Whose lovely lights on ev'ry object fall
By due degrees, yet still distinguish all.
Yet as the best of mortals are sometimes
Not quite exempt from folly or from crimes;
There are, who think that nature is not free
From some few symptoms of deformity.
Hence springs a doubt, if painters may be
To err, who copy nature in a fault,
Led by some servile rule, whose pow'r prevails
[thought
On imitation, when th' example fails.
Poets, and painters here employ your skill;
Be this the doctrine of your good and ill,
Enough to pose the critics of a nation,
Nice as the rules of Puritan-salvation.

Yet if the seeds of art we nicely trace";
There dawns a heav'nly, all-inspiring grace,
No tongue expresses it, no rule contains;
(The glorious cause unseen) th' effect remains:
Fram'd in the brain, it flows with easy art,
Steals on the sense, and wins the yielding heart,
A pleasing vigour mixt with boldness charms,
And happiness completes what passion warms.

Nor is it thought a trifle, to express
The various shapes, and foldings of the dress 7,
With graceful ease the pencil to command,
And copy nature with a hasty hand.
Through the clear robe the swelling muscles rise,
Or heaving breasts, that decently surprise;
As some coy virgin with dejected mien [seen,
Conceals her charms, yet hopes they may be
Be ev'ry person's proper habit known 8,
Peculiar to his age, or sex alone.

In flowing robes the monarch sweeps along,
Large are the foldings, natural, and strong:
Wide ample lights in spreading glories play,
And here contrasted, deeper shades decay.
The virgin-pow'rs who haunt the silver floods.
And hoary hills, and consecrated woods,
Soft strokes, and graceful negligence demand,
The nice resultance of an easy hand;
Loose to the winds their airy garments fly
Like filmy dews, too tender for the eye.

But e'er these charms are to perfection wrought,
Adapted manuals must be nicely sought.
Gay vivid colours must the draught inspire,
Now melt with sweetness and now burn with fire.
A northern sky must aid the steady sight,
Else the shades alter with the transient light.
Methinks the loaded table stands display'd,
Each nicer vase "in mystic order laid."
Here ocean's mistress heaps around her shells
Beauteous, and recent from the sea-green cells;
The taper pencils here are rang'd apart,
There chalk, lead, vials, and loose schemes of

art.

321

Watchful, and silent move the duteous bands,
One look excites them, and one breath com-
mands,

Hail happy Painting! to confirm thy sway,
Ocean, and air their various tributes pay.
The purple insect 9 spreads her wings to thee,
Wafts o'er the breeze, or glitters on the tree.
And the warm champian ripens into gold.
Earth's winding veins unnumber'd treasures hold,
A clearer blue the lazuli bestows,

Here umber deepens, there vermillion glows.
For thee, her tender greens, and flourets rise,
Whose colours change in ever-mingling dyes;
Ev'n those fair groves (for Eden first design'd)
Weep in soft fragrance through their balmy rind:
Transparent tears! that glitter as they run,
Warm'd with the blushes of the rising Sun.

Here cease my song-a gentler theme in

Each tender thought, and wakes the lover's fires.
spires
Once more your aid celestial Muses bring;
Sacred the lays! nor to the deaf we sing.

In ancient Greece 10 there liv'd, unknown to
A nymph, and Mimicina was her name. [fame,
Smit by a neighb'ring youth betimes she fell
Victim to love, and bade the world farewell.
Thoughtful and dull she pin'd her bloom away
In lonely groves, nor saw the cheerful day.
This might be borne-but lo! her lovely swain
Must part, ah, never to return again!
One mutual kiss must mutual passion sever,
One look divide 'em, and divide for ever!
See, now she lies abandon'd to despair,
And to rude winds unbinds ber flowing hair:
Beauteous neglect! when melting to her woes,
A Sylvan maid from her dark grotto rose:
(Long had she view'd the solitary fair,
Her bleeding bosom heav'd with equal care)
A heav'nly picture in her hand she bore,
She smil'd, she gave it, and was seen no more
Pleas'd Mimicina, speechless with surprise,
Ey'd the fair form, and lightning of the eyes:
She knew-and sighing gave a tender kiss;
Her noble passion was content with this:
No more his absence, or her woes deplor'd,
And as the living, she the dead ador'd.

Thus Painting rose, to nourish soft desires,
And gentle hopes, and friendship's purer fires:
Thus still the lover must his nymph adore,
And sigh to charms, that ought to charm no

more.

Thus when these eyes, with kind illusions blest,
Survey each grace Parthenia once possest:
Her winning sweetness, and attractive ease,
And gentle smiles that never fail'd to please;
Heav'ns! how my fancy kindles at the view,
And my fond heart relents, and bleeds anew!
Fair faithless virgin! with constraint unkind,
Misled by duty, and through custom blind:
Perhaps ev'n now, from pride and int'rest free,
Thou shar'st each pang of all I felt for thee;
Alas, 'tis now a crime to call me thine,
Ah, no-my pray'rs, my tears, my vows resign,
To act the tender, or the friendly part;
No-hate, forget me, tear me from my heart.

Yet still thy smiles in breathing paint inspire,
Still thy kind glances set my soul on fire.
Thither each hour I lift my thoughtful eye,
Now drop a tear, now softly breathe a sigh;
Sacred 'till death my gentlest vows shall be,
And the last gasp of life be breath'd for thee!
You too, O Sculpture, shall exalt my lays,
Pictura's sister-candidate for praise!
Soft Raphael's air divine, Antonio "shows;
And all Le Brun in mimic Picart" glows.
Hither ye nations, now direct your eyes,
Rise crown'd with lustre, gentle Albion rise!
Now thy soft Hollar, now thy Smith appears,
A faultless pattern to succeeding years;
There sacred domes in length'ning vistas
charm,

And British beauties here for ever warm.

Most painters, of less judgment than caprice,
Are like old maidens infamously nice:
It matters nought if rules be false or true,
All shou'd be modish, whimsical and new;
Fond of each change, the present still they praise,
So women love—and actors purchase plays.
As if self-love, or popular offence,
Receiv'd a sanction to mislead our sense;
Or party-notions, vapours, faith, and zeal
Were all, at proper times, infallible.
True wit, and true religion are but one,
Tho' some pervert 'em, and ev'n most have none.
Who thinks what others never thought before,
Acts but just that his sons will act no more.
Yet on a time, when vig'rous thoughts demand,
Indulge a warmth, and prompt the daring hand:
On purpose deviate from the laws of art,
And boldly dare to captivate the heart;
Breasts warm'd to rapture shall applaud your fire,
May disapprove you, but shall still admire.
The Grecian artist at one dash supply'd
What patient touches, and slow art deny'd.
So when pale Florio in the gloomy grove
Sits sadly musing on the plagues of love,
When hopes and fears distract his tim'rous mind,
And fancy only makes the nymph unkind:
Desp'rate at last he rushes from the shade,
By force and warm address to win the maid:
His brisk attack the melting nymph receives
With equal warmth, he presses, she forgives;
One moment crowns whole tedious years of pain,
And endless griefs, and health consum'd in vain.
Of ev'ry beauty that conspires to charm
Man's nicer judgment, and his genius warm,
To just invention be the glory giv'n,
A particle of light deriv'd from Heav'n.
Upnumber'd rules t' improve the gift are shown
By ev'ry critic, to procure it, none.

Some colours often to the rest impart
New graces, more thro' happiness, than art.
This, nicely study'd, will your fame advance,
The greatest beauties seldom come by chance.
Some gaze at ornament alone, and then
So value paint, as women value men.
It matters nought to talk of truth, or grace,
Religion, genius, customs, time, and place.
So judge the vain, and young; nor envy we:
They cannot think indeed-but they may see.

11 Two engravers, famous for their prints copied from Raphael and Le Brun.

12 Alluding to Hollar's Etchings in the Monasticon.

Excessive beauty, like a flash of light,
Seems more to weaken, than to please the sight.
In one gay thought luxuriant Ovid writ,
And Voiture tires us, but with too much wit.
Some all their value for grotesque express,
Beauty they prize, but beauty in excess:
Where each gay figure seems to glare apart,
Without due grace, proportion, shades, or art.
(The sad remains of Goths in ancient times,
And rev'rend dulness, and religious rhymes)
So youthful poets ring their music round
On one eternal harmony of sound..
"The lines are gay," and whosoe'er pretends
To search for more, mistakes the writer's ends.
Colours, like words, with equal care are sought
These please the sight, and those express the
thought,

But most of all, the landscape seems to please
With calm repose, and rural images.
See, in due lights th' obedient objects stand,
As happy ease exalts the master's hand.
See, absent rocks hang trembling in the sky,
See, distant mountains vanish from the eye;
A darker verdure stains the dusky woods;
Floats the green shadow in the silver floods;
Fair visionary worlds surprise the view,
And fancy forms the golden age a-new.

True just designs will merit honour still;
Who begins well, can scarcely finish ill.
Unerring truth must guide your hand aright,
Art without this is violence to sight.—

The first due postures of each figure trace
In swelling out-lines with an easy grace.
But the prime person mostly will demand
Th' unweary'd touches of thy patient hand:
There thought, and boldness, strength, and ar
conspire,

The critic's judgment, and the painter's fire:
It lives, it moves, it swells to meet the eve:
Behind, the mingling groupes in softer shadow
die.

Never with self-design your merits raise,
Nor let your tongue be echo to your praise.
To wiser heads commit such points as these,
A modest blush will tell how much they please

In days of yore, a prating lad, they say,
Met glorious Reubens journeying on the way:
Sneering, and arch he shakes his empty head,
For half-learn'd boys will talk a Solon dead)
"Your servant, good sir Paul, why, what, the devil
The world to you is more than fairly civil;
No life, no gusto in your pieces shine,
Without decorum, as without design"—

Sedate to this the Heav'n-born artist smil'd, "Nor thine, nor mine to speak our praise, my child!

Each shall expose his best to curious eyes,
And let th' impartial world adjust the prize."
Let the soft colours sweeten and unite
To one just form, as all were shade, or light.

Nothing so frequent charms th' admiring eyes
As well tim'd fancy, and a sweet surprise.
So when the Grecian 13 labour'd to disclose
His nicest art, a mimic lark arose:
The fellow-birds in circles round it play'd,
Knew their own kind, and warbled to a shade.

13 See Pliny's Natural History, lib. 35. cap. 10.

So Vandervaart in later times excell'd,

And nature liv'd in what our eyes beheld.
He too can oft (in optics deeply read)

Yet ah, how soon the casual bliss decays,
How great the pains, how transient is the praise!
Language, frail flow'r, is in a moment lost,

A noon-day darkness o'er his chamber spread: '4 (That only pruduct human wit can boast)

The transient objects sudden as they pass
O'er the small convex of the visual glass,
Transferr'd from thence by magic's pow'rful call,
Shine in quick glories on the gloomy wall;
Groves, mountains, rivers, men surprise the
sight,
[wavy light.
Trembles the dancing world, and swims the
Each varying figure in due place dispose 15,
These bold'y heighten, touch but faintly those.
Contiguous objects place with judgment nigh,
Bach due proportion swelling on the eye.
Remoter views insensibly decay,

And lights, and shadows sweetly drop away.
In bluish white the farthest mounts arise,
Steal from the eye, and melt into the skies.
Hence sacred domes in length'ning ailes extend,
Round columns swell, and rising arches bend:
Obliquer views in side-long vistas glance,
And bending groves in fancy seem to dance.

Two equal lights descending from the sky,
O'erpow'r each other, and confuse the eye.
The greatest pleasures tire the most, and such
Still end in vices if enjoy'd too much.
Tho' painters often to the shades retire,
Yet too long ease but serves to quench the fire.
Wing'd with new praise, methinks they boldly
O'er airy Alps, and seem to touch the sky. [fly
Still true to fame, here well-wrought busts de-
High turrets nod, and arches sink away. [cay,
Ev'n the bare walls, whose breathing figures
glow'd

With each warm stroke that living art bestow'd,
Or slow decay, or hostile time invades,
And all in silence the fair fresco fades.
Each image yet in fancy'd thoughts we view,
And strong idea forms the scene a-new:
Delusive, she, Paulo's free stroke supplies, [eyes.
Revives the face, and points th' enlightning
'Tis thought each science, but in part, can
A length of toils for human life at most: [boast
(So vast is art!) if this remark prove true,
'Tis dang'rous sure to think at once of two,
And hard to judge if greater praise there be
To please in painting, or in poetry;
Yet-Painting lives less injur'd, or confin'd,
True to th' idea of the master's mind:
In ev'ry nation are her beauties known,
In ev'ry age the language is her own:
Nor time, nor change diminish from her fame;
Her charms are universal, and the same.

O, could such blessings wait the poet's lays,
New beauties still, and still eternal praise!
Ev'n though the Muses ev'ry strain inspire,
Exalt his voice, and animate his lyre:
Ev'n tho' their art each image shou'd combine
In one clear light, one harmony divine;

14 This practice is of no late invention. Baptista Porta, who flourished about the year 1500, gives an ingenious account of it in his Natural Magic. lib. 17. How useful this may be to young painters, is not my province to determine. 15 Singula quæque, locum teneant sortita de

center.

Now gay in youth, its early honours rise,
Now hated, curst, it fades away, and dies.

Yet verse first rose to soften human kind,
To mend their manners, and exalt their mind.
See, savage beasts stand list'ning to the lay,
And men more furious, and more wild than they;
Ev'n shapeless trees a second birth receive,
Rocks move to form, and statues seem to live.
Immortal Homer felt the sacred rage,
And pions Orpheus taught a barb'rous age;
Succeeding painters thence deriv'd their light,
And durst no more than those vouchsaf'd to write,
At last t' adorn the gentler arts, appears
Illustrious Zenxis from a length of years.
Parrhasius' hand with soft'ning strokes exprest
The nervous motions, and the folded vest:
Pregnant of life his rounded figures rise,
With strong relievo swelling on the eyes.
Evenor bold, with fair Apelles came,
And happy Nicias crown'd with deathless fame.

At length from Greece, of impious arms afraid,
| Painting withdrew, and sought th' Italian shade;
What time each science met its due regard,
And patrons took a pleasure to reward.
But ah, how soon must glorious times decay,
One transient joy, just known, and snatch'd
away!

By the same foes, which Painting shunn'd before,
Ev'n here she bleeds, and arts expire once more.
Ease, lust, and pleasures shake a feeble state,
Gothic invasions, and domestic hate; [sume,
Time's slow decays, what these ev'n spare, con
And Rome lies bury'd in the depths of Rome!

Long slumber'd Painting in a stupid trance
Of heavy zeal, and monkish ignorance:
(When faith itself for mere dispute was giv'n,
Subtile was wise, and wranglers went to Heav'n.)
Till glorious Cimabue 16 restor'd her crown,
And dipp'd the pencil, studious of renown.
Masaccio taught the finish'd piece to live,
And added ev'ry grace of perspective.
Exact correctness Titian's hand bestow'd,
And Vinci's stroke with living labour glow'd.
Next Julio rose, who ev'ry language knew,
Liv'd o'er each age, and look'd all nature
through.

In happy Paulo strength and art conspire,
The Graces please us, and the Muses fire.

Each nobler secret others boast alone,
By curious toil Caracci made his own :
Raphael's nice judgment, Angelo's design,
Correggio's warmth, and Gu do's pleasing line.
Thrice g'orions times, when ev'ry science charms,
When rapture lifts us, and religion warms!
Vocal to Heav'n the swelling organs blow,
A shriller consort aids the notes below;
Above, around the pictur'd saints appear,
And list'ning seraphs smile and bend to hear.

Thence Painting, by some happy genius led,
O'er the cold North in slow approaches spread.
Evin Britain's isle, that blush'd with hostile gore,
Receiv'd her laws, unknown to yield before;

16 Giovanni Cimabue, born at Florence in the year 1240. He was the person who revived paint、 orat.ing after its unfortunate extirpation.

Hoc amat obscurum, vult hoc sub luce videri.

Let envy rage, and int'rest disapprove,
Envy and interest must submit to love.
By pray'rs and vows Hesione was won
To share the joys of hostile Telamon.

Soft gen'rous pity touch'd the captive dame'
Who arm'd Achilles with a lover's flame.
To bless the wretched, shows a soul divine-
Be ever angry-but be ever mine.
Yet can no pray'rs thy firm resentment move?
Wretch that I was so ill to fix my love!
See, at thy feet despairing, wild I roll,
Grief swells my heart, and anguish racks my soul:
There fix my doom; relentless to my sighs,
And lifted hands, and supplicating eyes.
Then wilt thou say (for pity sure must move
A virgin's breast) "How patient is his love!
Ev'n my heart trembles, as his tears I see;
The youth who serves so well, is worthy me."
Still must I then in sad destruction moan?
My cause unheeded, and my grief unknown.
Ah, no-Acontius cannot write in vain :
Sure ev'ry wretch has licence to complain!
But if you triumph in a lover's woe,
Remember still Diana is your foe:
Diana listen'd to the vows you made,
And trembled at the change her eyes survey'd.
Ah, think, repent, while yet the time is giv'n,
Fierce is the vengeance of neglected Heav'n!
By Dian's hand the Phrygian mateon fell,
Sent with her race, an early shade to Hell.
Chang'd to a stag, Acteon pour'd away,
In the same morn the chaser and the prey.
Althea rag'd with more than female hate,
And hurl'd into the flames the brand of fate.
Like these offensive, punish'd too like these,
Heav'n blasts thy joys, and heightens the disease.
Nor think Cydippe, (as my fears foresee)
A thought unworthy of thyself, or me!
Think not I frame this seeming truth, to prove
Thy stern disdain, a pious fraud in love;
Rather than so, I yet abjure thy charms,
And yield thee, scornful, to another's arms!
Alas, for this pale sickness haunts thy bed,
And shooting aches seem to tear thy head
A sudden vengeance waits thy guilty loves;
Absent is Hymen, Dian disapproves.
Think then, repent-recal the parting breath
O'er thy lips hov'ring in the hour of death.
See, on thy cheeks the fading purple dies,
And shades of darkness settle on thy eyes.
But whence, ye pow'rs, or wherefore rose that
pray'r?

;

Still must I mourn in absence, or despair;
Fore'd, if she dies, the promise to resign-
Ev'n if she lives, I must not call her mine!
Like some pale ghost around thy house I rove,
Now burn in rage, and now relent with love:
A thousand needless messages I make,
A thousand mournful speeches give, and take.
O that my skill the sov'reign virtues knew
Of ev'ry herb that drinks the early dew,
Then might I hear thy moans, thy sickness see,
Nor were it sure a crime to gaze on thee.
Perhaps ev'n now, (as fear foresees too well)
The wretch I curse, detest, avoid like Hell,
Beside thee breathes a love-dejected sigh,
And marks the silent glances of thy eye.

JBriseïs

Some faint excuse he raises, to detain
Thy swelling arm, and press the beating vein:
Now o'er thy neck his glowing fingers rove,
Too great a pleasure for so mean, a love!
Villain beware! the sacred nymph resign,-
Avoid, detest her, dread whate'er is mine;
Elsewhere a lover's preference I give,
But cease to rival here, or cease to live.
The vows you claim by right of human laws,
At best but serve to vindicate my cause.
To thee alone by duty is she kind;
Can parents alienate a daughter's mind ?
First weigh the crime, the vengeance next explore,
The father promis'd, but the daughter swore :
That merely vain on human faith relies ;
But this obtests the sanction of the skies.

Here cease my woes-ah, whither am I born,
A woman's triumph, and a rival's scorn?
Vain are my vows, unheeded is my pray❜r,
The scatt'ring winds have lost 'em all in air;
Yet think Cydippe, e'er thy lover dies!
Banish that wretch for ever from thy eyes;
Scorn, envy, censures are conferr'd on me,
And pain, and death is all he brings to thee.
Gods! may some vengeance crimes like these atone
And snatch his life, to mediate for thy own!

Nor think to please avenging Cynthia's eyes
With streams of blood in holy sacrifice:
Heav'n claims the real, not the formal part;
A troubled spirit, and repenting heart.
For ease, and health, the patient oft requires
The piercing steel, and burns alive in fires';
Not so with you-ah, but confirm the vow!
One look, one promise can restore thee now;
Again thy smiles eternal joys bestow,
And thy eyes sparkle, and thy blushes glow.
Suppose from me for ever you remove,
Once must you fall a sacrifice to love;
And then, ah, then will angry Cynthia close
Thy wakeful eyes, or ease a matron's throes?
Yet wilt thou ever find a cause for shame?
No sure a mother cannot, must not blame.
Tell her the vow, the place, the sacred day
I gaz'd on thee, and gaz'd my heart away:
Then will she surely say (if e'er she knew
But half that tender love I feel for you)
"Ah, think Cydippe, and his consort be;
The youth who pleas'd Diana, pleases me !"
Yet if she asks (as women oft inquire)
Tell her my life, my nation, and my sire:
Not void of youthful vanities I came,
Nor yet inglorions in the world of fame;
From ancient race I drew my gen'rous blood,
Where Cea's isle o'erlooks the watry flood:
Add, that I study ev'ry art to please,
Blest in my genius, born to live at ease.
Wit, merit, learning cannot fail to move,
And all those dearer blessings lost in love!
Ah! had you never sworn, 'twere hard to chuse
A love like mine and will you now refuse?

In midnight dreams when wakeful fancy keeps
Its dearest thoughts, and ev'n in slumber weeps,
Diana's self these mournful strains inspir'd,
And Cupid when I wak'd, my genius fir'd.
Methinks, ev'n now, his piercing arrows move
My tender breast, and spread the pains of love,
Like me beware, unhappy as thou art!
Direct at thee Diana aims her dart

To drink the blood that feeds thy faithless heart