
For thy dear England may'st achieve as much
As ever Grecian hand for Greece achiev'd,
When hands gave life to all the soul conceiv'd?

Feelings like these the fervent Milton found,
Roving, in studious youth, o'er Tuscan ground;

Such, of refin'd ambition justly proud,
His candid spirit to the world avow'd,
When of his lot he spoke his early sense,
And consecrated life to toil intense.
Let pert Conceit, whom lighter fancies guide,
The aid of Toil and Piety deride;
Let flippant Wit conceive them dull allies,
That might forbid his active wing to rise,
And with a swallow's flight to dart at gilded flies;
Pure minds, to whom the highest powers are given,
Own what they owe to industry and heaven.
Milton by ceaseless toil to glory climb'd,
And strong devotion's fire his soul sublim'd;
Meek Newton thus his modest wisdom taught,
“All that I've done is due to patient thought.”

Hard is their fate, most pitiably hard,
Who feel the shatter'd mind from toil debarr'd;
Whom, on exploits of intellect intent,
Distemper holds in Sloth's dark prison pent,

Forbid in Fancy's favourite wilds to range,
And destin'd with reluctance to exchange
Refin'd ambition's brave and spotless strife,
For low and little cares of languid life.

How oft, dear active friend! in listless pain,
Thy distant invalid has wish'd in vain
For strength, through Roman fanes with thee to rove;
And pausing near the Capitolian Jove,
In scenes with solemn inspiration fraught,
Catch the strong impulse of inspiring thought!

While thou, in mental luxury refin'd,
Hast nobly banqueted thy thirsty mind
With all that art could yield, or taste require,
As purest aliment to Fancy's fire—
While thy unwearied hand, and soul elate,
Have jointly toil'd to copy or create,
My suffering mind would to itself complain,
Too conscious that the cloister of the brain

Seem'd like a fabric ransack'd by a Goth,
Whose cruel enmity and wasteful wrath,
Defacing all that Truth had treasur'd there,
Left but a cell for Sorrow's silent prayer.
But hence, desponding Sloth! hence, dull Complaint!
That make e'en Pity's wearied spirit faint!
If Health, like Fortune, with capricious sway
Chequers the course of life's contracting day,
From each coy goddess with delight we learn,
Long absence but endears the late return.

Since my firm friend, for travel's noblest use,
Sail'd with the blessing of a sick recluse,
I have not lost, though cramp'd and cabin'd here,
In fruitless sloth each intervening year.
Though Health denied me limbs that might ascend
Rough Alpine heights with my excursive friend,
A different cause, and of a later date,
Fixing to English ground my studious fate,

Bade me no more that pleasing hope resume,
With thee, instructive guide, to study Rome.
The high and hallow'd bard, whose Muse of Fire
May, as I wish'd, thy plastic hand inspire:
Milton himself, with unresisted sway,
Held me from thee and Roman joys away.
Justice and truth, with strong affection join'd,
Imperious rulers of the feeling mind,
Urg'd me to vindicate from many a wrong
The slander'd paramount of English song:
Happy, dear friend! if this reviving hand
The line of just resemblance may command,
True as thy chissel, that can marble warm
With all the life that speaks in outward form.

O! if, in kind beneficence profuse,
Heaven deigns, at destin'd periods, to produce
Superior spirits on this earthly stage,
To light and elevate a grov'ling age,

To shew how Genius bears Affliction's rod,
And fix the desultory soul on God:
Such, the fond reverence of the world to claim,
Nature to England gave, in Milton's name,
By darkness undismay'd, by toil untir'd,
When conscience dictated, or Heaven inspir'd.

First of poetic minds! if, fondly true,
My willing heart has paid thee homage due;
If this weak hand, elaborately just,
Clear'd thy bright image from detraction's rust;
Teach me to baffle adverse Health's controul
With all thy fervency, and force of soul!
As amulets against all worldly ill,
In my free breast thy sentiments instill!
Not thy crude thoughts of democratic sway,
The hasty fruits of a distemper'd day,
But, never changing with the changeful hour,
Thy sense of human hopes and heavenly power!
In one sensation, one—my dearest pride—
Well may I boast a heart to thine allied:

In this my thoughts with thy frank words agree,
That, “if by Nature, or by Fate's decree,
“No toils of mine can teach me to ascend
“Heights of perfection that may wait my friend,
“The powers of heaven or earth will ne'er prevent
“My mind's persisting in its favourite bent
“To joy in excellence, and honour those
“On whom that coyest queen her smile bestows:”
Blest, if to future time my verse descend
A just record of an excelling friend;
Blest, if, with generous sympathy survey'd,
And its pure aim against its failings weigh'd,
It serve to quicken in the public mind
Love for those gentler arts that grace mankind.

Thus, my dear Flaxman! while I now descry
Thy goddess, Sculpture! in my mental eye,
Hoping the winds, by her entreaties won,
Will waft in safety home her travell'd son,

Thy bard, resuming long-forsaken rhyme,
Soothes, in this rambling verse, the anxious time;
Musing, if Heaven may to his mind afford
Joy's inspiration for a friend restor'd,
How he may raise, in that propitious hour,
An altar worthy of thy guardian Power;
Describe her progress from her distant birth,
And all her bounty to th'embellish'd earth;
Then how pure zeal, in this enlighten'd isle,
May court her presence, may ensure her smile;
And cherish hope that here she may attain
Dominion equal to her attic reign!

Yes, though fierce havoc, in these frantic times,
Makes each fine art recoil from mortal crimes,
Yet, in celestial wrath's relenting day,
Those friends of earth shall reassume their sway!

Angels of light! who deeds of blood abhor,
Enchain that homicidal maniac, War!
All hell's dire agents in one form combin'd
To fire the globe, and demonize mankind!

Let Arts, that render men divinely brave,
To Peace's temple turn Destruction's cave;
And form, to counteract infernal strife,
New bonds of friendship, and new charms of life!

THE END OF THE FIRST EPISTLE.

EPISTLE THE SECOND.

------Dædala signa polire
Usus, et impigræ simul experientia mentis
Paulatim docuit pedetentim progredientis.
Lucretius.

ARGUMENT OF THE SECOND EPISTLE.

Invocation to Sculpture.—Different ideas on the origin of Art.—A sketch of its progress in Asia, Egypt, and the early ages of Greece.

Thou first and simplest of the Arts, that rose
To cheer the world, and lighten human woes!
Friend of the mourner! Guardian of the tomb!
May I, chaste Sculpture! without blame, presume,
Rude in thy laws, thy glory to relate,
To trace, through chequer'd years, thy changeful fate;
And praise thee, forming with a potent hand
Thy new dominion in my native land?

While zeal thus bids the breath of incense roll
From that pure censer, a benignant soul,

And, with the fond sincerity of youth,
Would blazon merit in the tints of truth,
Enlivening Friendship shall those aids supply,
That injur'd health and troubled years deny:
Her hallow'd fire, like Inspiration's beam,
May raise the poet to his honour'd theme.

As death-like clay, dear Flaxman! to fulfil
The kind behest of thy creative skill,
Lives at thy touch, and, with affection warm,
Of changeful beauty wears each varying form;
So languid thought, that, lifeless and disjoin'd,
Floats a dark chaos of the cumber'd mind,
At Friendship's bidding in new shapes may shine,
With each attractive charm of just design;
And gain from her, as an immortal dower,
The vivid grace of that inspiring power:
In lucid order teach my verse to rise,
Dear as a magic glass to Sculpture's eyes,
Where thy pleas'd goddess may with pride survey
Her ancient honours, and her future sway!

What eye may hope to pierce the distant gloom
Where, in their cradle shadowy as the tomb,
Breathing, scarce breathing the dark air of strife,
The infant Arts first struggled into life?

There are who, led by Fancy's airy clue,
In Scythian wilds the birth of Sculpture view,
And image to themselves her youthful hand,
Prompted by dark Devotion's fond command,
To form, of yielding stone or ductile clay,
An early symbol of Almighty sway;
The bull's stern front, to which rude myriads kneel,
The favourite idol of benighted zeal.

Others a softer origin assign
To the young beauties of this art benign—
To Love, inspiring the Corinthian maid
Fondly to fix her sleeping lover's shade;
And her kind sire's congenial skill they trace
The new attraction of a modell'd face.

The king, whose power, by intellect refin'd,
Enthron'd each science in his ample mind,
Tells, in his hallow'd page, how Sculpture rose,
To soothe the anguish of parental woes;
How first a father, in affliction's storm,
Of his dead darling wrought the mimic form,
Impassion'd Nature's laudable relief,
Till impious worship grew from tender grief.

No single region of the spacious earth
Can take exclusive pride in Sculpture's birth.
Wherever God, with bounty unconfin'd,
Gave man, his image, a creative mind,
Its lovely children, Arts mimetic, sprung,
And spoke, through different lands, in every tongue.

Though keen research, elate with Learning's pride,
From vain conjecture would in vain decide
How Sculpture first, in early twilight's hour,
Made the first essay of her infant power;

Though clouds of fabulous tradition hide
Her fam'd Prometheus, her primæval pride:
Still can the eyes of Fancy and of Truth
Behold her shining in attractive youth,
By Love, by Grief, by Piety caress'd,
Alternate nursling of each hallow'd breast;
Rear'd, by their care, to work as each inspires,
And fondly ministring to their desires.

Where first imperial Pride, with wealth her dower,
Spoke in a voice of vivifying power,
And, charm'd in Asia with her new domain,
Summon'd the Arts as vassals of her train,
Sculpture, perchance, ennobled by her sway,
Gave her first wonders to the eye of day.
If, credulously fond, the Muse may speak,
Nor doubt the bold description of a Greek,
Her favourite Art's primæval skill was seen
To form the semblance of that Syrian queen,

Whose daring hand the dart of triumph hurl'd,
Who rul'd, in Babylon, the eastern world;
And, pleas'd the bounds of transient life to pass,
Aim'd at eternal sway in animated brass.

Alas! how vain, in Asia's crumbling soil,
Prov'd the proud efforts of imperial Toil!
Where are thy wonders, Babylon? What eye
May now a vestige of thy art descry?
The cautious students in historic lore
Question the marvels they in vain explore;
Thy boasted sights a splendid fable deem,
And hold Semiramis herself a dream.

But haste, thou lovely goddess of my lays,
Whose varying powers command my willing praise!
Lead me from ruins, where I hardly meet
Uncertain traces of thy long-past feet,
To scenes of solid, though of gloomy truth,
The dark asylum of thy busy youth!

Hail, Ægypt! hail, laborious, patient land!
Sublime in purpose, in performance grand!
Thy steady spirit to young Sculpture taught
To scape destruction in the works she wrought;
And blind Oblivion's torrent, swell'd by storms,
Has fail'd to bury thy colossal forms.
If taste fastidious may with scorn deride
Ægyptian tributes to despotic pride;
If Wonder stand in joyless trance aghast
At regal blocks, elaborately vast—
Protentous copies of a mortal frame,
Though firm, uncouth; and though enormous, tame—
If Fancy shrink from Superstition's shapes,
Dog-headed gods and consecrated apes,
From dark conceits to Learning's self unknown,
And the mute riddle on the mangled stone;—
Yet highly, Ægypt, of thy worth I deem,
And view thy patient efforts with esteem.
Is it not wonderful, and worthy praise,
That men, untouch'd by Inspiration's rays,

Strangers to Freedom, gaiety, and grace,
Could build renown upon a lasting base;
And all the ravage of destruction foil
By the calm powers of persevering toil?
Yes, Ægypt, here let thy just praise be read,
Thy tender rev'rence for the virtuous dead;
And thy fond care, by Sculpture's noblest aim,
To give beneficence a deathless name!
Time on that care bestows the wish'd effect,
And guards thy massive monarchs with respect.

Let not nice Taste, of purer fancy vain,
This praise of old and graceless art arraign:
Should a magician usher to our view
An ancient wrinkled dame of dingy hue,
Big-bon'd and stiff, and muttering mangled verse,
Then should he say, with truth, “See Helen's nurse!”
The swarthy beldam friendly hands would shake,
And all would bless her for her nursling's sake.

Such Memphian art, to attic minds endear'd;
For Greece, their Helen! was by Ægypt rear'd.

Ye first and fairest of ideal forms,
Whom beauty decorates, and passion warms!
Ye Graces, who beheld, with just delight,
All Greece one temple, by your presence bright!
Conduct a modern bard, in fancy's hour,
To view that temple; conscious of your power,
Conscious your favour full success ensures;
The paths of knowledge, truth, and fame are yours.
Your aid a vital charm to toil imparts,
The deathless soul of transmigrating arts.
Offspring of Freedom and of Feeling! you
Outlive your parents, and their life renew:
Immortal in their works, your endless sway
Can bring departed talents into day;
Convince the world your influence sublime
Fears no fictitious bars of soil or clime;

Exalt my country with your kindest smile,
And raise an Athens in this northern isle!

My daring verse avows the patriot aim
To quicken Britain's love for boundless fame;
To raise her pitch of emulation high,
With Grecian Sculpture's perfect sons to vie.

When foreign pride would British minds enchain,
Perish the doubt, preposterously vain,
That mental tyrants arrogantly start
To limit England in the sphere of art!
Has she not borne, to men and angels dear,
A poet who, beyond his Greek compeer,
In Fancy's field the disk of glory hurl'd—
The hallow'd Homer of the Christian world?
Associate Arts alternate lustre lend;
Each, in her hour, appears a sister's friend.
Say why in sculpture Greece has reign'd supreme?
Nature with marble gave her rocks to teem;

And fostering Freedom bade her chissel trace
Unfetter'd forms of dignity and grace;
Propitious both to Art: but higher still
Flows the bright fountain of her plastic skill.
Homer first vivifi'd the public mind,
Arm'd it with strength, with elegance refin'd;
From him, that mind with images replete,
As Sculpture potent, and as Painting sweet,
Grew by degrees, in various branches bright;
Congenial faculties pursu'd his flight;
And Phidias rose, while Art and Nature smil'd,
The mighty poet's intellectual child
Whom Sculpture boasted in her proudest hour,
By Heaven invested with Homeric power.

When, truer to itself, the British mind,
More keen for honours of the purest kind,
To Milton's genius such regard shall pay
As Greece for Homer gloried to display,
Like Phidias, then, her sculptors shall aspire
To quicken marble with Miltonic fire;

And attic deities shall yield the palm
To lovelier forms, seraphically calm.

Fine Art's important growth in every clime
Requires the slow progressive aid of Time.
In Greece, where Sculpture reach'd such heights at last,
That Nature, smiling, own'd herself supass'd,
Observe how ages her long childhood nurs'd,
And how her ripen'd charms excell'd the first!

Behold her Dædalus, whom fables praise,
The boast and wonder of her early days!
He, daring artist, in a period dark,
In death-like forms infus'd a living spark;
He loosen'd from the side the lifeless arm,
Gave to the open'd eyes a speaking charm,
And such an air of action to the whole
That his rude statue seem'd to have a soul.

Thou great artificer of deathless fame!
Thy varied skill has prov'd the sport of Fame,
Who shews, half shrouded in the veil of Time,
Thy real talents, thy imputed crime;

A crime as false, in Reason's friendly sight,
As through the buoyant air thy fabled flight.
Theseus and Hercules with thee combin'd
By different toils to meliorate mankind:
They labour'd to secure, by glorious strife,
And thou, by glorious arts, to sweeten life.
Though dim traditions all thy merit show,
Too well one feature of thy fate we know:
Genius and misery, (so oft, on earth,
Severely blended in the lot of worth,)—
These both were thine, and both in rare extremes,
Yet both were recompens'd by glory's beams:
Thy native Athens in thy praise was loud,
And grateful Ægypt to thy image bow'd.
Ruin has sunk within her drear domain
Thy attic figures, thy Ægyptian fane;
Glory still grants, thy fav'rite name to grace,
One monument that Time can ne'er deface,
Where Pathos, while her lips thy pangs rehearse,
Shews thy parental heart enshrin'd in Virgil's verse.

Unhappy genius of a brutal age!
Admir'd and spurn'd by ignorance and rage!
Though styl'd a murd'rer, who, with envy blind,
Kill'd the keen scholar to his charge consign'd;
Though doom'd to sorrow's most oppressive weight,
To mourn a darling son's disastrous fate;
Just Heaven allow'd thy tortur'd mind to rest
On one disciple, in thy guidance blest—
Thy kind Endæus joy'd thy lot to share,
Thy friend in exile, and in art thy heir!
A witness of his skill Minerva stood—
Colossal deity in sculptur'd wood;
And from his touch less-yielding ivory caught
Of life the semblance, and the air of thought.
The different uses of an art divine
From thee he learnt; for Art's wide field was thine:
Rich, though yet rude; where her prophetic eyes
Saw distant wonders from thy genius rise,
Whose native strength, like England's early sage,
Bursting the barriers of a barbarous age,

Emerg'd, while Nature bade thy mimic strife
Make bold advances to ideal life.
Not vain, O Dædalus! thy toil, to raise
A varied column of inventive praise;
Though lost to sight each boldly-labour'd mass
Of wood, of stone, of ivory, of brass,
That from thy spirit vital semblance won;
Though Time, unfeeling, crush'd thy sculptur'd son,
Whose form, more fondly labour'd than thy own,
In radiant bronze with radiant lustre shone,
And long to strangers would thy love attest,
An idol of the land that gave thee rest—
Though these were sunk in early ruin, still,
An happier offspring of thy plastic skill,
Schools of Greek art arose, with spirit free,
And blest a bold progenitor in thee.
Ægina, like the morning's early rays,
And Corinth, bright as the meridian blaze;

Sicyon, ingenious Beauty's native earth,
And Rhodes, who gloried in Minerva's birth—
Hence Sculpture drew her nurseries of skill,
Rich as a river fed by many a rill;
While earth and Heaven exult in its advance
To shine reflected in its bright expanse!
Nor there alone did liberal Art display
The sweet enchantment of her early sway:
Even rough Sparta, though engross'd by arms,
Esteem'd the patient chissel's softer charms.
Proud of her dauntless race in battle tried,
She rear'd a sculptor with parental pride;
Pleas'd that her son Gitiades combin'd
Three kindred arts in his accomplish'd mind.
He built, he deck'd with bronze Minerva's fane,
Then sung the goddess in a hallow'd strain.
The triple homage won her kind regard,
And from oblivion sav'd the artist and the bard.

But, like the cast of Spartan manners, coarse,
And slighting softer charms for sinewy force,
E'en Grecian art, through all its studious youth,
Reach'd not the latent grace of lovely Truth.
Her chiefs, her gods, as in a mental storm,
Aw'd with a proud austerity of form;
Yet Sculpture's sons, with Nature in their view,
Increas'd in talents, and in honour grew.
Such power Dipænus gave to Parian stone,
That gods appear'd to make his cause their own;
And Terror thought they curs'd the sterile soil
Where haste insulted his unfinish'd toil.

Thy sons, Anthermus, with a filial pride
Their dear hereditary talents plied,
And bade, the measure of her fame to fill,
Their native Chios glory in their skill:
But, in an evil hour of angry haste,
They with malignant skill their art debas'd;

Pleas'd to devote to mockery's regard
The homely visage of no trifling bard:
Hipponax, fam'd for acrimonious song,
Soon with Iambic rage aveng'd the wrong.
Deform'd of soul, Derision fann'd the strife:
But the mild patrons of enlighten'd life,
The nobler Graces, mourn'd the bickering hour,
And blam'd the mean abuse of mental power.

For aims more worthy of an art divine,
A purer fame, Antenor, shall be thine,
Whose skill to public reverence consign'd
The patriot idols of the Grecian mind—
The young Tyrannicides, whose dauntless soul
Disdain'd submission to usurp'd control;
Whose brave achievement, and whose blended praise,
Athens rehears'd in her convivial lays—
Athens, exulting those dear forms to see—
Whose very silence cried aloud, “Be free!”

Instructive Sculpture! chaste and awful queen
Of Arts that dignify this earthly scene!
Thy finest skill, thy most empassion'd powers,
Form'd to outlive the pencil's fading flowers,
Are well devoted, as true honour's prize,
To Freedom's son who for his parent dies:
For she, the prime ennobler of the mind,
That, wanting her blest beam, is weak and blind—
Freedom, of Excellence the fostering friend,
Whom Virtue loves, and Sciences attend—
Freedom first made in Greece, her favourite land,
Beauty and Force the creatures of thy hand:
She taught thee with such forms to deck thy sphere
As wise Idolatry may yet revere;
Forms, in which Art refin'd on Nature's plan,
At once resembling and surpassing Man.

'Twas in the splendor of those glorious days,
When attic valour won eternal praise—
When, happy to have clear'd her cumber'd coast
From fierce Invasion's foil'd barbaric host—

Exulting Liberty to Sculpture cried,
“Aid thou our triumphs, and our joys divide!
“Since I and Nature in this scene conspire
“To warm accomplish'd minds with happiest fire,
“That Fame may see them in her fane preside,
“And deem her attic sons her dearest pride!
“To memorize their noble forms be thine!
“Grace thou the mortal with an air divine!
“That Grecian excellence, eluding fate,
“Age after age may shine supremely great;
“That Greece herself, and every polish'd clime,
“May, through the long vicissitudes of time,
“Hail those who sav'd her from Oppression's rod,
“The patriot hero, or the guardian god!”
So Freedom spake, and at her potent call
Obedient Sculpture peopled every hall;
The generous artist fix'd, with proud delight,
The state's brave champions in the public sight;
And grateful Genius felt his powers expand,
While public virtue taught his willing hand

To honour chiefs who every danger brav'd,
And decorate the land their valour sav'd.

Nor gave just Gratitude to man alone
This vital tribute of expressive stone,
But to Athenians who, in beauty's form,
Repress'd their female fear in ruin's storm;
Who, in the hour when their delightful home,
Domestic altars, and each sacred dome,
Were seen to sink in fate's barbaric blaze,
Disdain'd despair, and look'd for happier days
In Grecian arms still daring to confide
With tender fortitude and virtuous pride;
Pleas'd in Trezene's sheltering walls to wait,
Till attic force restor'd their native state.
Ye patient heroines! not vain your trust,
By love suggested, and to valour just!
Athens, the favourite theme of every tongue,
(A real Phenix,) from her ashes sprung—
Athens, endear'd to every feeling heart,
A throne of Genius, and a mine of art—

Athens was proud your conduct to review;
She to your courage rais'd memorials due,
And with your sculptur'd charms Trezene deck'd,
Who sav'd her fugitives with fond respect.

Ye heroines of hope, whose force of mind
Induc'd relenting Fortune to be kind!
Teach me to copy what I justly praise!
Teach me, like you, in dark affliction's days—
Now while the lyre, by sorrow's stern command,
Sinks in forc'd silence from my troubled hand—
Teach me to wait, in Quiet's friendly bower,
The future sunshine of a fairer hour.

THE END OF THE SECOND EPISTLE.

EPISTLE THE THIRD.

------ και πασαν κατα
Ελλαδ' γυρησις ερευνων
Μασσον', η ως εδεμεν.
Αλλα κουφοισιν εκνευσαι ποσιν
Ζευ τελει, αιδω διδως,
Και τυχαν τερπνων γλυκειαν.
Pindar.

ARGUMENT OF THE THIRD EPISTLE.

The Grecian sculptors of later time—Myron—Polycletus—Phidias—Praxiteles —Euphranor—Lysippus—The Colossus of Rhodes.—Address to Time, as the restorer of buried Art.—The Laocoon.—Niobe.—Hercules. Apollo.—Venus.

Justice and Honour call! Awake, my lyre!
Artists of Attica thy voice require!
Ye Greeks! ye demi-gods of ancient days!
Whose life was energy, whose passion praise!
What patriot rapture must your hearts have known,
When with new charms your native Athens shone!
Conspiring Arts strain'd every nerve to crown
Their rescu'd darling with unmatch'd renown;
And of those earth-ennobling Arts who strove,
Fost'ring her glory, to ensure her love.

Nor last, nor least, O Sculpture! was thy claim,
Delightful minister of deathless fame!
E'en at this day, when Time's illusive cloud
Enwraps departed empire like a shroud,
Rending Oblivion's veil in Fancy's sight,
Thy Grecian-sons my willing praise invite.

Thy Myron, first of that accomplish'd race
Who gave to ruder forms true vital grace;
See him with smiles his brazen cow caress,
While herds applausive round the sculptor press!
His work they hail with fond amazement wild,
And deem their kindred statue Nature's child:
A numerous train of rival bards rehearse
His brazen heifer's praise in partial verse.
But not to brutes was his pure art confin'd;
Myron in nobler forms infus'd a mind.
'Twas his in Bacchus' fane that god to place,
With such commanding and such cheerful grace,
That the pleas'd eye, of potent form the test,
Gladly the joy-inspiring power confest.

'Twas his with genius, in position rare,
To show the labouring limbs with learned care.
His keen Discobolos in every part
Spoke toiling Nature trac'd by patient Art;
And his fleet Ladas, train'd for Piza's prize,
Hope in his heart, impatience in his eyes,
Through all his shape express'd his eager soul,
A thirst for praise, and panting for the goal.

Of higher studies and superior note,
See Polycletus his strong mind devote,
To frame for studious youth instruction's plan,
And found his precepts on his faultless man!
The model, fam'd through long-succeeding time,
Display'd young Vigor in his martial prime.
Nor did thy female forms with weaker claim,
Accomplish'd artist! at perfection aim:
Witness Ephesian Dian's ample fane,
Fill'd with her active Amazonian train.

By many a sculptor, emulously keen,
These rival nymphs, high-wrought, enrich'd the scene.
There, where the judges of thy art declare
Which figure they pronounce supremely fair,
How great the triumph of thy chaste design!
The Amazon of Phidias yields to thine!
But as low vallies to the mountain grove,
As humble deities to awful Jove,
Such, in his time, was every fam'd compeer
With Phidias match'd in Art's sublimest sphere;
Where the rapt mind, to Heaven itself convey'd,
Imbibes celestial form by Fancy's aid,
And gives adoring mortals to survey
Features that indicate Almighty sway.

Genius of ancient Greece! whose influence ran
Through every talent that ennobles man;
O'er bright ideas taught the mind to brood,
And feast on glory, as its native food;

Bear me, in vision bear me, to that ground
Where Honor's fervent spirit breath'd around;
Where gay Distinction held the garland high,
And thy prime wonders gladden'd every eye!
Thy favourite precincts at my wish appear,
Where hymns of triumph fill the raptur'd ear;
My eager feet have pass'd thy olive grove,
And touch the threshold of Olympian Jove!

Lo, in calm pomp, with Art's profusion bright,
Whose blended glories fascinate the sight,
Sits the dread power! Around his awful head
The sacred foliage of the olive spread,
Declares that in his sovereign mind alone
Peace ever shines, and has for ever shone.

The temple's spacious precincts scarce enfold
The grand quiescent form of ivory and gold.
The symbols of his sway, on either hand,
Delight and reverence at once command.
Behold his right sweet Vict'ry's image bear,
Form'd, like his own, elaborately fair:

His left a sceptre with rich light invests,
And tranquil on its point his eagle rests;
His sandals are of gold; a golden robe
Proclaims his empire o'er the living globe:
For earth's mute creatures, on his vest are seen
With flowers, and first the lily as their queen.

The rich compartments of the throne enfold
Ivory with ebony, and gems with gold:
Adorn'd with images, four massive feet
Sustain the radiance of the regal seat.
Around each foot four joyous forms advance,
Four Vict'ries, weaving a triumphant dance.
The throne's high summit shapes more lovely still
With animation and with beauty fill:
The Graces here upon their parent wait;
His filial Seasons there, and both in triple state.

The labouring eye, with admiration smit,
Labours in vain each figure to admit,
That blended arts conspiring toil'd to raise
On this grand spectacle, surpassing praise.

Yet here all eyes, the skilful and unskill'd,
Impress'd with awe, and with amazement fill'd,
From the blest features of the god imbibe
Such thoughts as meliorate his mortal tribe.
Phidias! all vouch thy fame, though not in speech—
Thine, the prime glory pagan minds could reach—
Thine, to have form'd, in superstition's hour,
The noblest semblance of celestial power!
Illustrious artist! in thy signal lot
What stains the glory of thy country blot!
Genius of Athens! sorrow seals thy lips,
And all thy splendour sinks in dark eclipse,
When history shews with a regret benign,
The sins of base ingratitude were thine—
Ingratitude to men, whose skill sublime
Gave thee to triumph o'er the rage of time!

How, Phidias! was thy heart with anguish stung,
When public malice, by thy pupil's tongue,
Charg'd thee, whose mind was cast in honor's mould,
With the mean sacrilege of pilfer'd gold!

But thee thy Pericles, that noble name
Who rear'd thy talents, and who shares thy fame,
By generous Friendship's providential care
Rescu'd from Slander's execrable snare—
Vengeance was thine, that vengeance just and grand,
Which fires wrong'd genius with an eager hand
Of national iniquity to foil
Th'oppressive aim, by new and nobler toil,
Till Envy's self with wonder stand aghast,
Seeing the works that wak'd her rage surpass'd.
So with himself this injur'd artist strove,
His far-fam'd Pallas yielded to his Jove;
And grateful Elis, proud new palms to gain,
Boasted, with truth, of Phidias justly vain,
That Athens was eclips'd by her Olympian fane.

Still dear to fame, though fickleness, thy joy,
Urg'd thee, by turns, to cherish and destroy
The very excellence thy breast supplied,
Child of thy love, and nursling of thy pride,

Even thy foes, O Athens! mourn'd thy fate,
When fierce Lysander thunder'd at thy gate,
And all thy wounded Arts felt War's o'erwhelming weight—
War, whence the worst of human misery springs;
The people's folly, and the guilt of kings.
Thy Pericles, whose talents seem'd to claim
A monarch's empire, with a patriot's name—
He, thy untitled king, whose liberal mind
Genius enrich'd, and discipline refin'd;
Whose potent voice control'd a people free,
As Heaven's presiding breath commands the sea—
He, who delighted on fine Art to raise
The deathless fabric of his country's praise;
Taught public wealth to rear ingenious worth,
Exalted Nature, and embellish'd earth—
He, by mild virtues to the world endear'd,
Whose dying boast Humanity rever'd—
E'en he, by fits of martial frenzy sway'd,
To blood's dire demons a rash offering made;

And, blind to ill his nature must abhor,
Hurried his nation to that fatal war
Whose lengthen'd horrors on his Athens threw
Disgrace that Death hid kindly from his view,
When at the savage Spartan's foot she lay;
Her shame his pride, her ornaments his prey.

Wherever Liberty, when doom'd to weep
In transient pangs, or sink in death-like sleep,
Lost her quick spirit, wounded or betray'd,
Her foster'd Arts with filial grief decay'd.

But short, in Athens, was the baleful course
Of envious Tyranny and Spartan force.
Her thirty tyrants, with a robber's dread,
From the just arm of Trasybulus fled:
His patriot virtue burst the servile yoke,
And, bright from brief eclipse, effulgent Freedom broke;
Attendant Arts her satellites appear,
And shed new lustre round her Attic sphere.

When happy Genius, by a daring flight,
Has seem'd to perch on proud Perfection's height,
Afraid on disproportion'd wings to rise,
Aw'd and abash'd, weak Emulation dies.
Such fate had Poesy for Homer's Muse,
No Greek with prosperous rivalship pursues.
Sculpture, more fruitful, though she joy'd to claim
For her dear Phidias pure Homeric fame,
Not to one darling felt her pride confin'd,
But to new sons new excellence assign'd.

Scopas! in wond'rous harmony 'twas thine
The charms of passion and of grace to join;
Thy skill express'd new shades of soft desire,
Each varying character of Cupid's fire.
In thy gay figure Bacchus smil'd to see
His gambols of tumultuary glee.
Thy genius wrought, by different powers inspir'd,
As fondness wish'd, or dignity requir'd!

'Twas thine to decorate the gorgeous scene,
Where Arts were proud to aid the Carian queen.
Richly she rais'd, for widow'd love's relief,
The grand memorial of imperial grief,
The Mausoleum, whose immortal name
Records her sorrow, and preserves her fame.

Of feelings exquisite, to fondness prone,
And pleas'd to make peculiar praise thy own,
Praxiteles! the power that sway'd thee most,
Made it thy joy, thy privilege, thy boast,
To see coy Beauty own thy kind control,
And show each soft emotion of her soul;
While breathing stone accomplish'd thy behest,
And every charm of tender grace express'd;
Till thy fine Work such perfect life display'd,
Venus with pride her marble self survey'd.
Enchanting artist! whose warm heart was seen
Devoting all thy skill to Beauty's queen!
'Twas not thy fate to serve a thankless power;
Her smile is gratitude, delight her dower.

Love, her young darling, thy dear Art caress'd,
Child of thy genius, sovereign of thy breast!
Thy sportive patroness to thy embrace
Consign'd the fairest of her Grecian race,
Whose wit to beauty could new charms impart,
Pleas'd to inspirit and reward thy art.
This playful fair would secret knowledge seek,
Which her unboasting friend declin'd to speak:
She wish'd to know (a wish in vain express'd)
Which of his happy works he deem'd the best:
The best is hers, if she the best will choose,
But self-applause his modest lips refuse.

A subtle fiction aids her strong desire:
“Praxiteles! thy gallery's on fire!”
With fear well feign'd the fond enthusiast cries.
Quick, in alarm, the man of art replies:
“Oh, angry Vulcan! mar each meaner shape,
“But let my Cupid and my Faun escape!”
The smiling fair relieves him in a trice,
And Cupid, soon her own, repays the fond device.

Of sterner spirit, and with bold design,
Toiling in two congenial arts to shine,
With energetic truth Euphranor wrought
The forceful features of heroic thought;
And ere the youth a vanquish'd world o'errun,
In glory's car he seated Philip's son.

Hail to that graceful youth! whose fervid mind
Feeling and taste in early life refin'd;
Who on the soul of cherish'd art impress'd
That zeal for glory which his own confess'd!
Let the stern sage chastise with Reason's rod,
Ambition's victim, and Delirium's god,
More pleasing duties to the bard belong,
While tracing Sculpture's march in moral song.
Honour's just tribute to the prince he pays,
Who view'd her beauty with a lover's gaze;
And nobly sav'd it from a quick decline
By liberal care, and bounty's warmth benign:
Who bade her favourite son his power surpass,
And call to life in fame-conferring brass

(A work, where Gratitude with glory blends!)
His guardian group, his self-devoted friends.

Proud of the victor's praise, and pleas'd to aid
A hero's spirit by affection sway'd,
With such enchanting skill Lysippus' hand
Rais'd to distinction this devoted band,
That as each Macedon their forms beheld,
With kindred fire each martial bosom swell'd;
Each for their lot would gladly yield his breath,
And deem their honor cheaply bought by death.

How blest, Lysippus! was thy signal fate,
Whose genius found all graces in the great!
Nature and Fortune seem'd for thee to blend,
In one bright form, the model, patron, friend.
His taste enlighten'd whom his power sustain'd,
And in the sculptor's heart the hero reign'd.
Hence, for thy godlike Ammon 'twas thy praise
Each varying semblance of his form to raise;
Marking of changeful life the gradual course,
From childhood's tenderness to manhood's force;

And these appropriate images to fill
With such felicity of latent skill
As labour, led by love alone, can find,
By love, the offspring of a grateful mind.

Ever, Lysippus! be thy name rever'd,
By moral dignity of mind endear'd!
Glory, well-pleas'd, thy double worth beheld,
The matchless artist by the man excell'd;
Thy upright spirit, firm in manly sense,
Scorning to favour impious Pride's pretence,
Reprov'd thy friend Apelles, that he strove
To lavish lightning on a fancied Jove;
And to thy statue, rationally grand,
Gave the just weapon of a hero's hand.
Thy taste ador'd, with Virtue's temperate flame,
Truth, as the fountain both of art and fame;
Yet no ill-founded rule, no servile fear,
Chain'd thy free mind in Fancy's fav'rite sphere.
Thy dauntless thought, proportion for its guide,
From life's trite field each brave excursion tried:

Thy changeful genius, patient and acute,
Toil'd on colossal forms, or play'd with the minute;
And Nature own'd each work, with fond surprize,
True to her soul, though faithless to her size.
The hallow'd bulk of thy Tarentine Jove
Check'd the proud spoilers of each sacred grove;
Roman rapacity, in plunder's hour,
Paus'd, and rever'd the mighty sculptor's power.

Thy Hercules, the table's grace and guard,
Rais'd to extatic joy a Roman bard,
Whose social Muse delighted to rehearse
The festive statue's charms in friendly verse;
Prais'd the small form where force and spirit dwelt,
Small to be seen, but mighty to be felt;
And, pleas'd in grateful numbers to relate
The sculptur'd powers, Felicity and Fate,
Told how young Ammon, with affection's pride,
Drew martial fire from this inspiring guide—
This, the choice idol of his life, caress'd
To prompt his battle, or protect his rest—

To this, when poison forc'd his frequent sighs,
Turning, in death, his elevated eyes,
He view'd the pain-tried power with fresh delight,
And fed his fearless spirit on the sight.

The life of Ammon clos'd, the statue pass'd
To a new victor of a direr cast.
With ruthless Hannibal, by Rome abhorr'd,
The priz'd associate of the Punic lord,
This idol visited Italia's shore,
And saw Rome's eagles drench'd in Roman gore:
But when the African, so fiercely great,
Fell by the dark vicissitude of fate,
This sculptur'd Hercules, still known to Fame,
As worshipp'd by a chief of highest name,
Felt, e'en in Rome, his influence increas'd,
As the presiding power of Sylla's feast.
The darling image Time at last consign'd
To a new master, of a nobler mind.
Hail, gentle Vindex! 'twas not thine to buy
A name immortal at a price too high.

No bloody sword, with mangled Nature's pain,
Carv'd thee a passage into glory's fane,
But manners sweetly mild, and mental grace,
In Mem'ry's temple fix thy purer place.
Thy genuine praise Affection gladly penn'd;
For Arts were thy delight, a poet was thy friend.
Happy distinction! and rever'd by Time!
Sweet in its use, in consequence sublime!
Accomplish'd Vindex! all thy sculptur'd store,
Though Genius fill'd with life the finish'd ore—
All that thy perfect taste, by Fortune's aid,
With liberal joy collected and display'd—
All, all in dark Perdition's gulph are drown'd,
Nor can an atom of the wreck be found.
But shining still, and still in lustre strong,
Such is the sacred power of friendly song,
Thy virtues are beheld in living lays,
Where feeling Statius thy pure feast pourtrays,
And makes thy cherish'd Arts confederate in thy praise.

He, just to merit of benignant mein,
Fondly describes the master of the scene
So free from senseless pride and sensual vice,
Of mind so polish'd, and of taste so nice,
That under his regard, true honour's test,
Lysippus might have wish'd his works to rest.

To rest! vain word, that suits not scenes like these,
Where empires fluctuate as Time decrees!
The mighty despot, of a double sway,
The guide of growth, the monarch of decay,
Grants, ever busy in the changeful plan,
No lasting quiet to the works of man.
Witness, Lysippus, that stupendous frame
Form'd by thy pupil for his country's fame;
Who, when foil'd War renounc'd her rich abodes,
Rear'd the proud trophy of triumphant Rhodes
In giant splendour which the world amaz'd,
Protentous in his bulk this proud Apollo blaz'd;

So large, so lofty, that, beneath his base,
Mortals seem'd shrunk below the pigmy race.

Yet let not vain, sensorious spleen deride
This Pagan monument of tow'ring pride.
Great in his aim, in patriot purpose good,
A glorious witness the Colossus stood:
How his brave isle, in valour's trying hour,
Joy'd to resist Invasion's ruffian power;
Still to invading arms this fortune fall,
To deck those isles they threaten to enthrall.

But with what speed can time and chance destroy
The piles of honour, and the pomp of joy!
Though rear'd with ablest art that might defy
Tempestuous seasons and a raging sky,
Subtler Destruction waits the sovereign block,
The deep foundations of his island rock;
Earth, as insulted, to her center shakes,
Th'enormous idol reels—he falls—he breaks!
Amazement's eye his smallest fragments fill,
In ruin mighty, and a wonder still:

His fall is felt through Glory's wounded heart,
And Grief's convulsion shakes the sphere of Art.
Ye Rhodians! early a distinguish'd race
For arts and arms, Minerva's double grace;
Ye, who around this shatter'd mass lament
Your honour ruin'd in the dire event!
Mourn not your fall'n Colossus, but complain
Of change more ruinous to Sculpture's reign!
Mourn for degenerate Athens, where the king,
From whose foil'd arms your statue seem'd to spring,
No more resisted, finds a servile crowd
Tam'd to his yoke, and in his praises loud;
Where Art is seen, in Prostitution's hour,
Dejecting virtue, and exalting power.

Ye slaves! who station, blind to public good,
A tyrant's statues where a sage's stood!
Ye prove the love of liberty alone
Enlivens Art with lustre all its own.

Where that best passion of the soul refin'd,
That firm Colossus of th'unshaken mind—
Where that exists no more, all mental power
Takes the cold tint of twilight's sunless hour;
The energies of Art and Virtue cease,
Servility benumbs the soul of Greece.

That wondrous land, where Nature seem'd to shower
A bright profusion of all mental power;
Where talents glitter'd to delight the mind,
Rich as the groves by silv'ry frost enshrin'd;
From her spoil'd shores saw every grace withdraw,
Like groves unsilver'd in a misty thaw;
While Strife and Slavery, in union base,
Disfigure earth, and Nature's self deface,
The tender Arts in hasty terror fly,
To seek a refuge in a milder sky;
Driv'n from their darling Athens for a while,
They seem'd reviving by a monarch's smile:

Seleucias' Court the fugitives caress'd,
And Ægypt nurs'd them on her fertile breast.
But not the Ptolemies' imperial grace,
A bounteous, splendid, but enervate race—
Not all their fond protection could impart
True Attic lustre to transplanted Art:
The sweet exotic scorn'd the soil it tried,
And, faintly promising to flourish, died.

Genius of Greece! whom love can ne'er forget!
Exhaustless source of rapture and regret!
Of all the changes that Time's wild command
Works on this globe, the rattle of his hand,
Is there vicissitude more worthy tears
Than what in thy disastrous fate appears,
When Learning's retrospective eyes survey
Thy bright ascendant, and thy dark decay!

Resistless despot! all-controlling Time!
Though Pride may curse thy ravage as a crime;

Let Truth, more just, thy milder power declare,
And boast with gratitude thy zeal to spare;
For thou hast spar'd—and be such mercy blest,
Of Grecia's literary chiefs the best.
The pure Triumvirate, of potent minds,
Whom in her zone ideal Beauty binds;
The radiant three, who palms unrivall'd bore
In verse, in eloquence, in moral lore—
Yes, in the letter'd world, that lofty sphere
Whence light descends to Art divinely clear.
Great is thy clemency, O Time! nor less
Thy zeal to save, may Sculpture's field express!
Man's rage has given to Havoc's hateful powers
Gods and their altars, statues, temples, towers:
But mark where Time, with more benignant pride,
Redeems the wreck of desolation's tide!
Lo, at his bidding, curious hands explore
Imperial Ruin's subterranean store!

Behold where once a virtuous emp'ror glow'd,
And thy rich bath, benignant Titus! flow'd!
For ages buried, and Oblivion's prey,
The master-piece of Sculpture springs to day.

How Rapture bends o'er the receding earth,
Blessing the skilful wonder's second birth!
Hail, thou sublime resemblance of the sire,
Excruciated to see his helpless sons expire!
Though Fate's fierce serpent round thy manly frame
Wind its vast volumes, and with deadly aim
Dart its impetuous poison near the heart;
Though thy shrunk flank announce the wounded part;
To selfish pangs superior thou art seen,
And suffering anguish, more intensely keen,
I see the father in thy features rise,
To Heaven directing his death-darken'd eyes,
And for his sons, in agony's extreme,
Yet asking mercy from the sire supreme!
Alas! thy younger hope, already pierc'd
By quick Perdition's snake, expires the first!

Thy elder darling, lock'd in snaky folds,
With fruitless pity his rack'd sire beholds!

Ye happy Sculptors! who in this your pride
Enjoy th'immortal fame for which you sigh'd!
Your blest ambition Ruin's hand disarms;
Hostility reveres the work, whose charms
At once amaze the mind, and melt the heart,
The soul of pathos, the sublime of Art!

Let Rhodes, exulting in your birth, proclaim
Her title to renown, her Agesander's name—
Him, if kind Fancy sanction with applause
The pleasing picture that conjecture draws—
Him, life's best blessings once were seen to crown,
Blessings more rare than genius or renown—
The bliss, to see two sons in art aspire
To serve as friendly rivals to their sire!
The triple group, so suited to their state,
They form'd with parity of love elate;

And Nature, pleas'd, gave all her powers to fill
This richest offspring of confederate skill.

Nor hast thou, Sculpture! on whose ancient state
The train of passions all were known to wait,
Thy deep and spirit-searching charms confin'd
To show the conflict of a father's mind:
Thy Niobe yet lives, a glorious test,
Thou could'st exhibit the maternal breast,
Where gods relentless every pang descried
Of wretched beauty, and of ruin'd pride.

Yes, Attic Art! each change of vital breath,
Of life the fervour, and the chill of death,
All, all were subject to thy glorious power;
Nature was thine, in ever-varying hour:
Witness that offspring of thy skill profound,
Thy Gladiator, bending to the ground,
In whom the eye of sympathy descries
His brief existence ebbing as he lies!

With rising wonder, and increasing joy,
As Grecian reliques my fond thoughts employ,
Her time-spar'd marble miracles I trace—
Marbles of highest note, strength, beauty, grace—
In each Olympian form divinely shown,
Who boast these heavenly attributes their own.

On Glycon's Hercules the proud eye rests,
Dwells on that force which all the form invests,
Till the spectator glows with vigor's flame,
And feels the god reanimate his frame.
In perfect forms what potent magic dwells,
Thy peerless fragment of perfection tells,
Skill'd Apolonius! whose fine work express'd
This forceful deity in blissful rest!
How dear thy Torso to the feeling mind,
Rememb'ring Angelo, when old and blind,
Fed, on this wreck, the passion of his heart
For the recondite charms of purest art!

The veteran, while his hand, with science fraught,
Rov'd o'er the stone so exquisitely wrought,
(His fancy giving the maim'd trunk a soul,)
Saw, in his touch, the grandeur of the whole.

Joys on the swelling mind more richly shower
When beauty's manly and majestic power
Shines, sweetly awful, in Apollo's form,
Elate with filial love, with anger warm
Against the serpent whose terrific crest
Aim'd its base fury at his mother's breast.
His shaft is launch'd; 'tis empire's fateful rod;
His fervid gesture proves the victor god;
His glowing features the firm soul display
Of confident success and righteous sway.
Enchanting image! thy pure charms conduce
To moral lessons of no trifling use:
Thee while the fascinated eyes admire,
The spirit, kindling with indignant fire,

Learns that bright scorn, which in thy movement glows,
Scorn for the rancour of malignant foes!

In milder tones, kind Harmony! impart
Thy magic softness to the melting heart;
While Love's ingenuous song aspires to trace
The sweeter influence of female grace!

Hail, Medicean Venus! matchless form!
As Nature modest, yet as Fancy warm!
Thy beauty, mov'd by virtuous instinct, tries
To screen retiring charms from rash surprise:
Thy hands are eloquent; they both attest
The coy emotion of thy feeling breast;
And prove, by delicacy's dear control,
Her quick sensations are of grace the soul.

Thou darling idol of the Pagan earth!
Whose pomp had vanish'd at thy second birth,
When, from Oblivion's shades that o'er thee hung,
Thy soft attractions to new honour sprung;

To thee, sweet pride of Nature and of Art!
Be endless homage from the manly heart
Which bends, obedient to a law divine,
In guiltless worship to such charms as thine!
Though mortals, wayward when by Fortune cross'd,
Slight what they have, in mourning what they lost;
Let us, dear Flaxman! with a grateful joy
On Sculpture's rescu'd wealth our thoughts employ.
O, while with Friendship's pure, though proud desires,
I praise that Art, who thy free spirit fires,
May thy pleas'd goddess, with her kind regard,
Support, instruct, invigorate thy bard,
Till my fond fancy, by her aid refin'd,
Fills with new zeal thy energetic mind
Yet far above her living sons to soar,
And match the wonders of her Attic store!

Yes there is room, and Christian subjects yield
For Art's sublimest aims a happier field:
But pause, my eager song! nor yet rehearse
A fav'rite truth reserv'd for future verse;

Another task awaits thee, to survey
Scenes of Etrurian art and Roman sway:
Yet pause, and, listening to the wintry main,
In this retreat let Meditation reign!
Here salutary Solitude repairs
The spirit wasted by afflicting cares:
Here rest, while Study for thy use explores
Art's early fate on those eventful shores,
Where, hardly rescu'd from Oblivion's tomb,
Polish'd Etruria sunk by savage Rome;
And Rome, whose pride an iron tempest hurl'd
With force oppressive round a prostrate world,
Sunk in her turn, herself the bloated prey
Of Retribution's wrath, in ruinous decay.

THE END OF THE THIRD EPISTLE.

EPISTLE THE FOURTH.

Inter fumantes templorum armata ruinas
Dextera victoris simulacra hostilia cepit,
Et captiva domum venerans ceu numina vexit:
Hoc signum rapuit bimaris de strage Corinthi,
Illud ab incensis in prædam sumpsit Athenis.
Prudentius.

ARGUMENT OF THE FOURTH EPISTLE.

Etruria.—Rome.—Vision of Hadrian's Villa.

Ingenuous Flaxman! thy just soul delights
To see oppress'd Desert regain his rights.
Oft hast thou prais'd, as far as truth allow'd,
Rude talent struggling through misfortune's cloud!
With generous patience thou canst deign to trace
Through dim Tradition's shade Etruria's race.
Ingenious nation! hapless in thy doom!
The slave and teacher of the upstart Rome!
Her fierce ambition from the page of Fame
Seem'd eager to erase thy softer name:

But while she borrow'd, in thy plunder clad,
Thy train of augurs, ominously sad,
Dark Superstition's more despotic weight
Press'd on her fancy, and aveng'd thy fate!

Obedient servant of a savage queen!
Thee she employ'd to deck her proudest scene.
Thy pliant artists, at the victor's nod,
For her new temple form'd the guardian god:
Her patrons, destin'd to such wide command,
Arose the offspring of a Tuscan hand.

Ye injur'd votaries of Art, whose skill,
Emerg'd from darkness, and emerging still,
Shines through Oppression's storm, whose envious sweep
Had sunk your language in her lawless deep!
Expert Etrurians, who, with rapid toil,
Form'd the fine vase Oblivion's power to foil!
Your bards to base annihilation doom'd
History, who spurn'd the grave, herself entomb'd:
Friendly conjecture can alone suggest
How Fortune on your coast young Art caress'd.

'Tis said that Ægypt was your early guide;
That Greece, more social, all your skill supplied,
The fond idolaters of Greece pretend:
But bounteous Nature was your leading friend;
She frankly gave you the prime source of skill,
The fervid spirit, and the lively will,
To call Invention from her coy recess,
And bid just Form the young idea dress.
Let different Arts with gen'rous pride proclaim
Inventive Genius form'd Etruria's fame.
Mars as a gift from her his trumpet found,
And Honour's heart exulted in the sound;
To her, e'en Athens, as the learn'd declare,
Might owe the mask dramatic Muses wear.
But, O Etruria! whatsoe'er the price
Of thy ingenious toil and rare device,
Of all thy produce, I applaud thee most
For thy mild Lares, thy peculiar boast.

'Twas thine in Sculpture's sacred scene to place
Domestic deities of social grace,
Whose happy favour, on the heart impress'd,
Made home the passion of the virtuous breast.

O that fond Labour's hand, with Learning's aid,
Could rescue from Oblivion's envious shade
Artists, defrauded of their deathless due,
Who once a glory round Etruria threw,
When, with her flag of transient fame unfurl'd,
She shone the wonder of the western world!
Eclipsing Greece, ere rais'd to nobler life,
Greece learnt to triumph o'er barbaric strife;
Driving her Argonauts, her naval boast,
Foil'd in sharp conflict, from the Tyrrhene coast.

But Desolation, in her cruel course,
Rush'd o'er Etruria with such ruthless force,
That, of her art-devoted sons, whose skill
With sculptur'd treasures could her cities fill

In such profuse and luminous display,
That Roman avarice mark'd them for her prey,
Mem'ry can hardly on her tablets give
More than a single Tyrrhene name to live.
Mnesarchus, early as a sculptor known,
From nice incision of the costly stone,
But more endear'd to every later age
As the blest sire of that abstemious sage;
Who, born and nurtur'd on Etruria's shore,
Refin'd her spirit by his temp'rate lore,
And in Crotona gloried to display
His mild morality's benignant sway.

Blest were Etrurian art, if, spar'd by Time,
Forth from the caverns of her ravag'd clime
She could present to Admiration's gaze
Each sculptur'd worthy of her prosperous days,
Who won, by labours of a virtuous mind,
The benedictions of improv'd mankind.

But one vast whirlpool of oblivious night
Absorb'd together, in fair Fame's despite,
Men who there rose the paths of fame to fill,
Her hosts of valour, and her tribes of skill;
All, who might hope to gain, or hope to give,
The noble-lot, through many an age to live,
Save a few reliques fondly kept, to deck
The cabinet of Taste, from Glory's wreck.
There shines, not destitute of martial grace,
Her brave Halesus, of Argolic race;
There every brazen, every marble frame,
Mute, mournful shadows of Etruria's fame,
Yet seen declaring, on their country's part,
She might have vied with Attica in art,
Had she not fallen, in her early bloom,
The stripp'd and mangled slave of barbarous Rome.

Yes, thou imperial spoiler! I abhor
Thy ceaseless passion for oppressive war,

Thy rage for rapine, and the pride malign
In the vast plunder of the world to shine.

Woe to the land, abjuring Arts refin'd,
That ask the patient hand, the polish'd mind;
And vaunting only with tyrannic sway
To make surrounding provinces their prey:—
Rapacious arrogance, for outrage strong,
May boast a cruel triumph, loud and long;
At last the coarse gigantic glutton dies,
O'ergorg'd, and sinking from his bloated size:
So sunk the spoiler Rome, who from her birth
Drew execration from the bleeding earth.
Too fierce for Arts, that claim a milder soul,
Their works she blindly prais'd, or basely stole.
Fast bound or silenc'd in her iron spell,
Her ill-starr'd neighbour first, Etruria fell.
Far, as her force increas'd, her rapine spread;
Beneath her grasp the sweet Sicilia bled;

And, amply deck'd with Beauty's sculptur'd charms,
Fair Syracuse was spoil'd by savage arms.
There Roman avarice, of ruthless heart,
First gloated on her prey of Grecian Art;
And like a blood-hound, on the taste of gore,
Hunted with fierce inquietude for more.

Her wider ravages Achaia crown'd;
The richest feast her ravenous eagles found!
Lo, Corinth blazes in consuming flame!
Corinth, the splendid favourite of Fame!
Her shrines, her statues, brazen, silver, gold,
In one promiscuous conflagration roll'd,
To a vast furnace of perdition turn;
The mingled ores in fiery torrents burn;
And Havoc's hateful sons, in sportive rage,
Annihilate the toil of many an age,
The treasury of Sculpture, where she stor'd
Those wonders of her hand that Taste ador'd.

The savage victor would his triumph fill
By bearing proudly home some works of skill:
But, destitute of sense as blind to grace,
Deems that a common hand may soon replace
Works that in Talent's cultivated hours
Rose, the slow growth of rarest Grecian powers.
Insensate ravager! why deck thy land
With spoils thy heroes cannot understand?
Thy country, who, a stranger to remorse,
Trains all her sons to deeds of brutal force;
She ne'er the sweet and graceful pride shall know
That taught the heart of lovelier Greece to glow,
When she had rear'd, and hail'd with fond acclaim,
The liberal artist of accomplish'd fame.
On Rome's stern breast no Phidias can be bred,
Of whom his proud compatriots fondly said,
'Twas a misfortune, as Athenians thought,
To die, and not have seen the works he wrought.

Greece, wisely conscious that fine arts require
Such pensive energy, such mental fire,
As Honour asks, in every polish'd age,
To form the martial chief, or moral sage,
Cherish'd her artists with maternal pride,
And bright Distinction their rich power supplied.
Her sculptors bask'd in national esteem,
As the young eagle in the solar beam,
Rever'd as men, whose faculties sublime
Secur'd their country's fame from envious Time;
Who doublyfoil'd the darkness of the grave,
And shar'd the immortality they gave.

How different the Roman sculptor's fate,
Who follow'd, in a tame and abject state,
An art, not rais'd to glory or to grace,
Deem'd the poor trade of a dependent race.
The chissel to a servile hand consign'd,
Shews but the weakness of a servile mind.

Hence liberal Sculpture rais'd no Roman name
High in her annals of ingenious fame;
And hence the Goddess, with a scornful smile,
Spurns the distinction of her Roman style.
With just disdain, that to abhorrence swell'd,
She the base arrogance of Rome beheld;
Saw Roman robbers, of heroic size,
Not merely seize, as bold Ambition's prize,
Her dearest wealth in desolated Greece;
But, as presumption will with spoils increase,
From her Greek statue its just name efface,
And fix a lying title in its place.
So ruffian Pride, that Fortune deigns to crown,
Would, with a swindler's fraud, usurp renown.

While dauntless Truth, undazzled by the blaze
Of Rome's fierce power in her despotic days,
Upbraids that Empress, with reproof severe,
For follies and for crimes, in Sculpture's sphere:

While Scorn condemns her rapine and her fraud,
With equal warmth let Justice still applaud
One proof of noble spirit that prevail'd
E'en in this very sphere, where most she fail'd.
Yes, it was spirit suited to such worth
As well might claim pre-eminence on earth,
Which in the walls he labour'd to o'erthrow,
Honour'd the statue of her fiercest foe.
Such brave regard, the soldier's brightest crown,
Rome nobly paid to Hannibal's renown:
And more sublime of soul she ne'er appear'd
Than when she grac'd the chief whom once she fear'd.
True Valour thus his genuine temper shews,
Just to the talents of accomplish'd foes.

Bright Excellence! 'tis thine, in evil days
To joy in Enmity's extorted praise:
So Grecian Art, her parent state undone,
From Roman pride reluctant homage won.

Rough was his worship paid to Sculpture's charms,
That injur'd beauty in a ruffian's arms!
Who view'd her grace with uninstructed eyes,
Proud to possess, though wanting taste to prize.
Gods! how regret and indignation glow
When History, mourning over Grecian woe,
Describes the fortune of each splendid fane,
Where Sculpture seem'd with sacred sway to reign!

Lo, like a whirlwind by fierce demons driven
At once disfiguring earth and dark'ning Heaven,
Sylla, the bloodiest vulture, gorg'd with gore,
The keenest wretch that ever Rapine bore,
Extends o'er prostrate Greece oppression's rod,
And pillages the shrine of every god!
Thy glories, Elis!—Epidaurus! thine,
And Delphos, (richest treasury divine!)
Defenceless fall in Devastation's day,
Of this insatiate ravager the prey!
The plunderer, who no compunction feels,
Builds future greatness on the god he steals;

With a small statue, seiz'd on Grecia's coast,
The subtle homicide new-nerv'd his host;
When on the battle's edge they doubtful stood,
This god he brought, to make his battle good;
Before his troops the fraudful savage prefs'd
This sculptur'd patron to his impious breast;
Invok'd, to hasten what his vows implor'd,
The vict'ry promis'd to his eager sword!
So fraud, and force, and fortune made him great,
To shine an emblem of the Roman state.
Her he resembled in his varying day,
In growth portentous, loathsome in decay:
He, whose fierce pride (all human feelings fled)
On blood the hell-hounds of Proscription fed,
Met not a righteous sword, or potent hand,
To free from such a pest his native land.
Yet though he stemm'd the streams of blood he spilt,
He died a lesson to gigantic guilt;
For on his bed of death as long he lay,
Avenging vermin made his living frame their prey;

And he, whose thirst of power and thirst of praise
Taught Fortune's temple in new pomp to blaze—
He, who amass'd, to deck his days of peace,
The sculptur'd opulence of ravag'd Greece,
Sunk from his splendid mass of power and fame
To the poor sound of a detested name.

A mightier victor, of a nobler soul,
Yet darken'd by ambition's dire control,
The fearless Cæsar, of indulgent heart,
Shone the protecting friend of Grecian art.
Of tyrants most accomplish'd and benign,
'Twas his in genius and in taste to shine.
Could talents give a claim to empire's robe,
He might have liv'd the master of the globe:
But pride imperious that o'er-leap'd all bound,
Deserv'd from Roman hands the fate he found.
Yet shall the despot, though he justly bleeds,
Receive the praises due to graceful deeds:

100

His rival's statues, by mean slaves disgrac'd,
He in their public dignity replac'd.
His zeal for Sculpture, and his liberal care
To force the grave her buried works to spare,
To guard the rescu'd, and the lost to seek,
Let Corinth, rising from her ruins, speak.
That brilliant queen of Arts, at Cæsar's word,
Sprung from her ashes, like th'Arabian bird:
Her great restorer, fond of glory's blaze,
Sought to be first in every path of praise;
And found, in favour'd Art's reviving charms,
Delight superior to successful arms.
Had the firm Brutus not pronounc'd his doom,
His power to fascinate relenting Rome,
His varying genius, fashion'd to prevail
In peaceful projects of the grandest scale,
Would o'er the state have thrown such dazzling light,
And foil'd resistance with a blaze so bright,
Freedom herself, enamour'd of his fame,
Might have been almost tempted to exclaim,

101

“I see his benefits his wrongs transcend,
“And all the tyrant vanish in the friend!”

Julius! thou proof how mists of pride may blind
The eye of reason in the strongest mind!
It was thy fatal weakness to believe
Thy sculptur'd form from Romans might receive
Homage as tame as Asian slaves could pay
Their Babylonish king, of boundless sway,
Where all, for leave his city gate to pass,
Bent to his statue of imperial brass.
With equal pomp, by vain ambition plac'd,
Thy sculptur'd form the Capitol disgrac'd;
For, on a trampled globe, insulting sense,
It sought to awe the world with proud pretence.
Nor didst thou only in thy proper frame
Call Art to second thy aspiring aim:
Thy fav'rite steed, from whose portentous birth
Augurs announc'd thy reign o'er all this earth,
Nurs'd with fond care, bestrid by thee alone,
In Sculpture's consecrated beauty shone.

102

Before the fane of that celestial power,
Said, with parental smiles, to bless thy natal hour.
Misguided Julius! all the wide control
Which force and frankness in thy fearless soul
To thy firm grasp delusively assur'd,
Consummate cunning to thy heir secur'd.

Blush, blush, ye poets of Augustan days,
For all your pomp of prostituted praise!
The man, so magnified through Flatt'ry's cloud,
Hymns to whose honour ye have sung so loud,
Seems, to the eye of an impartial age,
The prince of jugglers upon Fortune's stage,
Whom fear inspir'd with artifice supreme
To win from slaves their prodigal esteem.
Ye lovely Arts! whose beauty and whose use
So largely to the weal of man conduce!
What might not Earth, in your propitious hours,
Expect from efforts of your blended powers,

103

Beneath the guidance of a mind elate,
Supremely just, and uniformly great,
If base Octavius by your aid could shine
To dazzle Romans with a light divine?
Peace to his crimes! though on their blackest dye
The blood of Tully seems aloud to cry;
While foster'd Arts for their protector claim
No common portion of pacific fame.
He saw the rock on which bold Julius run,
And deeply labour'd the bright snare to shun.
The subtle despot wore a servant's mask;
Though able to command, he stoop'd to ask:
The eyes of envy from himself to turn,
Thy splendour, Rome! appear'd his sole concern.

Though fear devis'd, it was a graceful plan
(And Taste achiev'd what trembling Power began)
To bid fair Sculpture a new pomp assume,
And sit the public patroness of Rome:
For such great charge to her he seem'd to give,
When the lost worthies she had taught to live

104

Whose blended merits in the tide of Time
Rais'd Roman glory to her height sublime;
Rang'd in his Forum with Augustan care,
Heard him before the hallow'd groupe declare
They stood as monitors, of solemn weight,
To him, and all who might direct the state,
At once a sacred test, and awful guide,
By whom he wish'd his conduct to be tried.

O lovely Sculpture! what sweet praise were thine,
If strictly true to such a fair design,
Presiding power, in every realm on earth,
Call'd thee to minister to public worth,
To worth, of milder and of purer ray
Than Rome's rapacious demi-gods display!

Though seated there in empire's strongest blaze,
The shrewd Octavius aim'd at Ammon's praise,
His milder praise, (to shine in taste supreme,
And heighten talents by protection's beam,)
Bless'd in what Ammon wanted, bards renown'd!
Sculpture more coy than Poesy he found;

105

Nor could the mandate of imperial sway
Raise a Lysippus out of Roman clay;
And Fortune's fav'rite in the naval scene,
Where sunk the glory of the Ægyptian queen,
Though sculptur'd emblems of that prosp'rous hour
Speak him the darling of despotic power,
Has still the fate in feeble pomp to stand
The time-spar'd statue of no potent hand;
Wrought as if Sculpture felt her powers confin'd
By native meanness in the monarch's mind.

Yet many a wandering, ingenious Greek,
Sent, by his stars, his Roman bread to seek,
Nourish'd degenerate pride on foreign praise,
And blest the sunshine of Augustan days.
One, whose fine labour on the costly stone,
Greece, in her happiest days, might proudly own—
Her Dioscorides! by Patience taught,
Minute resemblance on the gem he wrought,

106

And form'd, with Miniature's consummate grace,
Power's fav'rite signet, the imperial face.

Nor shall his rival in the curious skill
Nice Diminution's lines with truth to fill,
The sculptor Solon, want the Muse's praise,
Since on his work the Nine may fondly gaze;
For his the portrait of prime note to them,
Their own Mæcenas, their peculiar gem!

As Nature, joying in her boundless reign,
Adorns the tiny links of Beauty's lessening chain,
Her rival Art, whom Emulation warms,
Loves to astonish by diminish'd forms,
And the consummate character to bring
Within the compass of the costly ring.
Delightful talent of the patient hand,
Gaining o'er life such delicate command!

The heroes of old time were proud to wear
The seal engraven with ingenious care;

107

And wise Ulysses, if tradition's true,
No trifling pleasure from his signet drew.
A dolphin's form the sculptur'd stone express'd,
Of gracious Providence a graceful test:
Sav'd from the deep, these wat'ry guardians bore
His filial pride, Telemachus, ashore;
And the fond sire display'd, with grateful joy,
The just memorial of his rescu'd boy.

To this fine branch of useful Art we owe
Treasures that grandeur may be proud to show;
Features of men who, on Fame's list enroll'd,
Gave life and lustre to the world of old.
Oblivion's pall, a net of Mercy's shape,
Has seiz'd the large, and let the small escape:
Worthies, whose statues fail'd Time's flood to stem,
Yet live effulgent in the deathless gem.

But, O how few can merit such a fate,
Where Nature sinks by Power's despotic weight!

108

When the proud player Augustus, worn with age,
Made a calm exit from his brilliant stage,
In that vast theatre what scenes ensu'd!
What beasts of Tyranny's imperial brood!
Sculpture, in days of turpitude profuse,
Of her sunk powers deplor'd the shameful use
When statues rose, to wound the public eye,
To the base sycophant and murd'rous spy;
Nor mourn'd she less distinction ill-conferr'd
On many a wretch of her Cæsarean herd:
Most on the base Caligula, who burn'd
With frantic folly that all limits spurn'd.
His life express'd, in every wild design,
Delirious fancy, with a heart malign;
And most display'd that fancy and that heart
In the fair province of insulted Art.

Oft o'er her Grecian works griev'd Sculpture sigh'd,
Made the maim'd vassals of his impious pride!

109

He dies; but still the burthen'd earth must groan
For guilt gigantic on th'imperial throne;
And Sculpture's call'd, as waiting on the nod
Of Grandeur, wishing to be deem'd a god.
To her Greek votary she denied the skill
Requir'd to execute vain Nero's will,
Who sought all splendor that could strike mankind
Save the pure splendor of the chasten'd mind;
Who marr'd the statues of Perfection's mould,
Thy bronze, Lysippus, with debasing gold.
The daring despot wish'd, with frantic aim,
To awe the world by his colossal frame:
Vainly he bade his molten image run
With metals to out-blaze the Rhodian sun;
His toiling Greek, though fam'd for works of brass,
Fail'd in his art to form the fluid mass.

But turn, indignant Muse! thine eyes away
From the mad monsters of unbridled sway,

110

To mark with just applause the milder mind,
Whom boundless domination fail'd to blind;
Whose voice imperial bade the Arts appear
The friends of bounty, not the slaves of fear.

Frugal and gay, behold Vespasian's care
Honour and Virtue's ruin'd fanes repair!
To statues, meant for Nero's golden dome,
Peace in her temple gives a purer home.
Titus! the pride of Nature and her friend,
Could thy brief reign to happier length extend,
How might the warmth of thy benignant heart
Raise and inspirit every graceful art!
Sculpture might well her finest toil employ
To fill thy bosom with parental joy.
Fancy e'en now exults to see thee gaze
On thy rich gem, beyond the diamond's blaze.
Where by Evodus wrought, in narrow space
Shone thy fair Julia, full of filial grace:

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Beauty and sweetness deck'd her maiden life,
But ah! no common shame awaits the wife:
And Heaven, mild Titus! made thy days so brief,
To spare thee torments of domestic grief:
Thy brother's statues, in their fate, fulfill'd
The rabble's vengeance on a tyrant kill'd.

In radiant contrast to that wretch, ascend,
Trajan! the graceful Pliny's martial friend!
Justly 'tis thine to stand an honour'd name
On thy rich column of imperial fame!
Through thy vast empire, in which vice had spread
The worst contagion springing from its head,
Thy active spirit gloried to inspire
A noble portion of new vital fire.
Though fond, too fond of war and warlike praise,
Pacific talents shar'd thy soft'ring rays.
Not that thy hand proud Victory's flag unfurl'd,
And added Dacia to the Roman world,

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But for mild acts, that purer aims evince,
Shall memory prize thy name, excelling prince!
Thy softer merit, that commands my praise,
Was thy fond care with regal grace to raise
Statues to youthful virtue, in its prime
Unseasonably crush'd by envious Time:
Thy gift imperial to a noble chief
(The filial statue) sooth'd a father's grief
With the true temper of a sovereign mind,
Tenderly just, magnificently kind.

Thee, too, with sovereigns not unjustly plac'd
For bright magnificence and liberal taste,
Whose hand well-judging Fortune deign'd to use,
O'er Grecian scenes new lustre to diffuse;
Smiling to see, from Wealth's mysterious springs,
Her private favourite surpassing kings—
Thee, rich Herodes! Honour has enroll'd
For elegance of mind that match'd thy gold:

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Exhausted quarries form thy graceful piles;
Thy Venus prais'd thee with victorious smiles.

Lo, with new joy, peculiarly their own,
The Arts surrounding the Cæsarean throne!
See their prime patron that firm throne ascend,
Talent's enlighten'd judge, and Sculpture's friend!
His spirit, active as the boundless air,
Pervades each province of imperial Care;
While sated Conquest keeps his banner furl'd,
And peace and beauty re-adorn the world.
Accomplish'd Adrian! doom'd to double fame,
Uniting brightest praise and darkest blame!
To noble heights the monarch's merit ran,
But injur'd Nature execrates the man.
Had he, with various bright endowments blest,
The higher sway of that sweet power confess'd,
How might fair Sculpture, in her triumphs chaste,
Unblushing, glory in her sovereign's taste!

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Wielding himself her implements of skill,
He joy'd the cities of the earth to fill
With all the splendor that endears the day
Of cherish'd talents and pacific sway;
Aiming, by lib'ral patronage, to crown
Athens, Art's fav'rite seat, with new renown!
In her consummated Olympian fane
He taught sublime magnificence to reign.

Where, in rich scenes, beneath unclouded skies,
He bids his own Italian villa rise,
Th'imperial structures with such charms increase,
They form a fair epitome of Greece.
There all her temples, theatres, and towers,
Fabrics for studious and for active hours,
All that made Attica the eye's delight,
In sweet reflection re-inchant the sight.

O Desolation! thou hast ne'er defac'd
More graceful precincts of imperial Taste!
But, with a ravage by no charms controll'd
O'er the proud spot thy ruthless flood has roll'd:

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Still from thy vortex, by the tide of Time,
Its buried treasures rise, to deck some distant clime.

As o'er this fairest scene of scenes august
Whose pride has moulder'd into shapeless dust,
My fancy mus'd, a vision of the night
Brought it in recent splendor to my sight.
Its shrines, its statues, its Lyceum caught
My wond'ring eye, and fix'd my roving thought:
Beneath the shadow of a laurel bough,
With all the cares of empire on his brow,
I saw the master of the villa rove
In shades that seem'd the academic grove:
Sudden a form, array'd in softest light,
Benignly simple, temperately bright,
Yet more than mortal, in the quiet vale,
Appear'd the pensive emperor to hail.
Sculpture's insignia, and her graceful mein,
Announc'd of finer Arts the modest queen.
Troubled, yet mild in gesture and in tone,
She made the troubles of her spirit known:

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“O thou,” she said, “that in thy sovereign plan
“Art often more, and often less than man!
“Whom, as my just, though strange emotions rise,
“I love, admire, and pity, and despise!
“While to vain heights thy blind ambition towers,
“Thou hast ennobled and debas'd my powers
“As far as fame and infamy can stretch,
“To deck the world, and deify a wretch!
“I come th'Almighty Spirit to obey,
“For Arts are heralds of his purer day—
“I come, with visions of portentous aim,
“To mortify thy frantic rage of fame!
“As a prophetic parent, taught to trace
“The future troubles of a fated race,
“'Tis mine to shew how ruin shall be hurl'd
“On the vain grandeur of thy Roman world.
“Mark how my visionary scenes reveal
“The destin'd havoc that our works must feel!”

She spoke, and suddenly before her grew
The semblance of a city large and new,

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Where pomp imperial seem'd employ'd to place
Sculpture's prime labours on a lasting base.
There Samian Juno and Olympian Jove,
The rarest treasures of each holy grove,
The pride of ransack'd Asia, Greece, and Rome,
There, in new scenes, new dignity assume.
The startled master of the Roman throne
Exclaim'd, in envy's quick, indignant tone,
“What mean these pageants that my eyes explore?
“They seem to sparkle on Byzantium's shore!”
The lovely raiser of the vision cried,
“Thou see'st a second Rome in Roman pride!
“But turn, and see what miseries await
“The pomp that wakes thy envy! Mark its fate!”
He turn'd: but O, what language can disclose
The changing scene's accumulated woes?
Barbaric outrage, rapine, sword, and fire
Convert it to a vast funereal pyre.
Supreme in height, colossal Phœbus burns,
The Phydian brass to fluid lava turns;

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And lo, yet dearer to poetic eyes,
The living bronze of high-wrought Homer dies!
The sculptur'd pride of every clime and age,
The guardian god, the hero, and the sage,
All in promiscuous devastation fall;
And Time, self-styl'd the conqueror of all—
Time, the proud offspring of Lysippus' hand,
Adorn'd with emblems of his wide command—
Time perishes himself! Aggriev'd, aghast,
The heart-struck Hadrian exclaim'd at last,
“Shew me no more of distant lands the doom—
“I ask the fate of my embellish'd Rome!”
“Look, and behold it!” the enchantress said:
Byzantium disappear'd, and in its stead
Rome's recent boast, with all its splendor crown'd,
The speaking monarch's monumental mound,
In graceful pomp arose, and on its height,
That glitter'd to our view with orient light,
His image seem'd to guide a blazing car,
And shone triumphant like the morning star.

119

Sudden, at sounds of discord and dismay,
The imperial form in darkness melts away;
The Mausoleum, of stupendous state,
Turns to a fort; and at its guarded gate
Barbaric foes, in Roman plunder fierce,
Strain their rough powers the massive mound to pierce.
Romans defend the dome: but O what arms
Rash Fury seizes in its blind alarms!
Marbles divine, of Praxitelian form,
Are snatch'd as weapons in the raging storm;
And, in the tumult of defensive wrath,
Are hurl'd in fragments at th'invading Goth.

On this dire fate of fav'rite statues plac'd
To deck this hallow'd scene of royal taste,
From wounded Pride a groan convulsive burst,
And at the mournful sound the visions all dispers'd.

THE END OF THE FOURTH EPISTLE.

121

EPISTLE THE FIFTH.

Ora ducum, et vatum, sapientumque ora priorum
Quos tibi cura sequi.—
Statius.

122

ARGUMENT OF THE FIFTH EPISTLE.

The moral influence of Sculpture in the Pagan world.—Praise of eminent writers on ancient Art—Pliny—Pausanias—Junius—L'Abbé Guasco— Winckelmann—M. de Caylus.

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Excelling Artist! whose exalted mind
Feels for the highest welfare of mankind,
And values genius, rightly understood,
But as it ministers to moral good!
Yet, ere I close this tributary lay,
This homage to thy art that love would pay,
Let us with free and fond research explore
Her Ethic energies in days of yore;
Mark how she rose of polish'd Arts the first,
What joys she waken'd, and what virtues nurs'd,

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When on her growing beauties Glory smil'd,
When Time caress'd her as his perfect child;
And, in the splendor of acknowledg'd worth,
She reign'd the darling of the Pagan earth!
Sculpture! thy influence to heights sublime
Inflam'd th'heroic zeal of elder time;
That zeal which steer'd, with every sail unfurl'd,
Th'advent'rous spirit of the ancient world:
The martial chief, enamour'd of thy charms,
Felt and ador'd thee in his field of arms;
Conscious thy care would make his merit known,
He died, exulting, to revive in stone.

Let those who doubt if thou could'st e'er inspire
Ambition's bosom with so strong a fire,
Mark Cæsar, ere his own exploits begun,
Sigh at the sculptur'd form of Ammon's son.

If, in thy ruder days, thy potent aid
To dark Idolatry the world betray'd,

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That fascinating power, with thee combin'd,
Felt, as thy beauty grew, her savage soul refin'd.

Hence, where thy hand, with love of Nature warm,
Wrought mild divinities of graceful form,
Calmly that scene misfortune's victim trod,
Safe in the dome of thy protecting god.
Such awful reverence that asylum bred,
Where sacred Sculpture screen'd Affliction's head,
Weakness might there revengeful power defy,
While Mercy bless'd thee as her dear ally:
Yet in one scene, whence thy soft charms might chase
All barbarous fury from the Pagan race,
E'en at the time when, to their zenith rais'd,
The Arts and Genius in perfection blaz'd,
One ruthless wretch, (and be his deed accurs'd!)
Raging for blood, thy sanctuary burst.

See, on Calauria's shore, to Neptune's shrine
Flies the fam'd Greek, of eloquence divine;

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He, whose strong sense, adorn'd with Freedom's charms,
Made Philip tremble for his silver arms,
Ere that insidious king, false friend of peace,
Sapp'd, by corruption, the high soul of Greece:
Her fame-crown'd orator, his triumph past,
Driv'n by Adversity's o'erwhelming blast,
In Neptune's temple deems he yet may meet
An heavenly guardian and a calm retreat.
Delusive hope! for e'en those sacred shades
The blood-hound of Antipater invades.
Yet freedom's champion, in his mental force,
Still finds the suffering Pagan's brave resource,
By friendly poison well prepar'd, to foil
The mercenary villain's murd'rous toil.
Shock'd to behold the wretch of blood profane
The hallow'd precincts of a peaceful fane,
He views this outrage with indignant eyes,
And at the base of Neptune's statue dies;
Blest to resign his glory-giving breath
In the mild arms of voluntary death!

127

If Sculpture fail'd, in her unequal strife
With base Barbarity, to shield his life,
Fondly she made immortal as his name
The stern attractions of his manly frame.
Wrought with her kindest care, his image rose
In endless triumph o'er his abject foes;
And Athens gloried with delight to gaze,
Age after age in her declining days,
On him, her fav'rite son, whose fiery breath,
Dispelling dread of danger and of death,
Made, by the thunder of his warning voice,
The path of honour be his country's choice.
True to his word, as quicken'd by a spell,
She march'd in that precarious path, and fell;
Yet in her fall the noblest tribute paid
To that bright mind, by whose bold counsel sway'd,
She gain'd, uncheck'd by imminent distress,
Virtue's prime purpose, to deserve success.

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Justly, O Sculpture! would thy fondest skill
The wish for glory of that friend fulfil,
Whose fervid soul, with bright ambition fraught,
By matchless Eloquence sublimely taught
The land, that gloried in his birth, to claim
Pre-eminence in all the paths of fame.
His heart, for ever in a patriot glow,
Exulted, in its civic zeal, to show
How from thy honour'd hand his native state
Receiv'd a gift magnificently great:
From him we learn that the Bosphoric shore
Of signal Art this bright memorial bore.
Athens, a female of colossal height,
In sculptur'd beauty charm'd the public sight:
Of equal stature, and benignly grand,
Two social cities stood on either hand—
Byzantium and Perinthus, each display'd
A sister's heart by grateful pleasure sway'd;
As each was seen a friendly arm to bend,
Fondly to crown their tutelary friend.

129

Such honours, Athens, were assign'd to thee,
Aid of the weak, and guardian of the free!
While thy Demosthenes could rule the tide
Of civic fortune and of public pride.
Beneath his auspices so Sculpture rose,
The sweet remembrancer of baffled foes,
Call'd by confederated states to shew
From lib'ral union what fair blessings flow;
The brilliant lesson her bold work display'd,
And Gratitude and Glory bless'd her aid.

Nor was it thine, enchanting Art! alone
With public virtue to inspirit stone,
Diffusing, by the praise thy forms express'd,
Heroic ardour through a people's breast:
'Twas thine, for loftier minds above the croud,
With gifts of rare pre-eminence endow'd,
To counteract the ills that base mankind
To envied Genius have too oft assign'd.

130

When Thebes (induc'd her Pindar to condemn
By abject anger and malignant phlegm)
Fin'd her free bard for daring to rehearse
The praise of Athens in his lib'ral verse,
Kind Sculpture then, his Attic friend, arose,
And well aveng'd him of ungen'rous foes.
Pleas'd her just tribute to the bard to give,
She taught his figure, like his verse, to live:
Athens, of finer Arts the bounteous queen,
Display'd his statue in her public scene.
Seated in regal state, the crown, the lyre,
Announc'd the sov'reign of the lyric quire:
Greece, who, with all a mother's transport, found
Envy's base cry in Honour's plaudit drown'd,
Smil'd on the splendid palm the poet won,
And fondly hail'd her glory-giving son,
Whose Muse rich nectar to the mind conveys,
Poignant and sweet!—Morality and Praise!

131

Fair and benignant as his fervid Muse,
Sculpture, like her, a radiant path pursues;
Pleas'd to enlarge the province of renown,
And add new lustre to th'Olympic crown.
To him, whom Pisa's public voice proclaims
As thrice a victor in her hallow'd games,
The statue, rais'd beneath the guard of Jove,
Shines a bright inmate of the sacred grove.

Thou fascinating scene of Arts combin'd,
Where fost'ring Glory rear'd the Grecian mind!
Oft, as to thee the glance of Memory turns,
The spirit kindles, and the bosom burns.

Enchanting Altis! whose domain to fill
Elaborate Sculpture lavish'd all her skill!
Pure was the pleasure thou wert form'd to raise,
Where emulation grew by honour's blaze.
While triumph flush'd the happy victor's cheek,
Each heart exulted in the name of Greek:
Intestine feuds by Glory taught to cease,
One soul inspir'd the mingled states of Greece;

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And public virtue felt her ardour rise
From the sweet impulse of fraternal ties.
Olympia! hadst thou well that spirit nurs'd
Which made thee long of splendid scenes the first;
Had it been thine to cherish and impart
Vigour of form, and dignity of heart,
Pure and unmix'd, like true heroic worth,
With all the abject vice of meaner earth,
No barb'rous foes had made thy triumph cease,
No savage Roman had disfigur'd Greece;
Nor Ammon said, (deriding, when he found
Thy sculptur'd victors in Miletus crown'd,)
“Where were these bodies of gigantic powers,
“When the barbarian force o'erthrew your towers?

But games of honour, in effect benign,
With morals flourish, and with them decline.
Through hallow'd walls, where Excellence is nurs'd,
Intruding Envy rarely fails to burst—

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Envy, whose touch corrodes, as rust on steel,
Both private happiness and public weal.
Envy was early an Olympian pest;
Thy mangled image may this truth attest,
Thiagenes! enrich'd with rare renown
For many a contest, and each varied crown;
Some abject rival, with resentment base,
In secret dar'd thy statue of deface:
The sculptur'd form, as conscious of the blow,
Fell with avenging weight, and crush'd thy foe.
Of Envy's sordid race, so perish'd one,
Her single, nameless, despicable son.
But Envy, apt for ever to increase,
Prov'd most prolific in the realms of Greece;
Hence her free states, by jealous jars destroy'd,
Left in the polish'd world a mournful void.
Corporeal strength, and intellectual power,
Shone, lovely Greece! supremely as thy dower:

134

But cordial union, the best fruit of sense,
The life, the soul of national defence—
Spirit, that leads the weaks to foil the strong,
When every bosom burns for public wrong—
This spirit, thy vain sons no more the same,
Fail'd to preserve, as they advanc'd in fame:
Her snares around them thus Oppression threw,
Taught by their feuds to sep'rate and subdue.
If Greece herself her real strength had known,
Greece might have foil'd the hostile world alone;
In war's wild tempest an unshaken tower,
Peerless in arts, and paramount in power.

Too late to save, yet potent to suspend
The storm of ruin, hastening to descend,
Sicyon! thy free, conciliating chief,
Thy firm Aratus, planning wise relief,
Reclaim'd the bickering Greeks by union's charm,
Bade jarring states with social prowess arm;
And, ere she sunk Oppression's helpless thrall,
Of Greece protracted and adorn'd the fall.

135

Just to his merit, Sculpture's grateful hand
With grace heroic gave his form to stand:
In lib'ral Corinth she the statue rear'd,
And as a guardian power this patriot chief rever'd.

If e'er Greek Art, with Glory for her guide,
The high-soul'd portrait form'd with fonder pride,
Perchance 'twas when, a studious scene to grace,
Her skill, employ'd on Plato's pensive face,
Labour'd to memorize from age to age
The speaking features of that fav'rite sage,
Who toil'd to fix, in honour of mankind,
Sublime ideas in the public mind.
Enlighten'd Pagan! whose bright works display
A cheering dawn before the Christian day!
Where the calm grove of Academus grew
Thy sculptur'd form a signal lustre threw;
Rais'd by a foreign prince, whose lib'ral heart
To Grecian intellect and Grecian art

136

Paid this pure tribute, proud in thee to own
The friend who taught him virtue's noblest tone.
Ye sages who, aloof from martial strife,
Pursu'd the purer charms of pensive life!
How oft has Sculpture joy'd, with moral aim,
To multiply your forms, and spread your name!

By Æsop's statue, Greece this lesson gave,
Fame's path is open even to a slave;
And Socrates, ordain'd in bronze to stand
The honour'd labour of Lysippus' hand,
Inform'd the world, although an injur'd sage
Had perish'd in a storm of envious rage,
Repentant Athens, sighing o'er his dust,
Rever'd his glory as a public trust.
How oft, before the gospel's rising ray
Darted through earthly clouds celestial day,
In scenes where Meditation lov'd to dwell,
The public portico or private cell,

137

Has many a pensive, philosophic bust,
Repress'd the giddy, or confirm'd the just,
And kept frail Virtue on her mental throne
By the mild lesson of the speaking stone!

Nor breath'd Instruction in her marble scene
Confin'd to stronger Man's expressive mein:
The female statue gloried to inspire
Maternal dignity and patriot fire.
The rigid Cato, with a censor's frown,
Strove from the sphere of sculptural renown
Austerely to exclude the worthier frame,
And rail'd at statues rais'd in woman's name,
Still the stern Romans, though they ne'er possess'd
That zeal for art which fill'd the Grecian breast,
Gaz'd, with a generous admiration warm,
On female virtue in its sculptur'd form:
Witness th'equestrian image that arose
To tell how Clelia, foiling potent foes

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By patriot spirit, in Rome's early days
E'en from a hostile king extorted praise—
Witness maturer form, of matron grace,
Worthy, in Honour's fane, the purest place.
Thou Roman statue! whose plain title shone
With lustre to enrich the meanest stone,
“Cornelia, mother of the Gracchi!”—Time!
Could'st thou, from every art-ennobled clime
Where buried Sculpture undiscover'd lies,
Bid, for my choice, her latent treasures rise,
Cornelia would I choose, if happy Art
Show'd, in her rescu'd form, a mother's heart;
Work wrought by Nature, on Perfection's plan,
To claim the boundless gratitude of man;
The finest work to which his thoughts can climb—
Consummate beauty and the true sublime!

Sculpture! sweet power, whose moral care express'd
The dearest feelings of the human breast!

139

In early days, before the martial throng
Of Grecian heroes, arm'd for Helen's wrong!
'Twas thine to shew, in Beauty's shape enshrin'd,
The prime perfection of the female mind.

When young Ulysses won, in gallant strife,
The child of fond Icarius for his wife,
The good old man desir'd the graceful pair
To live content in his paternal care;
Loth to resign the darling of his sight,
A peerless daughter, and his heart's delight:
Heroic duties bade the prudent chief
Decline the favour, to the father's grief,
Who, justly feeling what forbade their stay
Led his lov'd children on their distant way.
'Tis time to part—but the too tender sire
Summons, in vain, his courage to retire:
Nature subdues him, and the lovely bride
Clings, in mute anguish, to her father's side.
The noble Ithacus, of manly soul,
Viewing, with pity, Nature's strong control,

140

Says, “Sweet Penelope! thy steps are free
“To guide thy father, or to follow me.”
The sire, with Question's agitated air,
Looks up for the decision of the fair:
She could not speak, but, still to Nature true,
O'er her flush'd cheek her decent veil she drew.
The husband and the sire, who heard her sigh,
Both understood her exquisite reply;
And the proud father felt his pangs beguil'd
By the sweet graces of his modest child.
He bless'd and bade her go: but on the spot,
Often revisited, and ne'er forgot.
His fondness rais'd, with a regret serene,
A fair memorial of that tender scene—
A graceful statue of a female frame,
Sacred to love, and Modesty its name;
In which kind Sculpture, by her speaking power,
Express'd the feelings of that parting hour.

141

Enchanting Art! such ever be thy tone
As graceful Nature may be proud to own!
No forms of elegance Fame ranks above
Thy groups of filial and parental love:
Witness ye brothers of Sicilian name,
Who pass'd through Ætna's desolating flame,
Each, nobly loaded with a parent's weight,
Spar'd by receding fire, rever'd by Fate!
The brass has perish'd, whose expressive charm
Display'd your virtues in the dread alarm;
Yet in a Roman poet's faithful lines
The perish'd brass with new existence shines—
In Claudian's verse I see your bosoms thrill,
And with a graceful terror tremble still!

O lovely Sculpture! when, to thee unjust,
Ravage condemns thy offspring to the dust,
Though form'd with power and merit to endure
Through many a peaceful age of praise secure,

142

May Muses, conscious of thy gen'rous aim,
Still of thy ruin'd works the worth proclaim;
And to a new and firmer life restore
Thy moulder'd marble, or thy vanish'd ore!
Sculpture! to Heav'n-taught Poesy allied
By dignity of soul and decent pride,
By talents true to Glory's guiding fires,
That scorn to minister to mean desires!
Dear Arts! to whom in high degrees belong
Sisterly charms, by sweet alliance strong!
May I aspire, of each devoutly fond,
Of that alliance to confirm the bond,
While both I honour in my studious hour,
As Friendship dictates the presiding power,
Who, when I incense on your altars throw,
Guides my just hand, and gives my heart to glow!

Ingenuous Sculpture! in thy long career
Of various fortune in thy Pagan sphere,
Thou art intitled to the noblest praise,
For adding force to worth's reflected rays!

143

'Twas thine to give, in that dark world of strife,
Ardour to virtue, elegance to life!
If Fortune, to thy purest purpose blind,
Lavish'd thy honours on the worthless mind,
Indignant Freedom, in some distant day,
Would rise to vindicate thy moral sway.
When her Timoleon with a guardian sword
To injur'd Sicily her rights restor'd,
Statues were tried, and all of public note
Or fell or flourish'd by the people's vote.
Alas! how few in regal rank are found
Endear'd to Nature, as by Merit crown'd!
That polish'd isle her Gelon deem'd alone
Worthy to live in monumental stone.
There is no art to man by Heaven convey'd
Which man's rash folly dares not to degrade;
And thou canst reckon, in thy numerous race,
Sculptors whom skill serv'd only to disgrace:

144

Pygmalion, burning with a vain desire,
The dupe of Vanity's delirious fire!
The base Perillus, Cruelty's high-priest,
Condemn'd to bellow in his brazen beast;
And a coarse artist from the Roman school,
Of vile obscenity the venal tool!
But should assembled Arts their sons produce,
And all be tried for Talent's moral use,
Perchance, the foremost tribe in Honour's crowd,
The sons of Sculpture might be justly proud
That, mark'd collectively in Fame's review,
Their merit's infinite, their faults are few.

O that, redeem'd from dark Oblivion's spoils,
That rich memorial of their noblest toils
Which just Pasiteles, of gen'rous heart,
Fram'd on the higher works of happiest Art,
Might to our distant eyes, with lustre new,
Of ancient genius give a wider view.

145

Vain wish, in Lethe's gulf, by Taste abhorr'd,
The literary sculptor's kind record
Of works his judgment knew so well to prize,
Untimely sunk, and never more to rise.
But here let gratitude your merit speak,
Thou learned Roman, and thou faithful Greek!
Who 'mid the wrecks of time conspicuous stand,
Still holding light with a benignant hand,
To guide those fond advent'rers on their way
Who would the wasted scenes of ancient art survey.

Pliny! whose active, comprehensive mind
The richest map of Nature's realms design'd,
Well hast thou mingled in thy mighty plan
Sketches of arts that soften savage man!
Thy studies on thy country's rugged breast
Enlighten'd passion for those arts impress'd.
Though modern arrogance, with envious aim,
Has toil'd to undermine thy solid fame,
Nature and Truth may yet, in thee, commend
Their lively eulogist, their liberal friend;

146

And Taste with grateful joy thy page explore
For rich Antiquity's recover'd store.
There her lost wonders seem again to live,
There fresh delight to Fancy's eye they give;
Like phantoms, rais'd in magic's ample bower,
With all the splendor of departed power.

To one, less apt with warm applause to speak,
Minutely faithful, though a rambling Greek,
To thee, Pausanias! let me justly raise
A column, deck'd with plenitude of praise
Proportion'd to inestimable aid,
And copious light with modest care display'd!
Taste, by thy guidance, still has power to rove
Through ancient Sculpture's consecrated grove.
Delightful traveller through Talent's clime!
'Twas not thy lot to view its graceful prime:
Yet, nobly careful of its glories past,
'Twas thy brave aim to make its glories last;

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And Time shall honour, as his years increase,
Thy Panorama of enchanting Greece.

And you, ye moderns! whose fond toils display
Art's ancient powers in Learning's bright array—
You, whose enlighten'd minds assist my lays,
Friends of my verse! accept its friendly praise!
Sage Palatine! whose soul of temp'rate fire
No toils could daunt, and no researches tire:
Accomplish'd Junius! who, in Britain's isle,
Wer't pleas'd to bask in bright Protection's smile;
And noble Arundel's regard to share
With those fine Arts that boast his lib'ral care.
With Erudition's ample aid, 'twas thine
To form a portrait of antique design,
Bright as the image of elaborate skill,
Where blended stones the fine mosaic fill;
Where richest marbles all their tints unite,
And varied splendor fascinates the sight.

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In thy vast work rare proof of patient toil,
That glean'd from every age its spotless spoil,
There breathes a warm benignity of soul,
And moral beauty decorates the whole.

Of kindred spirit, in a later age,
See gentle Guasco, in a friendly page,
To touch a brother's heart with tender joy,
On Sculpture's powers his pensive mind employ!
As April drops soon thicken to a shower,
The sprightly comment of a vacant hour
Grew a rich work, where truth and taste have shown
How life deriv'd from Art a nobler tone;
Where lovely Sculpture shines benignly bright
In mild Philosophy's endearing light.
Alas! while Fame expects the volume penn'd
By high-soul'd Montesquieu's attractive friend,
Calamity, that strikes Ambition mute,
Obstructs the writer in his dear pursuit!

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His injur'd eyes in cruel quiet close,
And sink from glorious toil to dark repose.

While Art deplor'd her suffering friend's retreat,
Griev'd to resign an eulogist so sweet,
Her loss see Learning hasten to repay
With richer floods of intellectual day!

She, potent guide of each aspiring mind
That aims to please and benefit mankind—
She, in a petty cell of German dust,
Taught youthful Genius in her aid to trust;
Break his just way through Poverty's base bar,
And vault victorious into Glory's car.
Yes, fervid Winkelman! this praise is thine,
Thou bold enthusiast of a heart benign!
Nature exults to mark thy happier course,
And the fair triumph of thy mental force;
Though Fortune blended thy rare lot to fill,
As for the Grecian bard, extremes of good and ill.

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But though thy life became a ruffian's prey,
Nobly secur'd from peril and decay
Thy well-earn'd fame shall Time's respect command,
Thy merits live, engrav'd by friendship's hand;
And grateful Art, where'er her powers may rise,
That fond historian of her charms shall prize
Who, with enlighten'd love, describ'd the whole,
Each changeful feature, and her inmost soul.

If Art exults in his aspiring flight
Who as her champion rose, in penury's despite,
While gratitude her graceful bosom sways,
She owns a debt of no inferior praise
Due to her different friend, of Gallic name,
Who, high in rank, in fortune, and in fame,
To her dear service his rich purse assign'd,
With all the radiance of his richer mind,
Shining through clouds that thicken'd to o'erwhelm
His lov'd Antiquity's embellish'd realm;

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Whose treasures, bright'ning at his touch, commend
The piercing genius of their studious friend:
Thou, to whom idle nobles are a foil!
Thou model of munificence and toil!
Accomplish'd Caylus! if thy zeal sublime
Lavish'd on Art thy treasure and thy time,
Thine idol, blameless as the peaceful dove,
Paid thee with pleasure equal to thy love.
She sooth'd thee in thy gasp of parting breath,
And charm'd thy spirit through the shades of death.
Mild, lib'ral spirit! take (to thee not new!)
Tribute from English truth to merit due!
For once a Briton, who enjoy'd, with wealth,
Conceal'd munificence to charm by stealth,
Surpris'd thee with a splendid gift, design'd
A nameless homage to thy letter'd mind,
To both an honour!—O, instructive Time,
Ripen the nations to that sense sublime,

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To own the folly of contention's rage,
That makes the globe a gladiator's stage;
Till blood-stain'd rivals boast no other strife
But which may best befriend art, science, truth, and life.

THE END OF THE FIFTH EPISTLE.

153

EPISTLE THE SIXTH.

------ Tu quoque magnam
Partem opere in tanto, sineret dolor, Icare, haberes.
Virgil.

154

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.

155

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,

156

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!

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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!

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.

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:

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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.

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;

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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;

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His wish to rise, by filial duty's flame,
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.

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,

161

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.

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;

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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.

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,

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A shade of sorrow o'er his triumph throws,
And sighing, bids th'imperfect pæan close.

THE END OF THE POEM.