 | Poems on several occasions |  |
UPON THE PICTURES OF ONE MARRIED AND TWO MAIDEN SISTERS,
DRAWN BY BING AND A GERMAN.
My Muse must to the fair belong:
Three sisters' pictures claim my song;
Yet such as none can truly call
“Shadows of an original.”
Scarce artificial colours show
So odious on a living brow.
A painter deaf we often find,
But ne'er before a painter blind.
Whene'er a smooth Italian's art
The Venus paints that has his heart,
She fairer than the life appears:
And Frenchmen all are flatterers.
But when these pieces once we see,
The German and the Briton we
Can ne'er suspect of flattery.
Three sisters' pictures claim my song;
Yet such as none can truly call
“Shadows of an original.”
Scarce artificial colours show
So odious on a living brow.
A painter deaf we often find,
But ne'er before a painter blind.
477
The Venus paints that has his heart,
She fairer than the life appears:
And Frenchmen all are flatterers.
But when these pieces once we see,
The German and the Briton we
Can ne'er suspect of flattery.
The first, her sweetness laid aside,
More like a widow than a bride,
Frowns, and looks sad, and seems, to view,
A scold, a vixen, and a shrew.
More like a widow than a bride,
Frowns, and looks sad, and seems, to view,
A scold, a vixen, and a shrew.
The next betrays an idiot air,
As all were foolish that are fair;
Unknowing both of good and harm,
And tortured with a broken arm.
As all were foolish that are fair;
Unknowing both of good and harm,
And tortured with a broken arm.
The last, a coarse and ruddy face,
A smirking, sprightly country lass,
If a straw-hat but added were,
A perfect milkmaid would appear.
A smirking, sprightly country lass,
If a straw-hat but added were,
A perfect milkmaid would appear.
She that the first and eldest stands,
Seems angry at the painter's hands.
For very spleen and rage she cries,
As wounded by his injuries,
Or mourning in a silent tear
The fleeting empire of the fair:
Fleeting indeed, if past as soon
As marriage-ceremony's done;
If those that Graces were before,
Turn Furies when the wedding's o'er.
Must those that were so gay erewhile,
That look'd so dangerous in a smile,
When married, lay their beauties down,
And wear no terrors but a frown?
Is every wife so given to prate
That those who, in a virgin-state,
In softest sounds their lips unfold,
When wed, in every picture scold?
Seems angry at the painter's hands.
For very spleen and rage she cries,
As wounded by his injuries,
Or mourning in a silent tear
The fleeting empire of the fair:
Fleeting indeed, if past as soon
As marriage-ceremony's done;
If those that Graces were before,
Turn Furies when the wedding's o'er.
Must those that were so gay erewhile,
That look'd so dangerous in a smile,
478
And wear no terrors but a frown?
Is every wife so given to prate
That those who, in a virgin-state,
In softest sounds their lips unfold,
When wed, in every picture scold?
Next she whose wit does all surprise
With lustre equal to her eyes,
In spite of sense an idiot made,
Belies her nature in her shade.
The' artificer's mistaking hand
An easy pardon might have gain'd,
If spots of snuff had scatter'd been
Like moles upon a lovely skin;
Since 'tis not an unerring rule,
That too much snuff declares a fool;
Nor are they always void of sense
Who take such care to dung their brains.
But who her folly seems to' have shown,
Too plainly manifests his own:
Whoe'er his pencil can approve,
Must do as ladies when they love
An ape, or Black, or Indian piece,—
Admire it for its ugliness.
So, when a boy, I've often seen
A king, a princess, or a queen,
Whose tawny face and gilded head
Have both my eyes and stomach fed,
Carved on enticing gingerbread.
With lustre equal to her eyes,
In spite of sense an idiot made,
Belies her nature in her shade.
The' artificer's mistaking hand
An easy pardon might have gain'd,
If spots of snuff had scatter'd been
Like moles upon a lovely skin;
Since 'tis not an unerring rule,
That too much snuff declares a fool;
Nor are they always void of sense
Who take such care to dung their brains.
But who her folly seems to' have shown,
Too plainly manifests his own:
Whoe'er his pencil can approve,
Must do as ladies when they love
An ape, or Black, or Indian piece,—
Admire it for its ugliness.
So, when a boy, I've often seen
A king, a princess, or a queen,
Whose tawny face and gilded head
Have both my eyes and stomach fed,
Carved on enticing gingerbread.
A foreigner would last express
The features of an English face.
But, sure, our artist had design'd
Some High-Dutch beauty in his mind,
Since delicacy needs must be
A thing unknown in Germany.
Neglecting that resistless air,
That taking softness of the fair,
With clownish looks and Gothic mien
He draws a rustic heroine.
The' Italian thus, about to paint
The Virgin or some lesser saint,
Because they seldom care to come
From heaven to be drawn at Rome,
Prefers the mistress of his passion
To mother-church's adoration.
The features of an English face.
479
Some High-Dutch beauty in his mind,
Since delicacy needs must be
A thing unknown in Germany.
Neglecting that resistless air,
That taking softness of the fair,
With clownish looks and Gothic mien
He draws a rustic heroine.
The' Italian thus, about to paint
The Virgin or some lesser saint,
Because they seldom care to come
From heaven to be drawn at Rome,
Prefers the mistress of his passion
To mother-church's adoration.
Expect not, fair ones, from my Muse
The justice painters could refuse:
For as unskill'd in writing I
As they at pencil's image-ry.
Could I in lasting colours lay
The charms the' originals display,
Could but I soar to such a height,
Could but my fancy reach my sight,
Scarce you yourselves so much should please
As in my verse your images,
Limn'd by the Muse's nobler toil,
More lasting, painter, than thy oil;
Pictures as much transcending thine
As Raphael Urbin does a sign:
Still should you live, preserved in lasting song,
Without a compliment, for ever young.
The justice painters could refuse:
For as unskill'd in writing I
As they at pencil's image-ry.
Could I in lasting colours lay
The charms the' originals display,
Could but I soar to such a height,
Could but my fancy reach my sight,
Scarce you yourselves so much should please
As in my verse your images,
Limn'd by the Muse's nobler toil,
More lasting, painter, than thy oil;
Pictures as much transcending thine
As Raphael Urbin does a sign:
Still should you live, preserved in lasting song,
Without a compliment, for ever young.
| Poems on several occasions | |