University of Virginia Library

Thy Wh*stl*r's wrath, to Art the unfathomed spring
Of woes on woes, æsthetic goddess, sing!
Sing how he battled, that Columbian bold,
For outraged symphonies in black and gold;
His puny critic in full court would meet,
And laid his wrongs before the judgment-seat.
Should he, in might before his easel set,
Outwork the rapid hand of Tintoret?
Lend with a touch to Chelsea's glowing skies
A richer hue than Titian's mightiest dyes?
Out-Raphael Raphael in a blaze of power?
Bid canvas live for ever in an hour?
For Beauty's sake defy heraldic rules,
And quarter scarlet on a field of gules?
And pour before a world tradition-sated,
In strains profuse, art unpremeditated?
Should he do this, and more, yet knuckle down
Before a hireling scribbler's venal frown?
“Never,” quoth he, “by the mispainted sun,
In earth or heaven shall such foul wrong be done!
Forbid it, Law; forbid it, H*ddl*st*n!
What though the Forty, whom my soul abhors,
Against my genius bar their envious doors?
Time-serving slaves, unfit to black the boots
Of my large-hearted patron, great Sir C—tts!
What though T*m T*yl*r, Punch's showman small,
Compare my tints to paper on the wall?
What though B*rn* J*n*s, the imperceptive wretch,
Call my best ‘nocturne’ an unfinished sketch?
What though to R*sk*n's ignorant pretence
Better than I have bent in deference,
Whose stones of Venice, with precision hurled,
Break half the heads of the artistic world?
Though all beside submit to his abuse,—
Professor G*ldw*n Sm*th be dubbed a goose;
Fair M*rt*n*u, the famed agnostic belle,
A vulgar and a foolish infidel;
Though all his lightnings play and thunders roll
Round the white head of unrepressed Sir C*l*e,
Let me but pay the necessary fee,
Writ down a coxcomb Wh*stl*r ne'er shall be!
Art of the future, bid these minions blush;
Behold in me the W*gn*r of the brush!
Would that my fist around their orbs of view
Might paint choice symphonies in black and blue!
In Art's fair name drive we these penmen back,
Down with their discords dire in white and black;
Come forth, ye twelve, palladium of the free,
Who settle everything when ye agree,
And solve all knotty points with sure precision,
From High Art to an omnibus collision;
Come forth, and bravely do your fearless part,
Avenge in me this outrage upon Art;
And be our golden Yankee rule confest,
Whate'er is quickest done is done the best.”

Spirits of Pope and Johnson, where ye sleep,
Call grinning Bathos from the vasty deep.
In melting tones the guileless P*rry spoke,
And neck and heels the Judge dragged in his joke;
The General Attorney for the Crown
Brought for the nonce his oratory down
From all the high disputes of moneyed men
To this ignoble strife 'twixt pot and pen;
The wigs wagged all around the smoke-dried court,
And of the suitors made their usual sport;
Then, when my lord would by his twelve abide,
For “much was to be said on either side,”
Amid the breathless silence of the house,
The legal mountain bore its youngest mouse,
And laid the damages to Art (if any,
In pleaders' phrase) at one-fourth of a penny.