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POEMS AND PLAYS.

VOL. I.

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WILLIAM HAYLEY Eſqr.

Engraved by Thos. Holloway

Published by J. Sewell Cornhill 1786

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POEMS AND PLAYS, By WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ.

IN SIX VOLUMES.

VOL. I.

LONDON: PRINTED FOR T. CADELL, IN THE STRAND. M.DCC.LXXXV.

CONTENTS.

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VOL. I.

VOL. II.

[vi]

VOL. III.

VOL. IV.

[vii]

VOL. V.

VOL. VI.

[vii]

PREFACE.

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THE following productions have already experienced ſo much indulgence from the Public, that in ſending them thus collected into the world, I ſhould feel, perhaps, more of confidence than apprehenſion, were I not perfectly convinced that temporary favour is no deciſive proof of real deſert.

Whatever the future fate of theſe performances may be, I am aware that it muſt depend upon themſelves alone; and I ſhall not trouble my reader with [x] any vain attempt to enhance their merits, or palliate their defects.

Yet concerning one claſs of poems in the collection, it may be proper to ſay a few words, as ſome critics have expected to find in them much more than their author intended—I mean the eſſays on different arts. In theſe it was by no means my deſign to aſſume the office of a legiſlator; not only from a juſt diffidence in my own power of framing ſuch laws, but from a perſuaſion that in poetry they ſeldom prove either pleaſing or uſeful.

It may be ſaid, I believe, of all didactic poems, that the parts of them which do not pretend to teach, are the moſt productive of pleaſure, and perhaps of utility.

[xi] Paradoxical as this may appear, I am convinced, that in compoſitions relating to the fine arts it is ſtrictly true. A collection of precepts, tho' expreſſed in the moſt elegant verſe, can never make either a Painter or a Poet; whoſe productions, to uſe the words of a great hiſtorian, would excite leſs admiration, if they could be created by the leſſons of a preceptor.

Rules of art are in general ſo trite or fallacious, that they rather tend to tire and miſlead than to animate and direct.—Let us conſider, for inſtance, the Art of Poetry by Boileau, which is juſtly ſaid to be ſuperior to its rivals.—If we examine the mere precepts contained in this admirable Poem, ſome of them are ſuch as a [xii] Poet would certainly be neglected for obſerving, and others only ſuch as muſt occur to every writer of a ſound underſtanding.—They are indeed embelliſhed with all the graces of forcible and highly-poliſhed expreſſion; yet ſurely the moſt engaging and uſeful parts of this celebrated work, are its lively images and characters; which, by animating the compoſition, inſpire an enthuſiaſtic eſteem for the art and its profeſſors.

Concerning the real uſe of rules, opinions have been very different.—Some have even imputed the decline of art to the accumulation of precepts; while others have thought ſo highly of their power, as to imagine that no one can produce a good Poem, [xiii] without being acquainted with the Poetics of Ariſtotle; which is, in truth, like imagining that no one can become a parent without peruſing a treatiſe of anatomy.

Tho' I confeſs myſelf inclined to doubt the efficacy of precepts towards forming a great artiſt of any kind, I am far from intending to condemn the poems, that have appeared on a preceptive plan.—Many of theſe are written in a manner ſo ſprightly, and with ſuch an elegant felicity of expreſſion, that if they do not afford to young ſtudents that new and ſolid inſtruction which they profeſs to deliver, they are at leaſt highly pleaſing; and certainly very ſerviceable to that more numerous claſs of readers, the critics and connoiſſeurs.

[xiv] It was, however, my wiſh to render my own Poems, on different arts, more hiſtorical than preceptive.

My principal deſign was to preſent a general view of the art in queſtion, with a juſt and animating character of its moſt eminent profeſſors. There is, I believe, a ſeaſon of life, in which Poems of this nature may be read with the happieſt effect.—The firſt, and perhaps the moſt important ſtep towards forming a great Artiſt in any line, is to inſpire a youth of quick feelings with an enthuſiaſtic paſſion for ſome particular art, and with an ingenuous delight, in the glory of its Heroes.

Such was the end that I propoſed to myſelf in theſe eſſays; for, as delicate [xv] or inconſtant health, and the love of literary retirement, have prevented me from ſerving the community in ſcenes of active life, I have conſidered it as particularly incumbent on me to endeavour at leaſt, in my poetical purſuits, to promote the intereſt of ſociety.

I am aware that ſuch an idea is open to much raillery, as vain and romantic; but Poetry is an art, which conduces ſo little to the private emolument and advantage of thoſe who devote even a life to it, that they ought, I think, to be indulged in ſuch proſpects, however chimerical, as ariſe only from a benevolent vanity.

In cloſing this Preface, it may be proper to ſay, that the collection contains [xvi] nothing which has not appeared before, except an Ode to that elegant and inſtructive female author the Counteſs of Genlis, with a few ſhort and occaſional compoſitions, inſerted at the end of the firſt volume.

ERRATUM.

Vol. I. P. 93. l. 4. from the bottom, for 1732, read 1734.

AN ESSAY ON PAINTING: IN TWO EPISTLES TO MR. ROMNEY.

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[...],
[...].
PHILOSTRATUS.
‘Patet omnibus Ars, nondum eſt occupata, multum ex illâ etiam futuris relictum eſt. SENEC. Epiſt. 33.

EPISTLE THE FIRST.
[]AN ESSAY ON PAINTING.
EPISTLE I.

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ARGUMENT OF THE FIRST EPISTLE.

Introduction—The flouriſhing ſtate of Art in this country—Diſadvantages attending the modern Painter of Portraits—Short encomium on this branch of Art, with the account of its origin in the ſtory of the Maid of Corinth—Superiority of Hiſtorical Painting—Some account of the Greeks who excelled in it—Its deſtruction and revival in Italy—Short account of the moſt eminent Italian and Spaniſh Painters—Thoſe of Flanders and France—The corruption of Art among the latter.

BLEST be the hour, when fav'ring gales reſtore
The travell'd Artiſt to his native ſhore!
His mind enlighten'd, and his fancy fraught
With fineſt forms by ancient genius wrought;
Whoſe magic beauty charm'd, with ſpell ſublime,
The ſcythe of Ruin from the hand of Time,
And mov'd the mighty leveller to ſpare
Models of grace ſo exquiſitely fair.
While you, whom Painting thus inſpir'd to roam,
Bring theſe rich ſtores of ripen'd judgment home;
While now, attending my accompliſh'd friend,
Science and Taſte his ſoften'd colours blend;
Let the fond Muſe, tho' with a tranſient view,
The progreſs of her ſiſter art purſue;
[4]Eager in tracing from remoteſt time
The ſteps of Painting through each favour'd clime,
To praiſe her deareſt ſons, whoſe daring aim
Gain'd their bright ſtations on the heights of fame,
And mark the paths by which her partial hand
Conducts her ROMNEY to this radiant band.
Painting, ſweet Nymph! now leaves in lifeleſs trance
Exhauſted Italy and tinfel France,
And ſees in Britain, with exulting eyes,
Her vot'ries proſper, and her glories riſe.
Yet tho', my friend, thy art is thus careſt,
And with the homage of the public bleſt,
And flouriſhes with growing beauty fair,
The child of Majeſty's adoptive care,
The youthful artiſt ſtill is doom'd to feel
Obſtruction's chilling hand, that damps his zeal:
Th' imperious voice of Vanity and Pride
Bids him from Fancy's region turn aſide,
And quit the magic of her ſcene, to trace
The vacant lines of ſome unmeaning face:
E'en in this work his wiſhes ſtill are croſt,
And all the efforts of his art are loſt;
For when the canvas, with the mirror's truth,
Reflects the perfect form of age or youth,
[5] The fond affections of the partial mind
The eye of judgment with deluſion blind:
Each mother bids him brighter tints employ,
And give new ſpirit to her booby boy;
Nor can the painter, with his utmoſt art,
Expreſs the image in the lover's heart:
Unconſcious of the change the ſeaſons bring,
Autumnal beauty aſks the roſe of ſpring,
And vain ſelf-love, in every age the ſame,
Will fondly urge ſome viſionary claim.
The luckleſs painter, deſtin'd to ſubmit,
Mourns the loſt likeneſs which he once had hit,
And, doom'd to groundleſs cenſure, bears alone
The grievous load of errors not his own.
Nor is it Pride, or Folly's vain command,
That only fetters his creative hand;
At Faſhion's nod he copies as they paſs
Each quaint reflection from her crowded glaſs.
The formal coat, with interſecting line,
Mars the free graces of his fair deſign;
The towering cap he marks with like diſtreſs,
And all the motley maſs of female dreſs.
The hoop extended with enormous ſize,
The corks that like a promontory riſe;
[6] The ſtays of deadly ſteel, in whoſe embrace
The tyrant Faſhion tortures injur'd Grace.
But Art, deſpairing over ſhapes like theſe
To caſt an air of elegance and eaſe,
Invokes kind Fancy's aid—ſhe comes to ſpread
Her magic ſpells—the Gothic forms are fled;
And ſee, to crown the painter's juſt deſire,
Her free poſitions, and her light attire!
Th' ambitious artiſt wiſhes to purſue
This brilliant plan with more extenſive view,
And with adopted character to give
A laſting charm to make the portrait live;
All points of art by one nice effort gain,
Delight the learned, and content the vain;
Make hiſtory to life new value lend*,
And in the comprehenſive picture blend
The ancient hero with the living friend.
Moſt fair device! "but, ah! what foes to ſenſe,
What broods of motley monſters riſe from hence!"
The ſtrange pretenſions of each age and ſex
Theſe plans of fancy and of taſte perplex;
[7] For male and female, to themſelves unknown,
Demand a character unlike their own,
Till oft the painter to this quaint diſtreſs
Prefers the awkward ſhapes of common dreſs.
Sweet girls, of mild and penſive ſoftneſs, chooſe
The ſportive emblems of the comic Muſe;
And ſprightly damſels are inclin'd to borrow
The garb of penitence, and tears of ſorrow:
While awkward pride, tho' ſafe from war's alarms,
Round his plump body buckles ancient arms,
And, from an honeſt juſtice of the peace,
Starts up at once a demi-god of Greece;
Too firm of heart by ridicule to fall,
The finiſh'd hero crowns his country hall,
Ordain'd to fill, if fire his glory ſpare,
The lumber-garret of his wiſer heir.
Not leſs abſurd to flatter NERO's eyes*
Aroſe the portrait of coloſſal ſize:
Twice fifty feet th' enormous ſheet was ſpread,
To lift o'er gazing ſlaves the monſter's head,
When impious Folly ſway'd Oppreſſion's rod,
And ſervile Rome ador'd the mimic God.
[8]
Think not, my friend, with ſupercilious air,
I rank the portrait as beneath thy care.
Bleſt be the pencil! which from death can ſave*
The ſemblance of the virtuous, wiſe, and brave;
That youth and emulation ſtill may gaze
On thoſe inſpiring forms of ancient days,
And, from the force of bright example bold,
Rival their worth, "and be what they behold."
Bleſt be the pencil! whoſe conſoling pow'r,
Soothing ſoft Friendſhip in her penſive hour,
Diſpels the cloud, with melancholy fraught,
That abſence throws upon her tender thought.
Bleſt be the pencil! whoſe enchantment gives
To wounded Love the food on which he lives.
Rich in this gift, tho' cruel ocean bear
The youth to exile from his faithful fair,
He in fond dreams hangs o'er her glowing cheek,
Still owns her preſent, and ſtill hears her ſpeak;
Oh! LOVE, it was thy glory to impart
Its infant being to this magic art!
Inſpir'd by thee, the ſoft Corinthian maid
Her graceful lover's ſleeping form portray'd:
[9] Her boding heart his near departure knew,
Yet long'd to keep his image in her view:
Pleas'd ſhe beheld the ſteady ſhadow fall,
By the clear lamp upon the even wall:
The line ſhe trac'd with fond preciſion true,
And, drawing, doated on the form ſhe drew;
Nor, as ſhe glow'd with no forbidden fire,
Conceal'd the ſimple picture from her ſire:
His kindred fancy, ſtill to nature juſt,
Copied her line, and form'd the mimic buſt.
Thus from thy power, inſpiring LOVE, we trace
The modell'd image, and the pencil'd face!
We pity Genius, when, by intereſt led,
His toils but reach the ſemblance of a head;
Yet are thoſe cenſures too ſevere and vain,
That ſcorn the Portrait as the Painter's bane.
Tho' up the mountain winds the arduous road
That leads to pure Perfection's bright abode,
In humbler walks ſome tempting laurels grow,
Some flowers are gather'd in the vale below:
Youth on the plain collects increaſing force,
To climb the ſteep in his meridian courſe.
While Nature ſees her living models ſhare
The riſing artiſt's unremitting care,
[10] She on his mind her every charm imprints,
Her eaſy poſtures, and her perfect tints,
Till his quick pencil, in maturer hour,
Becomes her rival in creative power.
Yet in theſe paths diſdain a long delay,
While eager Genius points a nobler way:
For ſee! expanding to thy raptur'd gaze,
The epic field a brighter ſcene diſplays!
Here ſtands the temple, where, to merit true,
Fame gives her laurel to the favour'd few:
Whoſe minds, illumin'd with coeleſtial fire,
Direct the pencil, or awake the lyre;
Who trace the ſprings of nature to their ſource,
And by her guidance, with reſiſtleſs force,
The tides of error and of tranſport roll
Thro' every channel of the human ſoul!
How few, my friend, tho' millions boaſt the aim,
Leave in this temple an unclouded name!
Vain the attempt, in every age and clime,
Without the ſlow conductors toil and time;
Without that ſecret, ſoul-impelling power,
Infus'd by genius in the natal hour;
And vain with theſe, if bright occaſion's ray
Fail to illuminate the doubtful way.
[11]
The elders of thy art, ordain'd to ſtand
In the firſt circle of this honour'd band,
(Whoſe pencil, ſtriving for the nobleſt praiſe,
The heart to ſoften and the mind to raiſe,
Gave life and manners to the finiſh'd piece)
Theſe ſons of glory were the ſons of GREECE!
Hail! throne of genius, hail! what mighty hand
Form'd the bright offspring of this famous land?
Firſt in the annals of the world they ſhine:
Such gifts, O LIBERTY, are only thine;
Thy vital fires thro' kindling ſpirits run,
Thou ſoul of life, thou intellectual ſun;
Thy rays call forth, profuſe and unconfin'd,
The richeſt produce of the human mind.
Firſt taught by thee, the Grecian pencil wrought
The forceful leſſons of exalted thought,
And generouſly gave, at glory's call,
The patriot picture to the public hall.
'Twas then PANAEUS drew, with freedom's train,*
The chief of Marathon's immortal plain,
In glorious triumph o'er the mighty hoſt
That Perſia pour'd in torrents on their coaſt.
[12]
There POLYGNOTUS, ſcorning ſervile hire,*
Diſplay'd the embattled ſcene from HOMER's lyre.
His country view'd the gift with fond regard,
And rank'd the painter with their nobleſt bard.
Thy tragic pencil, ARISTIDES, caught
Each varied feeling, and each tender thought;
While moral virtue ſanctified thy art,
And paſſion gave it empire o'er the heart.
Correct Parrhaſius firſt to rich deſign
Gave nice proportion, and the melting line,
Whoſe ſoft extremes from obſervation fly,
And with ideal diſtance cheat the eye.
The gay, the warm, licentious ZEUXIS drew§
Voluptuous Beauty in her richeſt hue:
Bade in one form her ſcatter'd rays unite,
And charm'd the view with their collected light.
But Grace conſign'd, while her fair works he plann'd,
Her ſofteſt pencil to APELLES' hand:
Yet oft to gain ſublimer heights he ſtrove,
Such ſtrong expreſſion mark'd his mimic JOVE,
[13] Inimitably great he ſeem'd to tower,
And paſs the limits of the pencil's power.
Ye ſons of art, tho' on the gulph of years
No floating relic of your toil appears,
Yet glory ſhews, in every cultur'd clime,
Your names ſtill radiant thro' the clouds of time.
Thy pride, O ROME, inclin'd thee to abhor
Each work that call'd thee from thy ſphere of war:
By Freedom train'd, and favour'd by the Nine,
The powers of eloquence and verſe were thine,
While chilling damps upon the pencil hung,*
Where TULLY thunder'd, and where VIRGIL ſung,
Yet Grecian artiſts had the ſplendid fate
To triumph o'er the Romans' ſcornful hate.
Their matchleſs works profuſion toil'd to buy,
Their wonders glitter'd in the public eye,
Till ROME's terrific pomp, and letter'd pride,
Were ſunk in Deſolation's whelming tide.
Oh! lovely Painting! long thy cheering light
Was loſt and buried in barbaric night;
The furious rage of Anarchy effac'd
Each hallow'd character thy hand had trac'd,
[14]And Ign'rance, mutt'ring in her monkiſh cell,
Bound thy free ſoul in her lethargic ſpell.
At length from this long trance thy ſpirit roſe,
In that ſweet vale where ſilver Arno flows;
There ſtudious VINCI treaſur'd every rule,*
To form the baſis of a riſing ſchool:
Like early HESIOD, 'twas his fate to ſhine,
The herald of a maſter more divine.
Inflam'd by Genius with ſublimeſt rage,
By toil unwearied, and unchill'd by age,
In the fine phrenzy of exalted thought
Gigantic ANGELO his wonders wrought;
And high, by native ſtrength of ſpirit rais'd,
The mighty HOMER of the pencil blaz'd.
Taſte, Fancy, Judgment, all on RAPHAEL ſmil'd,
Of Grandeur and of Grace the darling child:
Truth, paſſion, character, his conſtant aim,
Both in the human and the heavenly frame,
Th' enchanting painter rules the willing heart,
And ſhines the finiſh'd VIRGIL of his art.
[15]
The daring JULIO, tho' by RAPHAEL train'd,*
Reach'd not the ſummit where his maſter reign'd;
Yet to no common heights of epic fame
True Genius guided his adventurous aim.
Thus STATIUS, fraught with emulous regard,
Caught not the ſpirit of the Mantuan bard:
Tho' rival ardour his ambition fir'd,
And kindred talents his bold verſe inſpir'd.
More richly warm, the glowing TITIAN knew
To blend with Nature's truth the living hue:
O! had ſublime deſign his colours crown'd!
Then had the world a finiſh'd painter found:
With powers to ſeize the higheſt branch of art,
He fix'd too fondly on an humbler part;
Yet this low object of his partial care
Grew from his toil ſo exquiſitely fair,
That dazzled judgment, with ſuſpended voice,
Fears to condemn the error of his choice.
Thus pleas'd a flowery valley to explore,
Whence never Poet cull'd a wreath before,
[16]LUCRETIUS choſe the epic crown to loſe
For the bright chaplets of an humbler muſe.
Soft as CATULLUS, ſweet CORREGIO play'd*
With all the magic charms of light and ſhade.
Tho' Parma claim it for her rival ſon,
The praiſe of ſweeteſt grace thy pencil won:
Unhappy genius! tho' of ſkill divine,
Unjuſt neglect and penury were thine.
Lamenting o'er thy labours unrepaid,
Afflicted Art oppreſt with wrongs decay'd,
Till with pure judgment the CARACCI came,
And, raiſing her weak powers and ſinking frame,
Reclaim'd the pencil of miſguided youth
From Affectation's glare to tints of modeſt Truth.
They form'd the Pencil, to whoſe infant fame
Young ZAMPIERI ow'd his nobler name:§
Profoundly ſkill'd his figures to diſpoſe,
The learned LANFRANC in their ſchool aroſe,
[17] And, train'd to glory, by their forming care,
The tender GUIDO caught his graceful air.*
Nor ſhall ye fail your well-earn'd praiſe to gain,
Ye! who adorn'd with art your native SPAIN!
The unfrequented ſhore, that gave you birth,
Tempts not the faithful Muſe to hide your worth:
Juſt to all regions, let her voice proclaim
TITIAN's mute ſcholar, rival of his fame.
The power, that Nature to his lips denied,
Indulgent Art, with fonder care, ſupplied:
The cruel bar his happy genius broke;
Tho' dumb the painter, all his pictures ſpoke.
And thou, VELASQUEZ, ſhare the honour due
To forceful tints, that faſcinate the view!
Thy bold illuſive talents ſoar'd ſo high,
They mock'd, with mimic life, the cheated eye.
Thou liberal artiſt! 'twas thy praiſe to guide
Thy happy ſcholar with parental pride;
Thy care the ſoft, the rich MURILLO form'd,§
And as thy precept taught, thy friendſhip warm'd.
[18] Yet other names, and not a ſcanty band!
Have added luſtre to th' IBERIAN land;
But, generous ITALY, thy genial earth
Superior numbers bore of ſplendid worth!
And rais'd amidſt them, in thy golden days,
No mean hiſtorian to record their praiſe.*
On Thee, whom Art, thy patroneſs and pride,
Taught both the pencil and the pen to guide;
Whoſe generous zeal and modeſt truth have known
To blazon others' ſkill, not boaſt thy own;
On thee, VASARI, let my verſe beſtow
That juſt applauſe, ſo freely ſeen to flow
From thy ingenuous heart and liberal hand,
To each great artiſt of thy native land!
Tho' many ſhine in thy elaborate page,
And more have riſen ſince thy diſtant age,
Their various talents, and their different fame,
The Muſe, unſkilful, muſt decline to name,
Leaſt in the nice attempt her judgment fail
To poiſe their merits in Preciſion's ſcale.
E'en public Taſte, by no determin'd rule,
Has claſs'd the merit of each nobler ſchool:
[19] To ROME and FLORENCE, in Expreſſion ſtrong,
The higheſt honours of Deſign belong;
On her pure Style ſee mild BOLOGNA claim*
Her faireſt right to ſecondary fame;
Tho' prouder VENICE would uſurp that praiſe,
Upon the ſplendid force of TITIAN's golden rays.
But ill they know the value of their art,
Who, flattering the eye, neglect the heart.
Tho' matchleſs tints a laſting name ſecure,
Tho' ſtrong the magic of the clear-obſcure,
Theſe muſt ſubmit, as a dependant part,
To pure Deſign, the very ſoul of Art;
Or Fame, miſguided, muſt invert her courſe,
And RAPHAEL's Grace muſt yield to REMBRANDT's Force;
Fancy's bold thought to Labour's patient touch,
And Rome's exalted genius to the Dutch.
Yet, HOLLAND, thy unwearied labours raiſe§
A perfect title to peculiar praiſe:
Thy hum'rous pencil ſhuns the epic field,
The blazing falchion, and the ſanguine ſhield;
[20]But hap'ly marks the group of rural Mirth,
In ſocial circle round the chearful hearth;
And ruſtic Joy, from buſy cares releas'd,
To the gay gambols of the village feaſt:
While Nature ſmiles her very faults to view,
Trac'd with a ſkill ſo exquiſitely true.
Theſe faults, O REMBRANDT, 'twas thy praiſe to hide!
New pow'rs of ART thy fertile mind ſupplied;
With dazzling force thy gorgeous colouring glows,
And o'er each ſcene an air of grandeur throws:
The meaneſt Figures dignity aſſume,
From thy contraſted light, and magic gloom.
Theſe ſtrong illuſions are ſupremely thine,
And laugh at Imitation's vague deſign:
So near to blemiſhes thy beauties run,
Thoſe who affect thy ſplendor are undone:
While thy raſh rivals, looſe and incorrect,
Miſcall their ſhadowy want of truth Effect,
And into paths of affectation ſtart:
Neglect of Nature is the bane of Art.
Proud of the praiſe by RUBENS' pencil won,*
Let FLANDERS boaſt her bold inventive ſon!
[21] Whoſe glowing hues magnificently ſhine
With warmth congenial to his rich deſign:
And him, her ſecond pride, whoſe milder care
From living Beauty caught its lovelieſt air!
Who truth of character with grace combin'd,
And in the ſpeaking feature mark'd the mind,
Her ſoft VANDYKE, while graceful portraits pleaſe,*
Shall reign the model of unrivall'd eaſe.
Painting ſhall tell, with many a grateful thought,
From FLANDERS firſt the ſecret pow'r ſhe caught,
To grace and guard the offspring of her toil,
With all the virtues of enduring oil;
Tho' charm'd by ITALY's alluring views,
(Where ſumptuous LEO courted every Muſe,
And lovely Science grew the public care)
She fix'd the glories of her empire there;
There in her zenith ſoon ſhe ceas'd to ſhine,
And dated, paſſing her meridian line,
From the CARACCI's death her period of decline.
Yet in her gloomy and diſgraceful hour
Of faded beauty, and enfeebled power,
[22] With talents flowing in free Nature's courſe,
With juſt exertion of unborrow'd force,
Untrodden paths of art SALVATOR tried,*
And daring Fancy was his favourite guide.
O'er his wild rocks, at her command, he throws
A ſavage grandeur, and ſublime repoſe;
Or gives th' hiſtoric ſcene a charm as ſtrong
As the terrific gloom of DANTE's ſong.
His bold ideas, unrefin'd by taſte,
Expreſs'd with vigour, tho' conceiv [...]d in haſte,
Before ſlow judgment their defects can find,
With awful pleaſure fill the paſſive mind.
Nor could one art, with various beauty fraught,
Engroſs the ardor of his active thought:
His pencil pauſing, with ſatiric fire
He ſtruck the chords of the congenial lyre;
By generous verſe attempting to reclaim
The meaner artiſt from each abject aim.
But vain his ſatire! his example vain!
Degraded Painting ſinks with many a ſtain:
Her clouded beams, from ITALY withdrawn,
On colder FRANCE with tranſient luſtre dawn.
[23]There, in the arms of ROMAN ſcience nurs'd,
In every work of ancient genius vers'd,
The ſage POUSSIN, with pureſt fancy fraught,*
Portray'd the claſſic ſcene, as Learning taught:
But Nature, jealous of her ſacred right,
And piqu'd that his idolatry ſhould ſlight
Her glowing graces, and her living air,
To worſhip marble with a fonder care,
Denied his pencil, in its mimic ſtrife,
The bloom of beauty, and the warmth of life.
Then roſe LE BRUN, his ſcholar, and his friend,
More juſtly ſkill'd the vivid tints to blend;
Tho' with exalted ſpirit he preſent
The generous victor in the ſuppliant tent,
Too oft the genius of his gaudy clime
Miſled his pencil from the pure ſublime.
Thy dawn, LE SUEUR, announc'd a happier taſte,
With fancy glowing, and with judgment chaſte:
But Art, who gloried in thy riſing bloom,
Shed fruitleſs tears upon thy early tomb.
[24] Theſe lights withdrawn, Confuſion and Miſrule
Seize the vain pencil of the Gallic ſchool:
Tho' FRESNOY teaches, in Horatian ſong,*
The laws and limits that to Art belong;
In vain he ſtrives, with Attic judgment chaſte,
To cruſh the monſters of corrupted taſte:
With ineffectual fire the poet ſings,
Prolific ſtill the wounded Hydra ſprings:
Gods roll'd on gods encumber every hall,
And ſaints, convulſive, o'er the chapel ſprawl.
Bombaſt is Grandeur, Affectation Grace,
Beauty's ſoft ſmile is turn'd to pert grimace;
Loaded with dreſs, ſupremely fine advance
Old HOMER's heroes, with the airs of FRANCE.
Indignant Art diſclaim'd the motley crew,
Reſign'd their empire, and to BRITAIN flew.
END OF THE FIRST EPISTLE.

EPISTLE THE SECOND.
[]AN ESSAY ON PAINTING.
EPISTLE II.

[]
[]
ARGUMENT OF THE SECOND EPISTLE.

The riſe of Painting in England, and the reaſons for its happening ſo late.—The rapidity of its improvement.—A ſlight ſketch of the moſt eminent living Artiſts in England.—The author's wiſh to ſee his friend among the firſt of that number—His reaſons for hoping it.—The reputation of a Painter in ſome degree owing to a happy choice of ſubjects—A few recommended from national events—and from Milton and Shakeſpeare.—Concluſion.—Author's wiſhes for his friend's ſucceſs.

INGENUOUS ROMNEY, whom thy merits raiſe
To the pure ſummits of unclouded praiſe;
Whom Art has choſen, with ſucceſsful hand,
To ſpread her empire o'er this honour'd land;
Thy Progreſs Friendſhip with delight ſurveys,
And this pure Homage to thy Goddeſs pays.
Hail! heavenly Viſitant! whoſe cheering powers
E'en to the happy give ſtill happier hours!
O! next to Freedom, and the Muſe, deſign'd
To raiſe, ennoble, and adorn mankind!
At length we view thee in this favor'd Iſle,
That greets thy preſence, and deſerves thy ſmile:
This favor'd Iſle, in native Freedom bold,
And rich in Spirit as thy Greeks of old.
[28]
Tho' foreign Theoriſts, with Syſtem blind*,
Preſcribe falſe limits to the Britiſh mind,
And, warp'd by Vanity, preſume to hold
Our northern Genius dark, confin'd, and cold:
Painting, ſweet Nymph, unconſcious of their chain,
In this fair Iſland forms her new Domain,
And freely gives to BRITAIN's eager view
Thoſe charms which once her fav'rite ATHENS knew.
'Tis true, when Painting, on ITALIA's ſhore,
Diſplay'd thoſe Graces which all Realms adore,
No kindred forms of Engliſh growth appear;
Age after age the hapleſs Pencil here
Dropt unſucceſsful from the Native's hand,
And fail'd to decorate this darker Land.
But freely let impartial Hiſtory ſay,
Why Art on BRITAIN ſhone with later ray.
When on this Iſle, the Gothic clouds withdrawn,
The diſtant light of Painting ſeem'd to dawn,
Fierce HARRY reign'd, who, ſoon with pleaſure cloy'd,
Now lov'd, now ſcorn'd, now worſhipp'd, now deſtroy'd.
[29]Thee as his Wives, enchanting Art! he priz'd,
Now ſought to crown thee, now thy death devis'd:
Now ſtrove to fix, with liberal ſupport,
Thy darling RAPHAEL in his ſumptuous Court;
Now o'er the hallow'd ſhrines thy hand had grac'd,
"Cried havock, and let ſlip the Dogs of Waſte."
When timid Art ſaw ruin his delight,
She fled in terror from the Tyrant's ſight.
The Virgin Queen, whom dazzled eyes admire,
The ſubtle Child of this imperious Sire,
Untaught the moral force of Art to feel,*
Proſcrib'd it as the ſlave of bigot. Zeal;
Or doom'd it, throwing nobler works aſide,
To drudge in flatt'ring her fantaſtic Pride:
And hence the Epic pencil in the ſhade.
Of blank neglect and cold obſtruction laid,
E'en while the Fairy-ſprite, and Muſe of fire,
Hung high in Glory's hall the Engliſh lyre.
JAMES, both for Empire and for Arts unfit,
(His ſenſe a quibble, and a pun his wit)
Whatever works he patroniz'd debas'd,
But haply left the Pencil undiſgrac'd.
[30]
With fairer mind aroſe his nobler Son,
Seduc'd by Paraſites, by Prieſts undone:
Unhappy CHARLES! oh! had thy feeling heart
But honour'd Freedom as it valued Art!
To merit juſt, thy bounty flow'd alike
On bolder RUBENS, and the ſoft VANDYKE:
To this ennobled realm thy judgment brought
The ſacred miracles that RAPHAEL wrought.
But regal Pride, with vain Ambition blind,
Cut off the promiſe of thy cultur'd mind.
By wounded Liberty's convulſive hand
Unbound, fierce Anarchy uſurps the Land;
While trembling Art to foreign regions flies,
To ſeek a refuge in ſerener ſkies.
Theſe ſtorms ſubſiding, ſee her once again
Returning in the ſecond CHARLES's train!
She comes to copy, in licentious ſport,
The Minions of a looſe luxurious Court;
From whence the modeſt Graces turn their eyes,
Where Genius ſees, and o'er the proſpect ſighs,
LELY's ſoft tints, and DRYDEN's nobler Lyre,
Made the mean Slaves of diſſolute Deſire.
Once more, alarm'd by War's terrific roar,
The ſweet Enchantreſs quits the troubled ſhore;
[31] While ſacred Freedom, darting in diſdain
Her vengeful Thunder on th' apoſtate Train,
And, pleas'd the gloomy Tyrant to diſown,
Gives to NASSAU the abdicated Throne.
The peaceful Prince may riſing Art defend,
And Art ſhall crown her Patron and her Friend.
In tumults, from the cradle to the grave,
'Tis thine, O WILLIAM! ſinking realms to ſave.
To thee no leiſure mightier cares allow,
To bind the laurel on the Artiſt's brow:
'Tis thine to fix, with tutelary hand,
The Baſe of Freedom, on which Art muſt ſtand.
Yet to thy Palace KNELLER's ſkill ſupplied*
Its richeſt ornament in Beauty's pride.
Unhappy KNELLER! covetous though vain;
Thee Glory yielded to ſeducing Gain:
While partial Taſte from modeſt RILEY turn'd,
By diffidence depriv'd of praiſe well earn'd.
Tho' in ſucceeding years the Muſes taught,
"How ANN commanded, and how MARLBRO' fought;"
[32] And THORNHILL's blaze of Allegory gilt*
The piles, that WREN's ſuperior genius built;
Contending Factions, in her cloſing reign,
Like winds impriſon'd, ſhook fair Freedom's Fane.
Painting, ſoft timid Nymph, ſtill choſe to roam,
And fear'd to fettle in this ſhaking Dome.
At length, the fury of each ſtorm o'erblown,
That threaten'd BRUNSWICK's race on BRITAIN's throne,
Rebellion vanquiſh'd on her native ſhore,
Her clans extinguiſh'd, and her chiefs no more:
The youthful Noble, on a princely Plan,
Encourag'd infant Art, and firſt began
Before the ſtudious eye of Youth to place
The ancient Models of ideal Grace.
When BRITAIN triumph'd, thro' her wide domain,
O'er FRANCE, ſupported by imperious SPAIN,
And, ſated with her Laurels' large increaſe,
Began to cultivate the plants of Peace;
Fixt by kind Majeſty's protecting hand,
Painting, no more an alien in our land,
Firſt ſmil'd to ſee, on this propitious ground,
Her temples open'd, and her altars crown'd:
[33] And Grace, the firſt attendant of her train,
She whom APELLES wooed, nor wooed in vain,
To REYNOLDS gives her undulating line,
And Judgment doats upon his chaſte deſign.
Tho' Envy whiſpers in the ear of Spleen,
What thoughts are borrow'd in his perfect ſcene,
With glee ſhe marks them on her canker'd ſcroll,
Malicious Fiend! 'twas thus that VIRGIL ſtole,
To the bright Image gave a brighter Gloſs,
Or turn'd to pureſt Gold the foreign Droſs.
Excelling Artiſt! long delight the eye!
Teach but thy tranſient tints no more to fly,*
BRITAIN ſhall then her own APELLES ſee,
And all the Grecian ſhall revive in thee.
Thy manly ſpirit glories to impart
The leading Principles of lib'ral Art;
To youthful Genius points what courſe to run,
What Lights to follow, and what Rocks to ſhun:
So ORPHEUS taught, by Learning's heavenly ſway,
To daring Argonauts their doubtful way,
And mark'd, to guide them in their bold Career,
Th' unerring Glories of the ſtarry Sphere.
[34]Thy Hand enforces what thy Precept taught,
And gives new leſſons of exalted thought;
Thy nervous Pencil on the canvaſs throws
The tragic ſtory of ſublimeſt woes:
The wretched Sons, whom Grief and Famine tear,
The Parent petrified with blank Deſpair,
Thy UGOLINO gives the heart to thrill,*
With Pity's tender throbs, and Horror's icy chill.
The offspring now of many a rival hand,
Sublimity and Grace adorn the Land;
Tho' but ſome few years paſt, this barren coaſt
Scarce one fair grain of native Art could boaſt.
Of various form, where'er we turn our eyes,
With ſtrong and rapid growth new wonders riſe;
Like ſeeds that Mariners, with generous toil,
Have wiſely carried to ſome kindred ſoil,
Which, ſhooting quick and vig'rous in their birth,
Speak the fond bounty of the virgin Earth:
The Land o'erjoy'd a fairer fruit to ſee
Adopts, with glad ſurprize, the alien Tree.
Now Art exults, with annual Triumphs gay,
And BRITAIN glories in her rich diſplay;
[35] Merit, who unaſſiſted, and unknown,
Late o'er his unſeen labours ſigh'd alone,
Sees honour now his happier toils attend,
And in the generous Public finds a friend.
O lovely Painting, to whoſe charms I bow,
"And breathe my willing verſe with ſuppliant vow,"
Forgive me, if by undiſcerning Praiſe,
Or groundleſs Cenſure, which falſe Judgment ſways,
My failing line with faint reſemblance wrong
Thy Sons, the ſubject of no envious ſong!
Supremely ſkill'd the varied group to place,
And range the crowded ſcene with eaſy grace;
To finiſh parts; yet not impair the whole,
But on th' impaſſion'd action fix the ſoul;
Thro' wandering throngs the patriot Chief to guide,
The ſhame of CARTHAGE, as of ROME the pride;
Or, while the bleeding Victor yields his breath,
Give the bright leſſon of heroic Death.
Such are thy Merits, WEST: by Virtue's hand
Built on the human heart thy praiſe ſhall ſtand,
While dear to Glory, in her guardian Fane,
The names of REGULUS and WOLFE remain.
With kindred power a rival hand ſucceeds,
For whoſe juſt fame expiring CHATHAM pleads;
[36] Like CHATHAM's language, luminous and bold,
Thy colours, COPLEY, the dread ſcene unfold,
Where that prime Spirit, by whoſe guidance hurl'd,
BRITAIN's avenging thunder aw'd the world,
In patriot cares employ'd his parting breath,
Struck in his field of Civic fame by Death;
And Freedom, happy in the tribute paid
By Art and Genius to ſo dear a Shade,
Shall own, the meaſure of thy praiſe to fill,
The aweful ſubject equall'd by thy ſkill.
To DANCE's pencil, in Preciſion ſtrong,
Tranſcendent Force, and Truth of Line belong.
Not GARRICK's ſelf, to SHAKESPEARE's ſpirit true,
Diſplay'd that ſpirit clearer to our view,
Than DANCE expreſſes, in its fierceſt flame,
The Poet's Genius in the Actor's Frame.
From GARRICK's features, with diſtraction fraught,
He copies every trace of troubled thought;
And paints, while back the waves of Battle roll,
The Storm of ſanguinary RICHARD's ſoul.
The rapid MORTIMER, of Spirit wild,
Imagination's dear and daring Child,
Marks the fierce Ruffian, in the Dungeon's gloom,
Stung with remorſe, and ſhudd'ring at his doom.
[37]Yet ſtill to nobler heights his Genius ſprings,
And paints a leſſon to tyrannic Kings:
In his bright colours ſee the field appear
To Freedom ſacred, and to Glory dear,
Where JOHN, proud Monarch, baffled on his throne,
Hears the brave Chief his lawleſs pow'r diſown,
And, for an injur'd Nation, nobly claim
The glorious CHARTER of immortal Fame!
But ſee far off the modeſt WRIGHT retire!
Alone he rules his Element of Fire:
Like Meteors darting through the gloom of Night,
His ſparkles flaſh upon the dazzled ſight;
Our eyes with momentary anguiſh ſmart,
And Nature trembles at the power of Art.
May thy bold colours, claiming endleſs praiſe,
For ages ſhine with undiminiſh'd blaze,
And when the fierce VESUVIO burns no more,
May his red deluge down thy canvaſs pour!
Art with no common gifts her GAINSB'ROUGH grac'd,
Two different Pencils in his hand ſhe plac'd;
This ſhall command, ſhe ſaid, with certain aim,
A perfect Semblance of the human Frame;
This, lightly ſporting on the village-green,
Paint the wild beauties of the rural Scene.
[38]
In Storms ſublime the daring WILSON ſoars,
And on the blaſted Oak his mimic Lightning pours:
APOLLO triumphs in his flaming ſkies,
And claſſic Beauties in his ſcenes ariſe.
Thy Graces, HUMPHREYS, and thy Colours clear,
From Miniature's ſmall circle diſappear:
May their diſtinguiſh'd merit ſtill prevail,
And ſhine with luſtre on the larger Scale.
Let candid Juſtice our attention lead
To the ſoft Crayon of the graceful READ:
Nor, GARD'NER, ſhall the Muſe, in haſte, forget
Thy Taſte and Eaſe; tho' with a fond regret
She pays, while here the Crayon's pow'r ſhe notes,
A ſigh of homage to the Shade of COATES.
Nor, if her favour'd hand may hope to ſhed
The flowers of glory o'er the ſkilful dead,
Thy Talents, HOGARTH! will ſhe leave unſung;*
Charm of all eyes, and Theme of every tongue!
A ſeparate province 'twas thy praiſe to rule;
Self-form'd thy Pencil! yet thy works a School;
Where ſtrongly painted, in gradations nice,
The Pomp of Folly, and the Shame of Vice,
[39] Reach'd thro' the laughing Eye the mended Mind,
And moral Humour ſportive Art refin'd.
While fleeting Manners, as minutely ſhewn
As the clear proſpect on the mirror thrown;
While Truth of Character, exactly hit,
And dreſt in all the dyes of comic wit;
While theſe, in FIELDING's page, delight ſupply,
So long thy Pencil with his Pen ſhall vie.
Science with grief beheld thy drooping age
Fall the ſad victim of a Poet's rage:
But Wit's vindictive ſpleen, that mocks controul,
Nature's high tax on luxury of ſoul!
This, both in Bards and Painters, Fame forgives;
Their Frailty's buried, but their Genius lives.
Still many a Painter, not of humble Name,
Appears the tribute of applauſe to claim;
Some alien Artiſts, more of Engliſh Race,
With fair ANGELICA our foreign Grace,
Who paints, with Energy and Softneſs join'd,
The fond Emotions of the female Mind;
And CIPRIANI, whom the Loves ſurround,
And ſportive Nymphs in Beauty's Ceſtus bound:
For him thoſe Nymphs their every Charm diſplay,
For him coy VENUS throws her veil away;
[40]And ZAFFANI, whoſe faithful colours give
The tranſient glories of the Stage to live;
On his bright canvaſs each dramatic Muſe
A perfect copy of her ſcene reviews;
Each, while thoſe ſcenes her loſt delight reſtore,
Almoſt forgets her Garrick is no more.—
O'er theſe I paſs reluctant, leaſt too long
The Muſe diffuſely ſpin a tedious Song.
Yet one ſhort pauſe, ye Pow'rs of Verſe, allow
To cull a Myrtle Leaf for MEYERS's Brow!
Tho' ſmall its Field, thy Pencil may preſume
To aſk a Wreath where Flowers immortal bloom.
As Nature's ſelf, in all her pictures fair,
Colours her Inſect works with niceſt care,
Nor better forms, to pleaſe the curious eye,
The ſpotted Leopard than the gilded Fly;
So thy fine Pencil, in its narrow ſpace,
Pours the full portion of uninjur'd Grace,
And Portraits, true to Nature's larger line,
Boaſt not an air more exquiſite than thine.
Soft Beauty's charms thy happieſt works expreſs,
Beauty thy model and thy Patroneſs.
For her thy care has to perfection brought
Th' uncertain toil, with anxious trouble fraught;
[41] Thy colour'd Cryſtal, at her fond deſire,
Draws deathleſs Luſtre from the dang'rous Fire,
And, pleas'd to gaze on its immortal charm,
She binds thy Bracelet on her ſnowy arm.
While Admiration views, with raptur'd eye,
Theſe Lights of Art that gild the Britiſh ſky;
Oh! may my Friend ariſe, with luſtre clear,
And add new Glory to this radiant Sphere.
This wiſh, my ROMNEY, from the pureſt ſource,
Has Reaſon's Warrant, join'd to Friendſhip's Force.
For Genius breath'd into thy infant Frame
The vital Spirit of his ſacred Flame,
Which frequent miſts of Diffidence o'ercloud,
Proving the vigor of the Sun they ſhroud.
Nature in thee her every gift combin'd,
Which forms the Artiſt of the nobleſt kind;
That fond Ambition, which beſtows on Art
Each talent of the Mind, and paſſion of the Heart;
That dauntleſs Patience, which all toil defies,
Nor feels the labour while it views the prize.
Enlight'ning Study, with maturing pow'r,
From theſe fair ſeeds has call'd the op'ning flow'r;
Thy juſt, thy graceful Portraits charm the view,
With every tender tint that TITIAN knew.
[42] Round Fancy's circle when thy Pencil flies,
With what terrific pomp thy Spectres riſe!
What luſt of miſchief marks thy Witch's form,
While on the LAPLAND Rock ſhe ſwells the ſtorm!
Tho' led by Fancy thro' her boundleſs reign,
Well doſt thou know to quit her wild domain,
When Hiſtory bids thee paint, ſeverely chaſte,
Her ſimpler ſcene, with uncorrupted taſte.
While in theſe fields thy judging eyes explore,
What ſpot untried may yield its ſecret ore,
Thy happy Genius ſprings a virgin Mine
Of copious, pure, original Deſign;
Truth gives it value, and, diſtinctly bold,
The ſtamp of Character compleats thy Gold.
Thy Figures riſe in Beauty's nobleſt ſcale,
Sublimely telling their heroic Tale.
Still may thy Powers in full exertion blaze,
And Time revere them with unrivall'd praiſe!
May Art, in honour of a Son like thee,
So juſtly daring, with a ſoul ſo free,
Each ſeparate Province to thy care commend,
And all her Glories in thy Pencil blend!
May tender TITIAN's mellow Softneſs join,
With mighty ANGELO's ſublimer Line;
[43] CORREGIO's Grace with RAPHAEL's Taſte unite,
And in thy perfect Works inchant the raviſh'd Sight!
How oft we find that when, with nobleſt aim,
The glowing Artiſt gains the heights of Fame,
To the well-choſen Theme he chiefly owes
That praife which Judgment with delight beſtows!
The Lyre and Pencil both this Truth confeſs,
The happy Subject forms their full ſucceſs.
Hard is the Painter's fate, when, wiſely taught
To trace with eaſe the deepeſt lines of thought,
By hapleſs Fortune he is doom'd to rove
Thro' all the frolicks of licntious JOVE,
That ſome dark PHILIP, phlegmatic and cold,*
(Whoſe needy TITIAN calls for ill-paid gold)
May with voluptuous Images enflame
The ſated Paſſions of his languid frame.
Abuſe like this awakens generous Pain,
And juſt Deriſion mingles with Diſdain,
When ſuch a Pencil, in a Roman hand,
While the rich Abbeſs iſſues her command,
Makes wild St. FRANCIS on the canvaſs ſprawl,
That ſome warm Nun in mimic trance may fall,
[44] Or, fondly gazing on the pious whim,
Feel ſaintly Love o'erload each lazy limb,
Miſtaking, in the Cloiſter's dull embrace,
The Cry of Nature for the Call of Grace.
But ſee th' hiſtoric Muſe before thee ſtand,
Her nobler ſubjects court thy happier Hand!
Her Forms of reverend Age, of graceful Youth,
Of public Virtue, and of private Truth:
The ſacred power of injur'd Beauty's charms,
And Freedom, fierce in adamantine Arms;
Whence Sympathy, thro' thy aſſiſting art,
With floods of Joy may fill the human heart.
But while the bounds of Hiſt'ry you explore,
And bring new Treaſures from her fartheſt ſhore,
Thro' all her various fields, tho' large and wide,
Still make Simplicity thy conſtant guide:
And moſt, my Friend, a Syren's wiles beware,
Ah! ſhun inſidious Allegory's ſnare!
Her Flattery offers an alluring wreath,
Fair to the eye, but poiſons lurk beneath,
By which, too lightly tempted from his guard,
Full many a Painter dies, and many a Bard.
How ſweet her voice, how dangerous her ſpell,
Let SPENSER's Knights, and RUBENS' Tritons tell;
[45] Judgment at colour'd riddles ſhakes his head,
And fairy Songs are prais'd, but little read;
Where, in the Maze of her unbounded Sphere,
Unbridled Fancy runs her wild Career.
In Realms where Superſtition's tyrant ſway
"Takes half the vigour of the ſoul away,"
Let Art for ſubjects the dark Legend ſearch,
Where Saints unnumber'd people every Church;
Let Painters run the wilds of OVID o'er,
To hunt for monſters which we heed no more.
But here, my ROMNEY, where, on Freedom's wings,
The towering Spirit to Perfection ſprings;
Where Genius, proud to act as Heav'n inſpires,
On Taſte's pure Altars lights his ſacred fires;
Oh! here let Painting, as of old in GREECE,
With patriot paſſions warm the finiſh'd piece;
Let BRITAIN, happy in a gen'rous race,
Of manly Spirit, and of female Grace;
Let this frank Parent with fond eyes explore
Some juſt memorials of the line ſhe bore,
In tints immortal to her view recall
Her deareſt Offspring on the ſtoried Wall.
But ſome there are, who, with pedantic ſcorn,
Deſpiſe the Hero, if in BRITAIN born:
[46] For them Perfection has herſelf no charms,
Without a Roman robe, or Grecian arms:
Our ſlighted Country, for whoſe fame they feel
No generous intereſt, no manly zeal,
Sees public Judgment their falſe Taſte arraign,
And treat their cold contempt with due diſdain;
To the fair Annals of our Iſle we truſt,
To prove this patriot indignation juſt,
And, nobly partial to our native earth,
Bid Engliſh Pencils honour Engliſh Worth.*
Shall BAYARD, glorious in his dying hour,
Of Gallic Chivalry the faireſt Flow'r,
Shall his pure Blood in Britiſh colours flow,
And BRITAIN, on her canvaſs, fail to ſhew
Her wounded SIDNEY, BAYARD's perfect peer,
SIDNEY, her Knight, without Reproach or Fear,
O'er whoſe pale corſe heroic Worth ſhould bend,
And mild Humanity embalm her Friend!
Oh! ROMNEY, in his hour of Death we find
A Subject worthy of thy feeling Mind;
Methinks I ſee thy rapid Hand diſplay
The field of ZUTPHEN, on that fatal day,
[47] When arm'd for Freedom, 'gainſt the guilt of SPAIN,
The Hero bled upon the Belgic plain!
In that great moment thou haſt caught the Chief,
When pitying Friends ſupply the wiſh'd relief;
While Sickneſs, Pain, and Thirſt his pow'r ſubdue,
I ſee the draught he pants for in his view:
Near him the Soldier, that expiring lies,
This precious Water views with ghaſtly eyes,
With eyes that from their ſockets ſeem to burſt,
With eager, frantic, agonizing Thirſt:
I ſee the Hero give, oh! generous Care!
The Cup untaſted to this ſilent Pray'r;
I hear him ſay, with Tenderneſs divine,
"Thy ſtrong Neceſſity ſurpaſſes mine."
Shall Roman Charity for ever ſhare
Thro' every various School each Painter's Care?
And BRITAIN ſtill her bright examples hide
Of female Glory, and of filial Pride?
Inſtruct our eyes, my ROMNEY, to adore
Th' heroic Daughter of the virtuous MORE,*
Reſolv'd to ſave, or in th' attempt expire,
The precious relicks of her martyr'd Sire:
[48] Before the cruel Council let her ſtand,
Preſs the dear ghaſtly Head with pitying Hand,
And plead, while Bigotry itſelf grows mild,
The ſacred duties of a grateful Child.
Forgive the Muſe, if haply ſhe commend
A Theme ill-choſen to her ſkilful Friend;
She, tho' its pow'r commands her willing heart,
Knows not the limits of thy lovely Art,
Yet boldly owns an eager wiſh to ſee
Her darling Images adorn'd by thee.
Nor ſhall her ſocial Love in ſilence hide
The juſt emotions of her grateful Pride,
When thy quick Pencil pours upon her ſight
Her own Creation in a fairer light;
When her SERENA learns from thee to live,
And pleaſe by every charm that life can give.
Thou haſt imparted to th' ideal Fair
Yet more than Beauty's bloom, and Youth's attractive air;
For in thy ſtudious Nymph th' enamour'd Eye
May, thro' her breaſt, her gentle Heart deſcry;
See the fond thoughts, that o'er her Fancy roll,
And Sympathy's ſoft ſwell, that fills her ſoul.
[49] But happier Bards, who boaſt a higher claim,
Aſk from thy Genius an increaſe of Fame.
Oh! let the Siſters, who, with friendly aid,
The Grecian Lyre, and Grecian Pencil ſway'd,
Who join'd their rival Powers with fond delight,
To grace each other with reflected Light,
Let them in BRITAIN thus united reign,
And double luſtre from that union gain!
Not that my Verſe, adventurous, would pretend
To point each varied ſubject to my Friend;
Far nobler guides their better aid ſupply:
When mighty SHAKESPEARE to thy judging eye
Preſents that magic Glaſs, whoſe ample Round
Reflects each Figure in Creation's bound,
And pours, in floods of ſupernatural light,
Fancy's bright Beings on the charmed ſight.
This chief Inchanter of the willing breaſt,
Will teach thee all the magic he poſſeſt.
Plac'd in his Circle, mark in colours true
Each brilliant Being that he calls to view:
Wrapt in the gloomy ſtorm, or rob'd in light,
His weird Siſter or his fairy Sprite,
Boldly o'erleaping, in the great deſign,
The bounds of Nature, with a Guide divine.
[50]
Let MILTON's ſelf, conductor of thy way,
Lead thy congenial ſpirit to portray
In Colours, like his Verſe, ſublimely ſtrong,
The ſcenes that blaze in his immortal ſong.
See MICHAEL drawn, by many a ſkilful Hand,
As ſuits the Leader of the Seraph-Band!
But oh! how poor the proſtrate SATAN lies,*
With beſtial form debas'd and goatiſh eyes!
How chang'd from him who leads the dire debate,
Fearleſs tho' fallen, and in Ruin great!
Let thy bold Pencil, more ſublimely true,
Preſent his Arch Apoſtate to our view
In worthier Semblance of infernal Pow'r,
And proudly ſtanding like a ſtately tow'r,
While his infernal mandate bids awake
His Legions, ſlumbering on the burning Lake.
Or paint him falling from the Realms of Bliſs,
Hurl'd in Combuſtion to the deep Abyſs!
In light terrific let the Flaſh diſplay
His Pride, ſtill proof againſt almighty Sway:
Tho' vanquiſh'd, yet immortal, let his Eye
The Lightning's flame, the Thunder's bolt defy,
[51] And ſtill, with Looks of Execration, dare
To face the Horrors of the laſt Deſpair.
To theſe great Lords of Fancy's wide domain,
That o'er the human Soul unqueſtion'd reign,
To their ſuperior Guidance be conſign'd
Thy rival Pencil and congenial Mind.
Yet O! let Friendſhip, ere the Verſe ſhe cloſe,
Which in juſt Tribute to thy Merit flows,
The ſanguine wiſhes of her heart expreſs,
With fond preſages of thy full Succeſs.
May Health and Joy, in happieſt union join'd,
Breathe their warm Spirit o'er thy fruitful Mind!
To nobleſt Efforts raiſe thy glowing Heart,
And ſtring thy ſinews to the toils of Art!
May Independance, burſting Faſhion's chain,
To eager Genius give the flowing rein,
And o'er thy epic Canvaſs ſmile to ſee
Thy Judgment active, and thy Fancy free!
May thy juſt Country, while thy bold deſign
Recalls the Heroes of her ancient Line,
Gaze on the martial Group with dear delight!
May Youth and Valour, kindling at the ſight,
O'er the bright Tints with Admiration lean,
And catch new Virtue from the moral Scene!
[52] May Time himſelf a fond Reluctance feel,
Nor from thy aged hand the Pencil ſteal,
But grant it ſtill to gain increaſing Praiſe,
In the late Period of thy lengthen'd days,
While faireſt Fortune thy long Life endears,
With RAPHAEL's Glory join'd to TITIAN's Years!
END OF THE SECOND EPISTLE.

NOTES TO THE FIRST EPISTLE.

[]

AS there may poſſibly be ſome Readers of the foregoing Performance, who may wiſh to look into the ſources from whence the Author has borrowed ſome of his ideas, he has thrown together the ſubſequent Notes, and disjoined them from the body of the Work, as they are intended only for the peruſal of thoſe who have leiſure and diſpoſition for ſuch kind of reading.

NOTE I. VERSE 77.
MAKE hiſtory to life new value lend.]

One of the moſt elegant writers of the preſent age has made an ingenious effort to introduce Hiſtory into the dull province of Portrait-painting, ‘"by [54] repreſenting a whole family in a ſingle picture, under ſome intereſting hiſtorical ſubject ſuitable to their rank and character."’ See Fitzoſborne's Letters, p. 6. But as the beauties and advantages of this plan ſtruck forcibly on the imagination of this amiable Author, the infinite difficulties attending its execution were likewiſe fully open to his diſcernment. The ſucceſs muſt depend on the choice of ſubject: where that is not very happily adapted, the picture will probably contain ſome moſt ridiculous abſurdities—Perhaps the Reader may recollect an unfortunate inſtance or two of this kind.

NOTE II. VERSE 100.
Not leſs abſurd to flatter Nero's eyes.]

Pliny furniſhes us with this ſingular anecdote, as an inſtance of the extravagant abuſe of Portrait-painting in his days, which, as he informs us, had arrived to a degree of madneſs. ‘"Nero had ordered himſelf to be painted under the figure of a Coloſſus, upon cloth or canvaſs, a hundred and twenty feet in height."’ The ſame author informs us, that this prepoſterous picture, when it was finiſhed, met with its fate from lightning, which conſumed it, and involved likewiſe the moſt beautiful part of the gardens where it was placed in the conflagration. The reader may find ſome ingenious remarks upon this ſubject, in the Notes ſur l'Hiſtoire de la [55] Peinture Ancienne, extraite de l'Hiſtoire Naturelle de Pline. Fol. London, 1725.

NOTE III. VERSE 108.
Bleſt be the pencil! which from death can ſave.]

The ſweet illuſion of this enchanting art is prettily expreſſed in a Letter of Raphael's to his friend Franceſco, Raifolini, a Bologneſe painter. The two artiſts had agreed to exchange their own portraits, and Raphael, on receiving his friend's picture, addreſſes him in the following words:

‘"Meſſer Franceſco mio caro ricevo in queſto punto il voſtro ritratto—egli è belliſſimo, e tanto vivo, che m' inganno talora, credendomi di eſſere con eſſo voi, e ſentire le voſtre parole."’ Raccolta di Lettere ſulla Pittura, &c. Tom. i. pag. 82.

The charm of Portrait-painting is ſtill more beautifully deſcribed in verſe by a friend of Raphael's, the amiable and accompliſhed Count Balthaſor Caſtiglione.

Sola tuos Vultus referens Raphaelis imago
Picta manu, curas allevat uſque meas:
Huic ego delicias facio, arriſuque jocoque
Alloquor, et tanquam reddere verba queat
[56]Aſſenſu, nutuque mihi ſaepe illa videtur
Dicere velle aliquid, et tua verba loqui.
Agnoſcit balboque Patrem, puer ore ſalutat.
Hoc ſolor, longos decipioque dies.

Theſe elegant lines are part of an epiſtle, written in the name of his Counteſs, Hyppolyte, to her huſband. See Pope's edition of the Poemata Italorum, Vol. ii. page 248.

NOTE IV. VERSE 126.
Inſpir'd by thee, the ſoft Corinthian Maid.]

Pliny has tranſmitted to us the Hiſtory of the Maid of Corinth and her father. ‘"Dibutades, a potter of Sicyon, firſt formed likeneſſes in clay at Corinth, but was indebted to his daughter for the invention; the girl being in love with a young man who was ſoon going from her into ſome remote country, traced out the lines of his face from his ſhadow upon the wall by candle-light. Her father, filling up the lines with clay, formed a buſt, and hardened it in the fire with the reſt of his earthen ware."’ Plin. Lib. 35.

Athenagoras, the Athenian philoſopher, gives a ſimilar account of this curious and entertaining anecdote, adding the circumſtance that the youth was ſleeping when the likeneſs was taken from his ſhadow. [...].’

The ſame writer, who lived in the ſecond century [57] of the Chriſtian aera, informs us that this monument of ancient art was extant at Corinth in his time, though Pliny ſeems to intimate that it did not ſurvive the taking of that city by Mummius.

In the Poeſies de Fontenelle there is an epiſtle from the Maid of Corinth, whom the author calls Dibutadis, to her imaginary lover Polemon. She deſcribes her own work in the following ſtanzas:

Une lampe pretoit une lumiere ſombre
Qui m'aidoit encore à rever:
Je voyois ſur un mur ſe depeindre ton ombre,
Et m'appliquois à l'obſerver:
Car tout plait, Polemon, pour peu qu'il repreſente
L'objet de notre attachement,
C'eſt aſſez pour flater les langueurs d'une amante
Que l'ombre ſeule d'un amant.
Mais je pouſſai plus loin cette douce chimere,
Je voulus fixer en ces lieux,
Attacher à ce mur une ombre paſſagere
Pour la conſerver à mes yeux.
Alors en la ſuivant du bout d'une baguette
Je trace une image de toi;
Une image, il eſt vrai, peu diſtincte, imparfaite,
Mais enfin charmante pour moi.
NOTE V. VERSE 194.
[58]
'Twas then Panaeus drew, with freedom's train.]

Panaeus was the brother of Phidias, the celebrated Sculptor, whom he is ſaid to have aſſiſted in his nobleſt works. Pauſanias, in his Fifth Book, gives an account of ſeveral pictures by this early Artiſt, and particularly of the picture here alluded to. It was painted in the celebrated portico called [...], Poecile.

Beſides a general repreſentation of the conflict, the flight of the barbarians, and a diſtant view of their ſhips, Theſeus, Minerva, and Hercules were, according to this author, exhibited in the piece. The moſt conſpicuous figures among the perſons engaged were Callimachus, and Miltiades, and a hero called Echetlus: he mentions alſo another hero, who is introduced into the picture, called Marathon, from whom, he ſays, the field had its name.Pauſanias, fol. Lip. 1696. p. 37.

From Pliny's account of the ſame picture we learn that the heads of the generals were portraits—‘adeo jam colorum uſus percrebuerat, adeoque ars perfecta erat ut in eo Praelio ICONICOS duces pinxiſſe tradatur.’ —Plin. lib. xxxv. c. 8.

Miltiades had the honour of being placed foremoſt in this illuſtrious group, as a reward for his having ſaved Athens, and all Greece. Cor. Nep. in Vitâ Miltiadis.

[59] Panaeus flouriſhed, according to Pliny, in the 83d Olympiad, little more than forty years after the battle he painted.

NOTE VI. VERSE 198.
There Polygnotus, ſcorning ſervile hire.]

Of the talents of Polygnotus much honourable mention is made by many of the beſt authors of antiquity, as Ariſtotle and Plutarch, Dionyſius Halicarnaſſenſis, &c. Pauſanias ſpeaks of the pictures here alluded to, and in his Tenth Book introduces a very long deſcription of other pictures by the ſame artiſt, painted alſo from Homer, in the Temple at Delphos. The paſſage however gives but a confuſed and imperfect idea of the painter's performance. How much the art is indebted to this ancient maſter, what grace and ſoftneſs he gave to the human countenance, what embelliſhments he added to the female figure and dreſs, are much more happily deſcribed by Pliny:—‘Primus Mulieres lucidâ veſte pinxit, capita earum mitris verſicoloribus operuit, plurimumque picturae primus contulit: ſiquidem inſtituit os adaperire, dentes oſtendere, vultum ab antiquo rigore variare.’—The ſame author likewiſe bears honourable teſtimony to the liberal ſpirit of this great artiſt, who refuſed any reward for his ingenious labours in the portico:—‘Porticum gratuito, cum partem ejus Mycon mercede pingeret.’ Plin. Lib. xxxv. cap. 8.

He flouriſhed about the 90th Olympiad.

NOTE VII. VERSE 202.
[60]
Thy tragic pencil, Ariſtides, caught.]

The city of Thebes had the honour of giving birth to this celebrated Artiſt. He was the firſt, according to Pliny, who expreſſed Character and Paſſion, the Human Mind, and its ſeveral emotions; but he was not remarkable for ſoftneſs of colouring. ‘"His moſt celebrated picture was of an infant (on the taking of a town) at the mother's breaſt, who is wounded and expiring. The ſenſations of the mother were clearly marked, and her fear leaſt the child, upon failure of the milk, ſhould ſuck her blood."’ ‘"Alexander the Great,"’ continues the ſame author, ‘"took this picture with him to Pella."’

It his highly probable, according to the conjecture of Junius, (in his learned Treatiſe de Picturâ Veterum̄) that the following beautiful epigram of Aemilianus was written on this exquiſite picture:

[...]
[...].
[...]
[...].

It is not ill tranſlated into Latin by Grotius:

Suge, miſer, nunquam quae poſthac pocula ſuges;
Ultima ab exanimo corpore poc'la trahe!
Expiravit enim jam ſaucia; ſed vel ab orco
Infantem novit paſcere matris amor.

[61] But this is far inferior, and ſo perhaps is the original itſelf, to the very elegant Engliſh verſion of it, which Mr. Webb has given us in his ingenious and animated "Inquiry into the Beauties of Painting."

Suck, little wretch, while yet thy mother lives,
Suck the laſt drop her fainting boſom gives!
She dies: her tenderneſs ſurvives her breath,
And her fond love is provident in death.
Webb, Dialogue vii. p. 161.
NOTE VIII. VERSE 206.
Correct Parrhaſius firſt to rich deſign.]

The name of Parrhaſius is immortalized by many of the moſt celebrated ancient authors; and his peculiar talents are thus recorded in Pliny: ‘Primus ſymmetriam picturae dedit, primus argutias vultus, elegantiam capilli, venuſtatem oris: confeſſione artificum in lineis extremis palmam adeptus.’—He is one of the four ancient painters, whoſe lives are written by Carlo Dati.—This ingenious Italian very juſtly queſtions the truth of the ſingular ſtory concerning Parrhaſius, preſerved in Seneca, where he is accuſed of purchaſing an old Olynthian captive, and expoſing him to a moſt wretched death, that he might paint from his agony the tortures of Prometheus. The ſame author contradicts on this occaſion a ſimilar falſehood concerning the great Michael Angelo, which was firſt circulated [62] from the pulpit by an ignorant prieſt, as we learn from Gori's Hiſtorical Annotations to the Life of M. Angelo, by his ſcholar Condivi.

NOTE IX. VERSE 210.
The gay, the warm, licentious Zeuxis drew.]

The Helen of Zeuxis is become almoſt proverbial: the ſtory of the Artiſt's having executed the picture from an aſſemblage of the moſt beautiful females is mentioned (though with ſome variation as to the place) by authors of great credit, Pliny, Dionyſius of Halicarnaſſus, and Cicero. The laſt gives a very long and circumſtantial account of it. De Inventione, Lib. 2.

If the ſtory is true, it is perhaps one of the ſtrongeſt examples we can find of that enthuſiaſtic paſſion for the fine arts which animated the ancients. Notwithſtanding her praeeminence in beauty, it ſeems ſomewhat ſingular that the painter ſhould have choſen ſuch a character as Helen, as a proper decoration for the Temple of Juno. A moſt celebrated Spaniſh Poet, though not in other reſpects famous for his judgment, has, I think, not injudiciouſly metamorphoſed this Helen of Zeuxis into Juno herſelf:

Zeuſis, Pintor famoſo, retratando
De Juno el roſtro, las faciones bellas
De cinco perfettiſſimas donzellas
Eſtuvo attentamente contemplando.
Rimas de Lope de Vega. Liſboa, 1605. p. 51-2.

[63] Junius ſuppoſes this picture to have been rated a little too high.

NOTE X. VERSE 216.
Yet oft to gain ſublimer heights he ſtrove.]

Grace is the well-known excellence of Apelles, but that he ſometimes very happily attempted the ſublime, we learn both from Plutarch and Pliny, who ſpeak of his force and energy—The Alexander of Philip, ſays Plutarch, was invincible, the Alexander of Apelles inimitable.

He painted, ſays Pliny, things that ſurpaſs the power of painting, quae pingi non poſſunt, Tonitrua, fulgura fulgetraque—

NOTE XI. VERSE 228.
While chilling damps upon the pencil hung.]

That the Romans attained to no degree of excellence in Painting or Sculpture, ſeems to be confeſt, and accounted for in the following paſſage of Tully's Tuſculan Diſputations, Lib. i.

‘An cenſemus, ſi Fabio, nobiliſſimo homini, laudi datum eſſet quod pingeret, non multos etiam apud nos futuros Polycletos, et Parrhaſios fuiſſe? honos alit artes, omneſque incenduntur ad Studia Gloriâ, jacentque ea ſemper quae apud quoſque improbantur.’

[64] The fine arts neceſſarily languiſh without public protection or encouragement: but public honours at Rome flowed in a very different channel. While the Roman boaſted his conſummate ſkill in every art of empire and government, he avowed, in many works of genius and taſte, his inferiority with an air of triumph.

Excudent alii ſpirantia mollius aera,
Credo equidem vivos ducent de marmore vultus:
Orabunt cauſas melius, caelique meatus
Deſcribent radio, et ſurgentia Sidera dicent.
Tu regere imperio populos, Romane, memento:
Hae tibi erunt artes, paciſque imponere morem:
Parcere ſubjectis et debellare ſuperbos.
Aeneidos, Lib. VI.
NOTE XII. VERSE 244.
There ſtudious Vinci treaſur'd every rule.]

Lionardo da Vinci was born near Florence in 1445. He was perhaps a man as univerſally accompliſhed as ever exiſted. Not only admirable beyond his predeceſſors in his own profeſſion of Painting, but an excellent Architect and Muſician, and of great ſkill as an Anatomiſt. Beſides all theſe talents, he was, according to Vaſari, the beſt extempore rimer of his time.—His Hiſtory and Works are well known.—The ſingular circumſtance of his dying in the arms of Francis the Firſt, king of France, is mentioned by a French poet of the preſent age,

[65]
"Lorſque Francois premier, Roi digne d' être heureux,
Tint Leonarda mourant dans ſes bras genereux."

And the particulars of his death are thus curiouſly recorded by Vaſari, who ſpeaks in raptures of his various and exalted talents:

‘Finalmente venuto vecchio, ſtette molti meſi ammalato, et vedendoſi vicino alla morte, ſi volſe diligentemente informare de le coſe catoliche, & della via buona, et ſanta religione chriſtiana, et poi con molti pianti confeſſo e contrito, ſe bene e' non poteva reggerſi in piedi, ſoſte nendoſi nelle braccie di ſuoi amici, e ſervi, volſe divotamente pigliare il ſantiſſimo ſacramento, fuor del letto: ſopragiunſeli il Rè che ſpeſſo e amerevolmente le ſoleva viſitare: per il che egli per riverenza rizzatoſi a ſedere ſul letto, contando il mal ſuo & gli accidenti di quello moſtrava tuttavia quanto aveva offeſo dio, et gli huomini del mendo, non avendo operato nel arte come ſi conveniva: onde gli venne un paroſiſmo meſſagiero della morte. Per la qual coſa rizzatoſi il Rè, et preſola la teſta per aiutarlo, & porgerli Favore, accio che il male lo allegeriſſe; lo ſpirito ſuo, che diviniſſimo era, conoſcendo non potere havere maggiore honore, ſpirò in braccio à quell rè nella etá ſua d' anni 75.’ Vaſari Vita di Lionardo da Vinci, p. 10, 11.

NOTE XIII. VERSE 251.
[66]
Gigantic Angelo his wonders wrought.]

Michael Angelo Buonaroti was born near Florence 1474, and died at Rome 1564.

This illuſtrious man is too well known, both as an Architect and a Painter, to need any encomium: he was alſo a Poet. His Rime were printed by the Giunto at Florence, in quarto, in 1623. The following Sonnet, which is to be found in Vaſari, to whom it is addreſſed, is at once a proof of his poetical talents, and his religious turn of mind: it may ſerve alſo as a leſſon to vanity, in ſhewing that even a genius of the ſublimeſt claſs entertained great apprehenſion concerning the mortality of his fame.

Giunti è già 'l corſo della vita mia,
Con tempeſtoſo mar per fragil barca,
Al comun porto, ov' à render ſi varca
Conto e ragion d' ogni opra triſta, e pia.
Onde l' affettuoſa fantaſia
Che l' arte mi fece idolo e monarca,
Cognoſco hor ben quant 'era d'error carca
E quel ch' a mal ſuo grado ognun deſia.
Gli amoroſi penſier, gia vani, e lieti
Che fien or' s'a due morti mi avicino?
D'una ſo certo, e l' altra mi minaccia.
Ne pinger ne ſcolpir fia piu che queti
L'anima volca a quello amor divino
Ch' aperſe a prender noi in croce le braccia.

[67] A letter, addreſſed to his friend Vaſari, on the death of Urbino, his old and faithful ſervant, ſhews, that he united the ſoft virtues of a moſt benevolent heart to the ſublime talents of an elevated mind.—This letter is printed both in Vaſari, and in the firſt volume of Raccolta de Lettere ſulla Pittura, &c. p. 6.

NOTE XIV. VERSE 254.
Taſte, Fancy, Judgment, all on Raphael ſmil'd.]

Raffaello da Urbino was born in 1483, and died 1520. His amiable qualities as a Man were not inferior to his exalted talents as an Artiſt. The reader will not be diſpleaſed to ſee the ſingular eulogium which the honeſt Vaſari has beſtowed on the engaging manners of this moſt celebrated Genius.

‘Certo fra le ſue doti ſingulari ne ſcorgo una di tal valore che in me ſteſſo ſtupiſco; che il cielo gli diede forza di poter moſtrare nell' arte noſtra uno effetto ſi contrario alle compleſſioni di noi pittori: queſto è che naturalmente gli artefici noſtri, non dico ſoli i baſſi, ma quelli che hanno umore d' eſſer grandi (come di queſto umore l'arte ne produce infiniti) lavorando nell' opere in compagnia di Raffaello, ſtavano uniti e di concordia tale che tutti i mali umori in veder lui s'amorzavano: e ogni vile e baſſo penſiero cadeva loro di mente. La quale unione mai non fu piu in altro tempo che nel [68] ſuo. E queſto aveniva perche reſtavano vinti dalla corteſia e dall' arte ſua, ma più dal genio della ſua buona natura.’ Vaſari Vita di Raff. p. 88.

To atone for the imperfect ſketch which has been here attempted of theſe divine artiſts, (Michael Angelo and Raphael) the author intended to have preſented the reader with a long quotation from a moſt animated diſcourſe of the Preſident of the Royal Academy, in which he has placed theſe great maſſers in a light of compariſon with each other. But as the diſcourſes of Sir Joſhua Reynolds are no longer ſcarce (a new edition being now publiſhed) he ſhall refer the reader to the Work itſelf. He will find this moſt happy and ingemous parallel in the diſcourſe delivered at the Royal Academy, December 10, 1772.

NOTE XV. VERSE 260.
The daring Julio, though by Raphael train'd.]

Julio Romano was born at Rome 1492, and died at Mantua 1546.

His ſingular character is forcibly drawn by Vaſari. He was, according to this writer, the moſt ſucceſsful imitator of Raphael, the greater part of whoſe ſcholars became eminent, and were almoſt infinite in number. Raphael was particularly attentive to Julio, and loved him with the affection of a parent. Vaſari Vita di Giulio.

NOTE XVI. VERSE 268.
[69]
More richly warm, the glowing Titian knew.]

We find frequent cenſures thrown upon Titian by the critics, for confining himſelf ‘"to flattering the eye by the richneſs and truth of his colouring, without a proper attention to the higher branch of his art, that of intereſting our feeling by affecting ſubjects;"’ the criticiſm is indeed extended to the Painters of the Lombard School in general. Du Bos, Tom. I. Sect. 10.

Why Titian choſe not to follow the finiſhed method of his excellent cotemporaries, he declared to Franceſco de Vargas, the embaſſador of Charles the Vth at Venice.

‘"I fear, (replied this eminent Painter to the queſtion of Vargas) I ſhould never equal the extreme delicacy which diſtinguiſhes the pencils of Corregio, Parmegiano, and Raphael: and even though I ſhould be ſucceſsful enough to equal them, I ſhould always rank below them, becauſe I ſhould be only accounted their imitator. In a word, ambition, which always attends the fine arts, has induced me to chooſe a way entirely new, in which I might make myſelf famed for ſomething, as the great Maſters have done in the route they have followed."’ Antoine Perez, dans la ſoixante-unieme de ſes Secondes Lettres.

This great Artiſt enjoyed a long life of uninterrupted [70] health, and died during the plague at Venice in 1576, at the uncommon age of ninety-nine.

NOTE XVII. VERSE 282.
Soft as Catullus, ſweet Corregio play'd]

Antonio da Corregio.—Very different accounts are given by different authors of the birth and fortunes of this exquiſite Painter. His capital pictures were executed about the year 1512, according to Vaſari; who relates, in a very affecting manner, the circumſtances of his poverty and death.

Having taken a journey on foot, in extremely hot weather, he imprudently drank cold water, which brought on a fever, of which he died at about the age of forty.

His colouring was moſt exquiſitely adapted to the delicate ſoftneſs of female beauty. To form a perfect picture of Adam and Eve (ſays an Italian writer on Painting) Adam ſhould be deſigned by Michael Angelo, and coloured by Titain; Eve deſigned by Raphael, and coloured by Corregio.—

The ill fortune of Corregio, and the groſs neglect of Art, in the very city which he had adorned with the moſt exquiſite productions of his pencil, are expreſſed with great feeling in a letter of Annibal Carracci, written while he was ſtudying the works of Corregio, at Parma, to his couſin Lodovico, in 1580.—Vide Raccolta de Lettere, &c. Tom. I. p. 88.

NOTE XVIII. VERSE 284.
[71]
Though Parma claim it for her rival ſon.]

Franceſco Mazzuoli was born at Parma in 1504, and is thence uſually called Parmegiano. His character is thus diſtinctly marked by Vaſari:

‘"Fu dal cielo largamente dodato di tutte quelle parti, che a un excellente pittore ſono richieſte, poi che diede alle ſue figure, oltre quello, che ſi è detto di molti altri, una certa venuſta, dolcezza, e leggiadria nell attitudini, che fu ſua propria e particolare."’—The ſame author gives us a particular deſcription of the ſingular and admirable portrait, which this delicate artiſt drew of himſelf refiected from a convex mirror: he relates alſo ſome curious circumſtances of his allegorical portrait of the emperor Charles the Vth, which he painted by memory, and by the recommendation of Pope Clement the VIIth, preſented to the emperor at Bologna.—The honeſt biographer laments, with great feeling, the errors and misfortunes of this moſt promiſing painter, who being ſeized, early in life, with the frenzy of turning alchemiſt, impaired his health and fortune by this fatal purſuit; his attachment to which however ſome authors have queſtioned: a delirious fever put a period to his melancholy days at the age of thirty-ſix, in his native city of Parma, 1540.

NOTE XIX. VERSE 290.
Till with pure judgment the Caracci came.]

Lodovico [72] Caracci, who with his couſins Annibal and Auguſtin eſtabliſhed the famous Academy of Bologna, was born in that city 1555. The circumſtance that occaſioned his death, as related by a French author, affords a ſingular proof how dangerous it is for an Artiſt to confide in the partial judgment of his particular friends.

‘Son dernier ouvrage, qui eſt une Annonciation peinte à freſque, dans une des lunettes de la Cathedrale de Bologne, ne reuſſit pas; ſon age, une vuê affoiblie, & la grande elevation de l'Egliſe, furent cauſe qu'il ſe confia à un ami pour voir d'en bas l'effet de l'ouvrage. Cet ami lui dit qu'il etoit bien, & qu'il pouvoit faire ôter les Echaufauds: il fut trompé; on critiqua fort cette peinture: Louis s'en chagrina de maniere qu'il ſe mit au lit, et Bologne perdit ce grand Homme en 1619.’ —Abrégé de la Vie des plus fameux Peintres. Paris, 8vo. 1762. Tom. II. p. 50.

Auguſtin, who quitted the pencil for the engraver, and is much celebrated for his various accompliſhments, died at Parma in 1602.—Annibal, the immortal Painter of the Farneſe gallery, whom Pouffin did not heſitate to rank with Raphael himſelf, died in a ſtate of diſtraction at Rome, 1609. This melancholy event is deſcribed in a very affecting letter written by an Italian prelate, who attended him in his laſt moments. Raccolta, Tom. II. p. 384.

NOTE XX. VERSE 295.
[73]
Young Zampieri ow'd his nobler name.]

Domenico Zampieri, born at Bologna 1518, died at Naples, not without ſuſpicion of poiſon, 1640.—He entered early in life into the ſchool of the Caracci, and was there honoured with the affectionate appellation of Domenichino, from his extreme youth.—His Communion of St. Jerome was compared by the judicious Pouſſin to the Transfiguration of Raphael: yet Du Freſnoy has paſſed a ſevere cenſure on Domenichino, and affirms that he has leſs nobleneſs in his works than any other artiſt who ſtudied in the ſchool of the Caracci. So contradictory are the opinions of the two moſt enlightened judges in this delicate art!

NOTE XXI. VERSE 297.
The learned Lanfranc in their ſchool aroſe.]

Giovanni Lanfranco, born at Parma 1581, was knighted by Pope Urban the VIIIth, and died at Rome 1647.

NOTE XXII. VERSE 299.
The tender Guido caught his graceful air.]

Guido Reni was born in Bologna 1595: exquiſite in grace, though deficient in expreſſion, he was held during his life in the higheſt eſtimation. A fatal paſſion for gaming involved him in continued ſcenes of diſtreſs. His perſonal beauty was ſo great, that [74] his maſter Lodovico Caracci is ſaid to have drawn his angels from the head of Guido.

NOTE XXIII. VERSE 305.
Titian's mute ſcholar, rival of his fame.]

Titian is ſaid to have reſided in Spain from the year 1548 to 1553, and ſeems to have raiſed a ſtrong paſſion for Art in that country.—His moſt eminent diſciple was Juan Fernandez Ximenes de Navarrete, who is called by his Spaniſh Biographer, The Titian of Spain.—Though born deaf and dumb, from whence he derives his common title el Mudo, he roſe to great reputation as a Painter; and was warmly patronized by his Sovereign, as appears from the following incident—In painting the martyrdom of a Saint, he had introduced the figure of his perſonal enemy, who happened to be the King's Secretary, in the character of the Executioner: the Secretary complained to his maſter, and petitioned that his features might be effaced; but his Majeſty defended the Painter, and ordered the figure to remain.—In praiſing this ſingular genius, I have ventured to borrow ſomething like a conceit from the famous Spaniſh Poet Lope de Vega, who has celebrated his talents in the following verſes:

Del Mudo Pintor famoſiſſimo.

No quiſo el cielo que hablaſſe,
Porque con mi entendimiento
Dieſſe mayor ſentimiento
A las coſas que pintaſſe.
[75]
Y tanta vida les di
Con el pincel ſingular,
Que como no pude hablar,
Hize que hablaſſen por mi.

The Poet alſo honoured this favourite Artiſt, who died in 1572, with an Epitaph, which turns on the ſame idea, and which the curious reader may find in the Work, from whence I have taken this ſhort account of him. Vidas de los Pittores Eſpanoles, por Palamino Velaſco, Octavo, London 1744.

NOTE XXIV. VERSE 310.
And thou, Velaſquez, ſhare the honour due.]

Don Diego Velaſquez de Silva, the moſt accompliſhed of the Spaniſh Painters, was born at Seville, 1594, and clos'd his honourable and ſplendid life at Madrid in 1660.—His maſter was Pacheco, a Spaniard, who united the ſiſter arts of Painting and Poetry.—Velaſquez was patronized by the famous Olivarez, and had the honour of painting our Charles the Firſt, during his viſit at Madrid: perhaps he contributed not a little to form the taſte and paſſion for art, by which that Prince was ſo eminently diſtinguiſhed. The Spaniſh Painter roſe to great honours in his own country, and had, like Rubens, the ſingular fortune to unite the character of an Ambaſſador with that of an Artiſt, being ſent on an extraordinary commiſſion, in 1648, to Pope Innocent X.

One of his moſt ſtriking hiſtorical pictures, was the expulſion of the Moors from Spain; a noble, national ſubject, which he painted for Philip the Third, in competition [76] with three Artiſts of reputation, and obtained the preference.

But he is particularly celebrated for the ſpirit and energy of his Portraits; concerning which there are two ſingular ancedotes related by his Spaniſh Biographer; and the following may poſſibly amuſe the reader:

In 1639, he executed a portrait of Don Adrian Pulido Pareja, Commander in chief of an armament appointed to New Spain; and pleaſed himſelf ſo well in the execution, that he affixed his name to the picture; a circumſtance not uſual with him. He had painted with pencils of uncommon length, for the ſake of working at a greater diſtance, and with peculiar force; ſo that the picture (ſays my Spaniſh author) when near, is not to be diſtinguiſhed, and at a diſtance, is a miracle. As Velaſquez, after this portrait was finiſhed, was at work in the palace, the King, as uſual, went privately to his apartment to ſee him paint; when obſerving the figure of Pareja, and taking it for the real perſon, he exclaimed with ſurprize, ‘"What! are you ſtill here? have you not your diſpatches? and why are you not gone?"’ But ſoon perceiving his miſtake, he turn'd to Velaſquez (who modeſtly doubted the reality of the deception) and ſaid, ‘"I proteſt to you it deceived me."’—For this ſtory, ſuch as it is, I am indebted to the author whom I have quoted in the preced ng Note. The celebrated Murillo, whoſe pictures are much better known in England than thoſe of his maſter, was a diſciple of Velaſquez.

NOTE XXV. VERSE 316.
Thy care the ſoft, the rich Murillo form'd.]

Don Bartolome Eſtevan Murillo was born in the neighbourhood [77] of Seville, in 1613. His firſt maſter was Juan de Caſtillo; but he ſoon ſettled in Madrid, under the protection of Velaſquez, who contributed to his improvement in the moſt generous manner. The Spaniards boaſt that Murillo became a great Painter, without ever travelling out of Spain. He is ſaid to have refuſed the offer of an eſtabliſhment in England from Charles the Second, and to have pleaded his age as an excuſe for not quitting his own country; where he died, and was buried with great marks of honour, in 1685.

Thoſe who wiſh for more information on the Artiſts of Spain, may be amply gratified by the amuſing work which Mr. Cumberland has lately publiſhed on the Painters of that country:—they will find in it a very ſpirited account of the famous Mengs, who died in the ſervice of the Spaniſh court, at the age of fifty-one, in 1779.—If we could truſt to the praiſes beſtowed on this celebrated Artiſt, by his friend and biographer Azara, we might revere him as the reſtorer of perfect art; but the elegant writer of our country, who has ſurveyed his capital productions with an impartial eye, gives us to underſtand, that they all betray a great poverty of genius. Indeed the perſonal hiſtory of Mengs may tend to confirm this idea. He was originally made a painter and a drudge, by the tyranny of a cruel father; and though he applied himſelf intenſely through life to the practice and theory of his art, he ſeems never to have attained that felicity of performance, which can perhaps belong only to thoſe, who devote themſelves to a favorite art in the happy ardour of unconſtrained affection. The profeſſional writings of Mengs will [78] amuſe, if not inſtruct, every lover of Art.—But readers of our country muſt feel ſome indignation at his inſolent and injurious cenſure on a great Artiſt, whoſe reputation is juſtly dear to every liberal Engliſhman.

NOTE XXVI. VERSE 323.
No mean hiſtorian to record their praiſe.]

George Vaſari, to whom we are indebted for a moſt valuable hiſtory of Italian Painters, was born at Arezzo in Tuſcany, 1511.—Though the fame of the author ſeems to have eclipſed that of the artiſt, he roſe to conſiderable eminence as a painter, and has left us a particular and entertaining account of himſelf and his pictures in the cloſe of his great work—it is introduced with an apology, in which he ſpeaks of his own talents, and extreme paſſion for his art, in the moſt modeſt and engaging manner.—His generous deſire of doing juſtice to the merit of others, is moſt happily rewarded in the following Elogy, by the great Thuanus:

‘"Ob excellentiam artis, quam hiſtoria accurate & eleganter ſcripta illuſtravit, Georgius Vaſarius meruit, ut inter viros ingenio & literis praeſtantes accenſeretur. Is Aretii in Etruria natus, pictor & architectus noſtra aetate praeſtantiſſimus, diu magno Etruriae Duci Coſmo, omnium liberalium artium, inter quas pictura et architectura ut referrentur obtinuit, fautori eximio navavit; editis paſſim ingenii ſui ad ſtupendum omnium ſpectaculum monumentis, et tandem hoc anno climacterico ſuo v kalend. Quintil. vivis exemptus eſt; exinde ſicuti teſtamento caverat, Florentia ubi deceſſit, Aretium in patriam tranſlatus; quo loco in principali ſecundum ſedem Epiſcopalem templo [79] in ſacello ab ipſo juxta ſumptuoſo et admirando artificio exſtructo ſepultus.’ Thuanus ſub ann. 1574.

NOTE XXVII. VERSE 342.
On her pure Style ſee mild Bologna claim.]

The French author quoted above, under the article Caracci, not only ſpeaks with the greateſt warmth of the obligation which Painting owes to Lodovico Caracci, for having raiſed it from that ſtate of corruption, into which it had fallen in all the ſchools of Italy; but at the ſame time points out alſo the various manieriſts who had chiefly contributed to its debaſement.

The ſtyle introduced by Lodovico is recommended by that excellent judge Sir Joſhua Reynolds (See Diſcourſe 1769) as better ſuited to grave and dignified ſubjects than the richer brilliancy of Titian.

NOTE XXVIII. VERSE 345.
— Titian's golden rays.]

This expreſſion is borrowed from the cloſe of that elegant ſentence of modern Latin, which the author of Fitzoſborne's Letters has ſo juſtly commended, ‘"Aureo Titiani radio, qui per totam tabulam gliſcens eam verè ſuam denunciat."’ See his excellent letter on Metaphors, p. 50.

NOTE XXIX. VERSE 353.
And Raphael's Grace muſt yield to Rembrandt's Force.]

Rembrant Van Pryn, born near Leyden 1606, died at Amſterdam 1674, or, according to ſome accounts, [80] 1668. The numerous works of this great maſter, both with the engraver and pencil, have rendered him univerſally known. His ſingular ſtudies, and the pride which he ſeems to have taken in the natural force of his genius, appear ſtrongly marked in the two following paſſages of his French Biographer:

‘"Les murs de ſon attelier couverts de vieux habits, de piques, et d'armures extraordinaires, etoient toutes ſes etudes, ainſi qu'une armoire pleine d'etoffes anciennes, & d'autres choſes pareilles, qu'il avoit coutume d'appeller ſes antiques.—Rembrant, qui ſe glorifioit de n'avoir jamais vu l'Italic, le dit un jour que Vandick l'etoit venu viſiter à Amſterdam: & qui lui repondit, "Je le vois bien." Rembrant naturellement bruſque reprit: "Qui es tu pour me parler de la ſorte?"—Vandick repondit; "Monſieur, je ſuis Vandick, pour vous ſervir"’ —Abrégé de la Vie des plus fameux Peintres, Tom. III. p. 113.

NOTE XXX. VERSE 356.
Yet, Holland, thy unwearied labours raiſe.]

There is no article of taſte, on which different writers have run more warmly into the oppoſite extremes of admiration and contempt, than in eſtimating the Painters of Holland. Thoſe who are enchanted by the ſublime conceptions of the Roman ſchool, are too apt precipitately to condemn every effort of the Dutch pencil as a contemptible performance; while thoſe, who are ſatisfied with minute and faithful delineations of nature, find abſolute perfection in the very pictures, which are [81] treated by others with the moſt ſupercilious neglect.—But ſound and impartial judgment ſeems equally to diſclaim this haſty cenſure, and this inordinate praiſe;—and ranking the moſt eminent Dutch artiſts below the great Italian maſters, yet allows them conſiderable and peculiar merit.—A French author ſays, I think not unhappily, of the Dutch painters, that they are ‘"dans la peinture, ce que le comique & le plaiſant ſonte dans la poeſie."’ In deſign their forte is certainly humour, and they have frequently carried it to great perfection.

NOTE XXXI. VERSE 380.
Proud of the praiſe by Rubens' pencil won.]

Sir Peter Paul Rubens, who is happily ſtyled by Mr. Walpole, ‘"The Popular Painter,"’ was born at Cologne 1577, and died of the gout at Antwerp 1640. The hiſtory of his life furniſhes a moſt ſtriking incentive to the young painter's ambition.—The many accompliſhments which he poſſeſſed, the infinitude of works which he produced, the reputation and eſteem, the various honours and ample fortune which he ſo juſtly acquired, preſent to the mind an animating idea of what may be expected from a happy cultivation of talents in a courſe of conſtant and ſpirited application. Though he viſited the court of Charles the Firſt in the publick character of an ambaſſador, it does not appear how long he reſided here;—Mr. Walpole conjectures about a year.—His pictures in the ceiling at [82] Whitehall were not painted in England; which perhaps is the reaſon he has been at the pains of finiſhing them ſo neatly, that they will bear the neareſt inſpection; for he muſt have well known how greatly the reputation of any work depends on its firſt happy impreſſion on the publick, and concluded his pictures would be viewed by the king and court inſtantly on their arrival, and that the critics would not be candid enough to delay their remarks on them till they were elevated to their intended height. This noble work was falling into decay, from which ſtate it has been lately reſcued by that excellent artiſt Mr. Cipriani, to whoſe care it has been moſt judiciouſly committed to be cleaned and repaired.—Rubens received for this work £.3000.

NOTE XXXII. VERSE 388.
Her ſoft Vandyke, while graceful portraits pleaſe.]

Sir Anthony Vandyke, the celebrated ſcholar of Rubens, died of the ſame diſorder which proved fatal to his maſter, and at a much earlier period of life. He was born at Antwerp 1598, expired in Black Fryars 1641, and was buried in St. Paul's, near the tomb of John of Gaunt. On his firſt viſit to England he received no encouragement from the Court, but Charles, becoming ſoon afterwards acquainted with his merit, ſent him an invitation to return. Vandyke embraced the offer with joy; and the king, who ſhewed him, by frequent ſittings, [83] the moſt flattering marks of eſteem, conferred on him the honour of knighthood in 1632, rewarding him alſo with the grant of an annuity of £.200 for life.

NOTE XXXIII. VERSE 391.
From Flanders firſt the ſecret power ſhe caught.]

The Low Countries, though little celebrated for inventive genius, have given to mankind the two ſignal diſcoveries, which have imparted, as it were, a new vital ſpirit both to Literature and to Painting. This honour however has been brought into queſtion—Germany made a ſtrong, but unſucceſsful effort to rob Holland of the glory which ſhe derives from the firſt invention of Printing: and Painting in oil (it has been ſaid) was known in Italy before the time of John Van Eyck, or John of Bruges, as he is commonly called; to whom that diſcovery is generally aſcribed, about the year 1410.—But Vaſari, in his Life of Antonello da Meſſina, relates very particularly the circumſtances of Van Eyck's invention, and the ſubſequent introduction of the ſecret into Italy. A moſt learned antiquarian and entertaining writer of our own time has ſuppoſed that Van Eyck might poſſibly ‘"learn the ſecret of uſing oil in England, and take the honour of the invention to himſelf, as we were then a country little known to the world of arts, nor at leiſure, from the confuſion of the times, to claim the diſcovery of ſuch a ſecret."’[84]

Walpole's Anecdotes of Painting, Vol. I. p. 29.

—The conjecture is not without ſome little foundation;—but the conjectural claims which either Italy or England can produce to this excellent invention, are by no means ſufficiently ſtrong to annihilate the glory of the happy and ingenious Fleming.

Since the preceding part of this Note was written, the reputation both of Van Eyck, and his encomiaſt Vaſari, has been very forcibly attacked in an Eſſay on Oil-painting, by Mr. Raſpe; an Eſſay which diſcovers ſuch a zealous attachment to the arts, and ſuch an active purſuit of knowledge, as do great credit to its ingenious author. But, though I have peruſed it with the attention it deſerves, it does not lead me to retract what I had ſaid; becauſe, after all his reſearches on this ſubject, it appears that although Oil-painting was not abſolutely the invention of Van Eyck, it was yet indebted to him for thoſe improvements which made it of real value to his profeſſion.—The ingenious Fleming ſeems thereſore to be ſtill entitled to thoſe honours that have been laviſhed on his name, as improvement in ſuch caſes is often more uſeful and more meritorious than invention itſelf, which is frequently the effect of chance, while the former ariſes from well-directed ſtudy.

NOTE XXXIV. VERSE 395.
Where ſumptuous Leo courted every Muſe.]

The [85] name of Medicis is familiar to every lover of the fine arts. John de Medicis, the Cardinal, was raiſed to the papal See 1513. He continued that liberal patronage and encouragement to learning, which had before diſtinguiſhed his illuſtrious family. He was profuſe and magnificent. The various and celebrated productions of taſte and genius under his pontificate, clearly mark the age of Leo the Xth as one of the great aeras of literature.

NOTE XXXV. VERSE 405.
Untrodden paths of Art Salvator tried.]

Salvator Roſa was born at a village near Naples, in 1615. After a youth of poverty and adventure, he raiſed himſelf by his various and uncommon talents into lucrative reputation. Having paſſed nine years at Florence, in conſiderable employment, he ſettled in Rome, and died there at the age of 58, in 1673.—He was one of the few characters who have poſſeſſed a large portion of pleaſant vivacity and ſatirical humour, with a ſublime imagination. His talents as a painter are univerſally celebrated; but his ſocial virtues, though perhaps not inferior, are far from being ſo generally known. In the "Raccolta di Lettere ſulla Pittura" there are many of his letters to his intimate friend Ricciardi, an Italian poet, and profeſſor of moral philoſophy at Piſa, which perfectly diſplay the warmth of his friendſhip, and the generoſity of his heart.—They contain [86] alſo ſome amuſing anecdotes relating to his profeſſion, and the great delight which he took in diſcovering hiſtorical ſubjects of a peculiar caſt, untouched by other painters, and appearing to an ignorant eye almoſt beyond the limits of his art. He ſeems to deſcribe himſelf with juſtice, as well as energy, in the following words of a letter to Ricciardi, ‘"tutto bile, tutto, ſpirito, tutto fuoco."’—Though he muſt have been wonderfully pleaſant as a companion, and valuable as a friend, yet he laments that his ſatires had made him many enemies, and heartily wiſhes he had never produced them: In that which relates to Painting, he expoſes indeed the vices of his brethren with great freedom and ſeverity.—It is remarkable that his poetry abounds more with learned alluſions than with high flights of imagination; yet in the ſatire I have mentioned, there is much whimſical fancy. An ape is introduced applying to a painter, and begging to learn his profeſſion, as Nature he ſays has given him a genius for the mimetic arts.—The painter complies—but his diſciple, after an apprenticeſhip of ten years, bids his maſter adieu, with many humorous execrations againſt the art of Painting.—Other parts of the poem contain many ſenſible and ſerious remarks on the abuſes of the pencil; and as the author has given us a portrait of himſelf in his poetical character, I ſhall preſent it to the reader as a ſpecimen of his ſtyle.

[87]
La ſtate all ombra, e il pigro verno al foco
Tra modeſti deſii l' anno mi vede
Pinger per gloria, e poetar per gioco.
Delle fatiche mie ſcopo, e mercede
E' ſodisfare al genio, al giuſto, al vero:
Chi ſi ſente ſcottar, ritiri 'l piede.
Dica pur quanto sà rancor ſevero:
Contro le ſue ſaette ho doppio uſbergo;
Non conoſco intereſſe, e ſon ſincero:
Non ha l'invidia nel mio petto albergo:
Solo zelo lo ſtil m'adatta in mano,
E per util commune i fogli vergo.
Satire di Salvator Roſa, pag. 68, Edit. Amſterdam, 1719.
NOTE XXXVI. VERSE 427.
The ſage Pouſſin, with pureſt fancy fraught.]

Nicolas Pouſſin was born at Andely in Normandy 1594: one of his firſt patrons was the whimſical Italian poet Marino, who being ſtruck with ſome freſco works of the young painter at Paris, employed him in ſome deſigns from his own poem l'Adone, and enabled him to undertake an expedition to Rome. He was recalled from thence by Cardinal Richelieu in 1640, but upon the death of Richelieu and the king he returned to Rome, where he ended a life of primitive ſimplicity and patient application in 1665.

NOTE XXXVII. VERSE 435.
[88]
Then roſe Le Brun, his ſcholar, and his friend.]

Charles Le Brun, univerſally known by his Battles of Alexander, and his Treatiſe on the Paſſions, was born in Paris 1619: having preſided over the French Academy, with great reputation, more than forty years, he died in 1690, partly, as the author of the Abrégé aſſures us, from the chagrin which he received from a cabal raiſed againſt him in favour of his rival Mignard: but neither his own works, nor the partial favour of his patron Louvois, nor the friendſhip of Moliere, who has written a long poem in his praiſe, have been able to raiſe Mignard to the level of Le Brun.

NOTE XXXVIII. VERSE 441.
Thy dawn, Le Sueur, announc'd a happier taſte.]

Euſtache Le Sueur (who, without the advantage of ſtudying in Italy, approached nearer than any of his countrymen to the manner of Raphael) was a native of Paris. Le Brun, who came to viſit him in his laſt moments, is reported to have ſaid, on quitting his chamber, ‘"Que la mort alloit lui tirer une groſſe epine du pied."’ If he was capable of uttering ſuch a ſentiment, at ſuch a time, he thoroughly deſerved the fate which is mentioned in the preceding Note.

NOTE XXXIX. VERSE 447.
[89]
Though Freſnoy teaches, in Horatian ſong.]

Charles Alfonſe du Freſnoy, author of the celebrated Latin poem de Arte graphicâ, very haſtily tranſlated into Engliſh proſe by Dryden, was himſelf a painter of ſome eminence, and the intimate friend of Mignard. He died in a village near Paris, at the age of forty-four, in 1665.

NOTES TO THE SECOND EPISTLE.

[]
NOTE XL. VERSE 15.
THOUGH foreign Theoriſts, with Syſtem blind.]

The vain and frivolous ſpeculations of ſome eminent French authors, concerning our national want of genius for the fine arts, are refuted with great ſpirit in an ingenious eſſay by Mr. Barry, entitled, "An Enquiry into the real and imaginary Obſtructions to the Acquiſition of the Arts in England." As this work highly diſtinguiſhes the elegance of his pen, his Venus riſing from the ſea does equal honour to his pencil.

NOTE XLI. VERSE 33.
Fierce Harry reign'd, who, ſoon with pleaſure cloy'd.]

In this ſhort account of the influence which the different characters of our Sovereigns [91] have had on the progreſs of national Art, the Author is indebted principally to Mr. Walpole's Anecdotes of Painting.

NOTE XLII. VERSE 45.
Untaught the moral force of Art to feel.]

An accompliſhed Critic of our own time has touched on the moral Efficacy of Picture, with his uſual elegance and erudition. After having illuſtrated the ſubject from the writings of Ariſtotle and Xenophon, he concludes his remarks with the following reflection:—‘"Yet, conſidering its vaſt power in morals, one cannot enough lament the ill deſtiny of this divine art, which, from the chaſte handmaid of Virtue, hath been debauched, in violence of her nature, to a ſhameleſs proſtitute of Vice, and procureſs of Pleaſure."’—Hurd's Note on the following line of Horace: ‘"Suſpendit picta vultum mentemque tabella."’

To this let me add one obſervation for the honour of our Engliſh artiſts!—The proſtitution of the pencil, ſo juſtly lamented by this amiable writer, is perhaps leſs frequent in this kingdom, than in any country whatever, in which Painting has been known to riſe to an equal degree of perfection.

NOTE XLIII. VERSE 93.
Yet to thy Palace Kneller's ſkill ſupplied.]

Sir [92] Godfrey Kneller, born at Lubec 1646, ſettled in England 1674, was knighted by King William, created a Baronet by George the Firſt, and died 1723.—No Painter was ever more flattered by the Muſes; who gave him credit for talents which he never diſplayed. Dryden ſays, in his enchanting Epiſtle to Kneller:

Thy genius, bounded by the times, like mine,
Drudges on petty draughts, nor dares deſign
A more exalted work, and more divine.

But the drudgery of the Poet aroſe from the moſt cruel neceſſity; that of the Painter, from avarice, the bane of excellence in every profeſſion!—If Sir Godfrey had any talents for hiſtory, which is ſurely very doubtful, we have, as Mr. Walpole well obſerves, no reaſon to regret that he was confined to portraits, as his pencil has faithfully tranſmitted to us ‘"ſo many ornaments of an illuſtrious age."’

‘Though I have partly ſubſcribed to the general idea, that William, in whoſe reign this Painter principally flouriſhed, ‘"contributed nothing to the advancement of arts,"’ yet I muſt obſerve, that his employing Kneller to paint the Beauties at Hampton Court, his rewarding him with knighthood, and the additional preſent of a gold medal and chain, weighing £.300, may juſtify thoſe lines of Pope, which deſcribe ‘"The Hero, William,"’ as an encourager of Painting.’

NOTE XLIV. VERSE 97.
[93]
While partial Taſte from modeſt Riley turn'd.]

John Riley was born in London 1646: Mr. Walpole relates an anecdote of his being much mortified by Charles the Second; who, looking at his own picture, exclaim'd, ‘"Is this like me? then, Ods-fiſh, I am an ugly fellow."’—The ſame author ſays happily of this artiſt, ‘"With a quarter of Sir Godfrey's vanity, he might have perſuaded the world he was as great a maſter."’ Notwithſtanding his extreme modeſty, he had the good fortune to be appointed Principal Painter, ſoon after the Revolution, but died an early martyr to the gout 1691.

NOTE XLV. VERSE 101.
And Thornhill's blaze of Allegory gilt.]

Sir James Thornhill, born in Dorſetſhire 1676, was nephew to the celebrated Sydenham, and educated by the liberality of that great phyſician. He afterwards acquired a very ample fortune by his own profeſſion; was in parliament for Weymouth, knighted by George the Second, and died 173 [...].—His talents as a Painter are univerſally known, from his principal works at Greenwich, St. Paul's, &c.

NOTE XLVI. VERSE 111.
[94]
The youthful Noble, on a princely plan.]

About twenty years ago, the preſent Duke of Richmond opened, in his houſe at Whitehall, a gallery for artiſts, completely filled with a ſmall but well-choſen collection of caſts from the antique, and engaged two eminent artiſts to ſuperintend and direct the ſtudents.—This noble encouragement of art, though ſuperſeded by a royal eſtabliſhment, is ſtill entitled to remembrance and honour: it not only ſerved as a prelude to more extenſive inſtitutions, but contributed much towards forming ſome capital artiſts of the preſent time. The name of Mortimer is alone ſufficient to reflect a conſiderable luſtre on this early ſchool.

NOTE XLVII. VERSE 134.
Teach but thy tranſient tints no more to fly.]

Although the ſuperior excellencies of this admirable artiſt make us peculiarly regret the want of durability in his exquiſite productions; yet he is far from being the only artiſt, whoſe pictures ſoon diſcover an appearance of precipitate decay. Fugitive colouring ſeems indeed to be the chief defect among our preſent painters in oil; and it muſt be the moſt ardent wiſh of every lover of art, that ſo great an evil may be effectually remedied. As the Royal Academy is a ſociety of enlightened artiſts, eſtabliſhed [95] for the improvement of every branch of Painting, it may be hoped that they will pay attention to this mechanical point, as well as to the nobler acquirements of art, and employ ſome perſon, who has patience and abilities for ſuch an office, to diſcover, by a courſe of experiments, to what cauſe this important evil is owing. If it be found to ariſe from the adulteration of colours, oils, and varniſhes, might it not be eligible for the Academy to follow the example of another profeſſion, who, where health and life are concerned, obviate the difficulty of getting their articles genuine from the individual trader, by opening a ſhop at the expence of the Society, to prepare and ſell the various ingredients, free from thoſe adulterations which private intereſt might otherwiſe produce?

But there may be no juſt ground of complaint againſt the integrity of the colourman, and this failure may perhaps ariſe from the artiſt's mixing his colours, and their vehicles, in improper proportions to each other; that is, inſtead of painting with oil properly thickened with colour, uſing oil only fully ſtained with it, to which a proper conſiſtence (or body, as the painters call it) is given by ſtrong gum varniſhes; in ſhort, uſing more vehicle than colour; by which, although moſt brilliant and tranſparent effects may be produced, yet the particles of colour are too much attenuated, and divided from each other, and conſequently leſs able to withſtand the deſtructive action of light. If the deficiency [96] complained of originates from this ſource, the Academy, by a careful courſe of experiments, may be able clearly to aſcertain what preparations of the more delicate colours are moſt durable; what oils and varniſhes will beſt preſerve the original brilliancy of the paint; what are the beſt proportions for this purpoſe in which they can be uſed; and how far glazing (that almoſt irreſiſtible temptation to oil-painters) may or may not be depended on. All theſe points are at preſent ſo far from being known with certainty, that perhaps there are not two Painters, who think perfectly alike on any one of them. The author hopes, that the gentlemen of the pencil will pardon his preſuming to offer a hint on this delicate ſubject, with which he does not pretend to be intimately acquainted. The ideas, which he has thus ventured to addreſs to them, ariſe only from the moſt ardent wiſh, that future ages may have a juſt and adequate ſenſe of the flouriſhing ſtate of Painting in England in the reign of George the Third, and that our preſent excellent artiſts may not be reduced to depend on the uncertain hand of the engraver for the eſteem of poſterity.

A very liberal Critic*, in his flattering remarks on the Poem, ſeems, in ſpeaking of this Note, to miſtake a little the meaning of its author, who alluded only to that defect in colouring, where the finer tints are ſo managed, for the ſake of an immediate [97] and ſhort-lived brilliancy, that they ſink very ſoon into no colour at all. He did not mean to touch on thoſe changes in Painting, where the colours all grow darker, the lights become brown, and the ſhadows one maſs of black. This is likewiſe a great evil, and calls aloud for redreſs. Perhaps the Critic above mentioned has pointed out the true cauſe of this defect, viz. the indiſcriminate blending of the colours, and the not uſing pure, ſimple, uncompounded tints.

NOTE XLVIII. VERSE 138.
The leading Principles of liberal Art.]

I embrace with pleaſure the opportunity of paying this tribute to the great artiſt here mentioned, who is not only at the head of his own profeſſion, but may juſtly be ranked among the firſt writers of the age. His Diſcourſes, not merely calculated for the improvement of the young artiſts to whom they are addreſſed, contain all the principles of true and univerſal taſte, embelliſhed with great brilliancy of imagination, and with equal force of expreſſion.

NOTE XLIX. VERSE 151.
Thy Ugolino, &c.]

As the ſubject of this admirable picture is taken from a poet ſo little known to the Engliſh reader as Dante, it may not perhaps be impertinent to ſay, that in Richardſon's Diſcourſe on the Science of a Connoiſſeur, there is a tranſlation [98] of the ſtory in Engliſh blank verſe. A young and noble author, now living, has obliged the world with a tranſlation of it in rhyme.—As to the picture, no artiſt could expreſs more happily the wild and ſublime ſpirit of the poet from whom he drew. We may juſtly apply to him the compliment which a lively Italian addreſſed to a great man of his own country, but of far inferior expreſſion:

"Fabro gentil, ben ſai,
Ch' ancor tragico caſo e' caro Oggetto,
E che ſpeſſo l' Horror va col Diletto."
MARINO.
NOTE L. VERSE 165.
Now Art exults, with annual Triumphs gay.]

While we are delighted with the increaſing ſplendor of theſe annual entertainments, it is but juſt to remember, that we are indebted to the Society of Arts and Sciences for our firſt public exhibition of Paintings. The different ſocieties of artiſts ſoon followed ſo excellent an example; and our rapid and various improvements in this lovely art reflect the higheſt honour on this happy inſtitution. Our exhibitions at once afford both the beſt nurſery for the protection of infant genius, and the nobleſt field for the diſplay of accompliſhed merit: nor do they only adminiſter to the benefit of the artiſt, and the pleaſure of the public: they have ſtill a more exalted tendency; and when national ſubjects are painted with dignity and force, our exhibitions may [99] juſtly be regarded as ſchools of public virtue. Perhaps the young ſoldier can never be more warmly animated to the ſervice of his country, than by gazing, with the delighted public, on a ſublime picture of the expiring hero, who died with glory in her defence. But, not to dwell on their power of inſpiring martial enthuſiaſm, our exhibitions may be ſaid to have a happy influence on the manners and morals of thoſe, who fill the different departments of more tranquil life. In ſupport of this ſentiment, I beg leave to tranſcribe the following judicious remark from an author, who has lately obliged the public with two little volumes of elegant and ſpirited Eſſays. ‘"They, whoſe natural feelings have been properly improved by culture, nor have yet become callous by attrition with the world, know from experience, how the heart is mollified, the manners poliſhed, and the temper ſweetened, by a well-directed ſtudy of the arts of imitation. The ſame ſenſibility of artificial excellence, extends itſelf to the perception of natural and moral beauty; and the ſtudent returns from the artiſt's gallery to his ſtation in ſociety, with a breaſt more diſpoſed to feel and to reverberate the endearments of ſocial life, and of reciprocal benevolence."’ —KNOX's Eſſays Moral and Literary, 1778, p. 264, on Sculpture.

NOTE LI. VERSE 255.
Thy Talents, Hogarth! &c.]

William Hogarth was born in London, 1698, and put apprentice to [100] an engraver of the moſt ordinary claſs; but his comic talents, which are ſaid to have appeared firſt in the prints to Hudibras, ſoon raiſed him to fame and fortune.—He married a daughter of Sir James Thornhill, and died 1764.—The peculiar merits of his pencil are unqueſtionable. His Analyſis of Beauty has been found more open to diſpute; but however the greater adepts in the ſcience may differ on its principles, it may certainly be called an honourable monument of his genius and application.

NOTE LII. VERSE 370.
Whoſe needy Titian calls for ill-paid gold.]

Richardſon has fallen into a miſtake concerning the famous Danaë, and other pictures of Titian, which he ſays (in quoting a letter of Titian's without conſidering its addreſs) were painted for Henry the VIIIth of England; a tyrant, indeed, voluptuous and cruel, but ſtill leſs deteſtable than the ſullen and unnatural Philip the IId of Spain, who filled up the meaſure of his ſuperior guilt by the horrid aſſaſſination of his ſon. Philip, on his marriage with Mary, aſſumed the title of King of England; and to him Titian addreſſed the letter, which ſpeaks of the pictures in queſtion: the painter frequently mentions his attachment to his unworthy patron.

His ſolicitude to enſure his protection and favour, is ſtrongly marked in the following ſhort paſſage of [101] a letter which he addreſſed to one of Philip's attendants. ‘"Mando ora la poeſia di Venere e Adone, nella quale V. S. vedrà, quanto ſpirito e amore ſo mettere nell' opere di ſua Maeſtà."’ Raccolta, tom. ii. p. 21.

How poorly this great artiſt was rewarded for his ill-directed labour, appears very forcibly in a long letter of complaint, which he had ſpirit enough to addreſs to the king, on the many hardſhips he ſuffered in being unable to obtain the payment of the penſion which had been granted to him by the emperor Charles the Vth. Raccolta, tom. ii. p. 379.

NOTE LIII. VERSE 436.
Bid Engliſh pencils honour Engliſh worth.]

The great encouragement given our painters to ſelect ſubjects from Engliſh hiſtory, has of late years been very obſervable. Many individuals of rank and fortune have promoted this laudable plan with ſpirit and effect; and the Society of Arts and Sciences have confined their premiums to ſubjects taken from the Britiſh Annals.

NOTE LIV. VERSE 441.
Her wounded Sidney, Bayard's perfect peer.]

The gallant, the amiable, and accompliſhed Sir Philip Sidney may be juſtly placed on a level with the noble Bayard, ‘"Le Chevalier ſans peur & ſans reproche;"’ [102] whoſe glory has of late received new luſtre from the pen of Robertſon and the pencil of Weſt. The ſtriking ſcene here alluded to, which preceded the death of Sidney, has not yet, I believe, appeared upon canvaſs, but is forcibly deſcribed by the noble and enthuſiaſtic friend of Sidney, the Lord Brooke.—See Biograph. Britan. Art. SIDNEY.

The particulars alſo are minutely deſcribed, and with great feeling, in a letter from his uncle Leiceſter to Sir Thomas Heneage, quoted in Collins's Memoirs of the Sidneys. The tide of national admiration flowed very ſtrong in favour of Sidney, when Mr. Walpole, in ſpeaking of Lord Brooke, appeared to check the current; but the merits of Sidney are ſufficient to bear down all oppoſition.—Inſtead of joining the elegant author I have mentioned, in conſidering Sir Philip Sidney as ‘"an aſtoniſhing object of temporary admiration,"’ I am ſurpriſed that ſo judicious an author ſhould ever queſtion ſo fair a title to univerſal regard. The learning and munificence, the courage and courteſy, of Sidney endeared him to every rank; and he juſtly challenges the laſting affection of his country from the cloſing ſcene of his life, in which heroiſm and humanity are ſo beautifully blended. I never can think this accompliſhed character any ways degraded by his having written a tedious romance (in which however there are many touches of exquiſite beauty and ſpirit) to amuſe a moſt amiable ſiſter, whom he tenderly loved; or by his having [103] threatened an unworthy ſervant of his father's with death in a haſty billet, merely to intimidate and deter him from the future commiſſion of an infamous breach of truſt, in opening his letters.

NOTE LV. VERSE 468.
Th' heroic Daughter of the virtuous More.]

Margaret, eldeſt daughter of the celebrated Sir Thomas More. The ſcene which I have propoſed for the ſubject of a picture, is taken from the following paſſage in Ballard:

‘"After Sir Thomas More was beheaded, ſhe took care for the burial of his body in the chapel of St. Peter's ad Vincula, within the precincts of the Tower; and afterwards ſhe procured his corpſe to be removed, and buried in the chancel of the church at Chelſea, as Sir Thomas More, in his life-time, had appointed. His head having remained about fourteen days upon London Bridge, and being to be caſt into the Thames to make room for others, ſhe bought it. For this ſhe was ſummoned before the council, as the ſame author relates, and behaved with the greateſt firmneſs, juſtifying her conduct upon principles of humanity and filial piety. She was, however, impriſoned, but ſoon releaſed; and dying nine years after her father, at the age of thirty-ſix, was buried at St. Dunſtan's, in Canterbury. The head of her father, which ſhe had preſerved, with religious veneration, in a box of [104] lead, was, at her particular requeſt, committed with her to the grave. It was ſeen ſtanding on her coffin in the year 1715, when the vault of the Roper (her huſband's family) was opened."’ —See Ballard's Memoirs of Learned Ladies, p. 36.

The character of this amiable woman is happily drawn both by Addiſon and Walpole.—She married, at the age of twenty, William Roper, Eſquire, of Kent, to the infinite ſatisfaction of her father; for ſhe ſeems to have been the deareſt object of his parental affection, which is very ſtrongly marked in his letters addreſſed to her. She was indeed moſt eminently diſtinguiſhed by her learning, in an age when the graces of the mind were regarded as an eſſential article in female education: but the beauty and force of her filial piety reflects a ſtill ſuperior luſtre on this accompliſhed woman.—There is more than one paſſage in her life, which would furniſh an admirable ſubject for the pencil. Her interviw with her father, on his return to the Tower, is mentioned as ſuch by Mr. Walpole.

NOTE LVI. VERSE 523.
But, ob! how poor the proſtrate Satan lies.]

It is remarkable, that the greateſt painters have failed in this particular. Raphael, Guido, and Weſt, are all deficient in the figure of Satan. Richardſon obſerves, in his deſcription of the pictures of Italy,—‘"Je n'ai jamais vu d'aucun Maître une repreſentation [105] du Diable, prince des Diables, qui me ſatisfit."’ Page 500.

In recommending this ſubject to the pencil, it may be proper to obſerve, that it is not only extremely difficult, but even attended with danger, if we credit the following curious anecdote, in a medical writer of great reputation:—‘"Spinello, fameux Peintre Toſcan, ayant peint la chute des anges rebelles, donna des traits ſi terribles à Lucifer, qu'il en fut lui-meme ſaiſi d'horreur, & tout le reſte de ſa vie il crut voir continuellement ce Demon lui reprocher de l'avoir repreſenté ſous une figure ſi hidieuſe.’ Tiſſot de la Santé des Gens de Lettres."

As this ſtory is ſo ſingular, it may amuſe ſome readers to ſee it in the words of Vaſari, from whom Tiſſot ſeems to have taken it.—The Italian Biographer ſays, in deſcribing a picture by Spinello Aretino, who flouriſhed in the cloſe of the 14th century, ‘"Si vede un Lucifero gia mutato in beſtia bruttiſſima. E ſi compiacque tanto Spinello di farlo orribile, e contraffatto, che ſi dice (tanto puo alcuna fiata l'immaginazione) che la detta figura da lui dipinta gl'apparue in ſogno domandandolo, doue egli l'hauveſſe veduta ſi brutta e per che fattole tale ſcorno con i ſuoi pennelli: E che egli ſvegliatoſi dal ſonno, per la paura, non potendo gridare, con tremito grandiſſimo ſi ſcoſſe di maniera che la moglie deſtataſi lo ſoccorſe: ma niente di manco fu per cio a riſchio, ſtringendogli il cuore, di morirſi per cotale accidente, ſubitamente. Ben che ad ogni [106] modo ſpiritaticcio, e con occhi tondi, poco tempo vivendo poi ſi conduſſe alla morte laſciando di ſe gran deſiderio a gli amici."’ —Vaſari Vita di Spinello Aretino, pag. 218. Edit. di Giunti.

[] EPISTLE TO A FRIEND, ON THE DEATH OF JOHN THORNTON, Esq.
[]EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.

CUJUS EGO INTERITU TOTA DE MENTE FUGAVI
HAEC STUDIA, ATQUE OMNES DELICIAS ANIMI.
— — — — — —
NOTESCATQUE MAGIS MORTUUS ATQUE MAGIS.
CATULLUS.
IN vain, dear Monitor, thy kind deſire
To wake the embers of poetic fire!
To clear the mind, where Grief's dark ſhadows lower,
And Fancy dies by Sorrow's freezing power!
In vain would Friendſhip's chearing voice ſuggeſt
Her flattering viſions to the Poet's breaſt;
That public favor calls, with juſt demand,
Th' expected volume from his lingering hand:
Loſt are thoſe anxious hopes, that eager pride;
With thee, my THORNTON, they declin'd, they died.
[110]Friend of my opening ſoul! whoſe love began
To hail thy Poet, ere he rank'd as man!
Whoſe praiſe, like dew-drops which the early morn
Sheds with mild virtue on the vernal thorn,
Taught his young mind each ſwell of thought to ſhew,
And gave the germs of fancy ſtrength to blow!
Dear, firm aſſociate of his ſtudious hour,
Who led his idler ſtep to Learning's bower!
Tho' young, imparting to his giddier youth
Thy thirſt of ſcience, and thy zeal for truth!
Ye towers of Granta, where our friendſhip grew,
And that pure mind expanded to my view,
Our love fraternal let your walls atteſt,
Where Attic joys our letter'd evening bleſt;
Where midnight, from the chains of ſleep reliev'd,
Stole on our ſocial ſtudies unperceiv'd!
But not, my THORNTON! in that calm alone
Was thy mild genius, thy warm virtue known:
When manhood mark'd the hour for buſy ſtrife,
And led us to the crowded maze of life,
Where honours dearly bought, and golden ſpoil,
Tempt not the careleſs Bard who ſhrinks from toil,
And whence to ſweet retirement's ſoothing ſhade,
Love and the Muſe thy willing friend convey'd;
[111] Thy ſoul, more firm to join the ſtruggling crowd,
To nobler Themis toilſome homage vow'd,
With zeal, devoting to her ſacred throne
A heart as uncorrupted as her own.
Still as thy mind, with manly powers endued,
The opening path of active life purſued,
And round the ripening field of buſineſs rang'd,
Thy heart, unwarp'd, unharden'd, uneſtrang'd,
To early friendſhip ſtill retain'd its truth,
With all the warm integrity of youth.
Whene'er affliction's force thy friend oppreſt,
Thou wert the rock on which his cares might reſt;
From thy kind words his riſing hopes would own
The charm of reaſon in affection's tone.
Where is the ſoothing voice of equal power,
To take its anguiſh from the preſent hour?
Beneath the preſſure of a grief ſo juſt,
The lenient aid of books in vain I truſt:
They, that could once the war of thought controul,
And baniſh diſcord from the jarring ſoul,
Now irritate the mind they us'd to heal,
They ſpeak too loudly of the loſs I feel.
Thou faithful cenſor of the Poet's ſtrain,
No more ſhalt thou his ſinking hope ſuſtain,
[112] No more, with ardent zeal's enlivening fire,
Call from inglorious ſhades his ſilent lyre:
No more, as in our days of pleaſure paſt,
The eye of judgment o'er his labors caſt;
Keen to diſcern the blemiſhes, that lurk
In the looſe texture of his growing work;
Eager to praiſe, yet reſolute to blame,
Kind to his verſe, but kinder to his fame.
How may the Muſe, who proſper'd by thy care,
Now meet the public eye without deſpair?
Now, if harſh cenſures on her failings pour,
Her warmeſt advocate can ſpeak no more:
Cold are thoſe lips, which breath'd the kind defence,
If ſpleen's proud cavil ſtrain'd her tortur'd ſenſe;
Which bade her ſong to public praiſe aſpire,
And call'd attention to her trembling lyre.
Ah! could ſhe now, thus petrified with grief,
Find in ſome lighter lay a vain relief,
Still muſt ſhe deem ſuch verſe, if ſuch could be,
A wound to friendſhip, and a crime to thee;
Profanely utter'd at this ſacred time,
When thy pale corſe demands her plaintive rhime,
And Virtue, weeping whom ſhe could not ſave,
Calls the juſt mourner to thy recent grave.
[113]
Hail, hallow'd vault! whoſe darkſome caverns hold
A frame, though mortal, of no common mould;
A heart ſcarce ſullied with a human flaw,
Which ſhun'd no duty, and tranſgreſs'd no law;
In joy ſtill guarded, in diſtreſs ſerene,
Thro' life a model of the golden mean,
Which Friendſhip only led him to tranſgreſs,
Whoſe heavenly ſpirit ſanctifies exceſs.
Pure mind! whoſe meekneſs, in thy mortal days,
Purſuing virtue, ſtill retir'd from praiſe;
Nor wiſh'd that Friendſhip ſhould on marble give
That perfect image of thy worth to live,
Which 'twas thy aim alone to leave impreſt
On the cloſe tablet of her faithful breaſt.
If now her verſe againſt thy wiſh rebel,
And ſtrive to blazon, what ſhe lov'd ſo well,
Forgive the tender thought, the moral ſong,
Which would thy virtues to the world prolong;
That, reſcued from the grave's oblivious ſhade,
Their uſeful luſtre may be ſtill ſurvey'd,
Dear to the penſive eye of fond regret,
As light ſtill beaming from a ſun that's ſet.
Oft to our giddy Muſe thy voice has taught
The juſt ambition of poetic thought;
[114] Bid her bold view to lateſt time extend,
And ſtrive to make futurity her friend.
If any verſe, her little art can frame,
May win the partial voice of diſtant fame,
Be it the verſe, whoſe fond ambition tries
To paint thy mind in truth's unfading dyes,
Tho' firm, yet tender, ardent, yet refin'd;
With Roman ſtrength and Attic grace combin'd.
What tho' undeck'd with titles, power, and wealth,
Great were thy generous deeds, and done by ſtealth;
For thy pure bounty from obſervance ſtole,
Nor wiſh'd applauſe, but from thy conſcious ſoul.
Tho' thy plain tomb no ſculptur'd form may ſhew,
No boaſtful witneſs of ſuſpected woe;
Yet heavenly ſhapes, that ſhun the glare of day,
To that dear ſpot ſhall nightly viſits pay:
Pale Science there ſhall o'er her votary ſtrew
Her flow'rs, yet moiſt with ſorrow's recent dew.
There Charity, Compaſſion's lovely child,
In ruſtic notes pathetically wild,
With grateful bleſſings bid thy name endure,
And mourn the patron of her village-poor.
E'en from the midnight ſhew with muſic gay,
The ſoul of Beauty to thy tomb ſhall ſtray,
[115] In ſweet diſtraction ſteal from preſent mirth,
To ſigh unnotic'd o'er the hallow'd earth,
Which hides thoſe lips, that glow'd with tender fire,
And ſung her praiſes to no common lyre:
But Friendſhip, wrapt in ſorrow's deepeſt gloom,
Shall keep the longeſt vigils at thy tomb;
Her wounded breaſt, diſdainful of relief,
There claims a fond praeeminence in grief:
She, as the ſeaſons of the year return,
Shall place thy fav'rite plants around thy urn,
Which, in the luxury of tender thought,
Her care ſhall raiſe, with plaintive emblems wrought,
Recalling ever, with remembrance ſweet,
Thy kind attachment to her calm retreat.
Short was thy life, but ah! its thread how fine!
How pure the texture of the finiſh'd line!
What tho' thy opening manhood could not gain
Thoſe late rewards, maturer toils attain;
Hope's firmeſt promiſes 'twas thine to raiſe,
That merit's brighteſt meed would grace thy lengthen'd days;
For thine were Judgment's patient powers, to draw
Entangled juſtice from the nets of law;
[116] Thine firm Integrity, whoſe language clear
Ne'er ſwell'd with arrogance, or ſhook with fear.
Reaſon's mild power, unvex'd by mental ſtrife,
Sway'd the calm current of thy uſeful life;
Whoſe even courſe was in no ſeaſon loſt,
Nor rough with ſtorms, nor ſtagnated by froſt.
In ſcenes of public toil, or ſocial eaſe,
'Twas thine by firm ſincerity to pleaſe;
Sweet as the breath of ſpring thy converſe flow'd,
As ſummer's noon-tide warmth thy friendſhip glow'd.
O'er thy mild manners, by no art conſtrain'd,
A penſive, pleaſing melancholy reign'd,
Which won regard, and charm'd th' attentive eye,
Like the ſoft luſtre of an evening ſky:
Yet if perchance excited to defend
The injur'd merit of an abſent friend,
That gentle ſpirit, rous'd to virtuous ire,
Indignant flaſh'd reſentment's noble fire.
Tho' juſt obſervance in thy life may trace
A lovely model of each moral grace,
Thy laſt of days the nobleſt leſſon taught:
Severe inſtruction! and too dearly bought!
[117]Whoſe force from memory never can depart,
But while it mends, muſt agonize the heart.
Tho' thy ſhrunk nerves were deſtin'd to ſuſtain
Th' increaſing horrors of ſlow-waſting pain;
Thoſe ſpirit-quenching pangs, whoſe baſe controul
Clouds the clear temper, and exhauſts the ſoul;
Yet in that hour, when Death aſſerts his claim,
And his ſtrong ſummons ſhakes the conſcious frame;
When weaker minds, by frantic fear o'erthrown,
Shrink in wild horror from the dread Unknown,
Thy firmer ſoul, with Chriſtian ſtrength renew'd,
Nor loſt in languor, nor by pain ſubdued,
(While thy cold graſp the hand of Friendſhip preſt,
And her vain aid in fault'ring accents bleſt)
With awe, but not as Superſtition's ſlave,
Survey'd the gathering ſhadows of the grave;
And to thy God, in death, devoutly paid
That calm obedience which thy life diſplay'd.
Thou friend! yet left me of the choicer few,
Whom grief's fond eyes with growing love review;
[118]O thou! whom mutual ſorrow will incline
To mix thy ſympathetic ſighs with mine;
Still be it ours to pay, with juſt regret,
At Friendſhip's ſacred ſhrine our common debt!
Tho' doom'd (ſo Heaven ordains) to ſee no more
The gentle Being, whom we both deplore;
Painting ſhall ſtill, ſweet ſoothing art! ſupply
A form ſo precious in Affection's eye.
Ah! little thought we, in that happier hour,
When our gay Muſe rehears'd the Pencil's power;
To mourn that form in cold obſtruction laid,
And ſee him only by the pencil's aid!
Bleſt be that pencil, every art be bleſt,
That ſtamps his image deeper on our breaſt!
Oft let us loiter on his favourite hill,
Whoſe ſhades the ſadly-pleaſing thought inſtil;
Recount his kindneſs, as we fondly rove,
And meet his ſpirit in the lonely grove.
At evening's penſive hour, or opening day,
He yet ſhall ſeem the partner of our way.
Bleſt Spirit! ſtill thro' Fancy's ear impart
The calm of virtue to the troubled heart!
Correct each ſordid view, each vain deſire,
And touch the mortal, with celeſtial fire!
[119] So may we ſtill, in this dark ſcene of earth,
Hold ſweet communion with thy living worth;
And, while our purer thoughts thy merit ſcan,
Revere the Angel, as we lov'd the Man.

ODE, INSCRIBED TO JOHN HOWARD, ESQ. F.R.S. AUTHOR OF "The State of Engliſh and Foreign Priſons."
[]ODE, INSCRIBED TO JOHN HOWARD, ESQ. F.R.S.

[]

[...].

EURIPIDES.
FAV'RITE of Heaven, and friend of Earth!
Philanthropy, benignant Power!
Whoſe ſons diſplay no doubtful worth,
The pageant of the paſſing hour!
Teach me to paint, in deathleſs ſong,
Some darling from thy filial throng,
Whoſe deeds no party-rage inſpire,
But fill th' agreeing world with one deſire,
To echo his renown, reſponſive to my lyre!
Ah! whither lead'ſt thou?—whence that ſigh?
What ſound of woe my boſom jars?
Why paſs, where Miſery's hollow eye
Glares wildly thro' thoſe gloomy bars?
[124] Is Virtue ſunk in theſe abodes,
Where keen Remorſe the heart corrodes;
Where Guilt's baſe blood with frenzy boils,
And Blaſphemy the mournful ſcene embroils?—
From this infernal gloom my ſhudd'ring ſoul recoils.
But whence thoſe ſudden ſacred beams?
Oppreſſion drops his iron rod!
And all the bright'ning dungeon ſeems
To ſpeak the preſence of a God.
Philanthropy's deſcending ray
Diffuſes unexpected day!
Lovelieſt of angels!—at her ſide
Her favourite votary ſtands;—her Engliſh pride,
Thro' Horror's manſions led by this celeſtial guide.
Hail! generous HOWARD! tho' thou bear
A name which Glory's hand ſublime
Has blazon'd oft, with guardian care,
In characters that fear not Time;
For thee ſhe fondly ſpreads her wings;
For thee from Paradiſe ſhe brings,
More verdant than her laurel bough,
Such wreaths of ſacred Palm, as ne'er till now
The ſmiling Seraph twin'd around a mortal brow.
[125]
That Hero's* praiſe ſhall ever bloom,
Who ſhielded our inſulted coaſt;
And launch'd his lightning to conſume
The proud Invader's routed hoſt.
Brave perils rais'd his noble name:
But thou deriv'ſt thy matchleſs fame
From ſcenes, where deadlier danger dwells;
Where fierce Contagion, with affright, repels
Valor's advent'rous ſtep from her malignant cells.
Where in the dungeon's loathſome ſhade,
The ſpeechleſs Captive clanks his chain,
With heartleſs hope to raiſe that aid
His feeble cries have call'd in vain:
Thine eye his dumb complaint explores;
Thy voice his parting breath reſtores;
Thy cares his ghaſtly viſage clear
From Death's chill dew, with many a clotted tear,
And to his thankful ſoul returning life endear.
What precious Drug, or ſtronger Charm,
Thy conſtant fortitude inſpires
In ſcenes, whence, muttering her alarm,
Med'cine, with ſelfiſh dread, retires?
[126] Nor Charm, nor Drug, diſpel thy fears:
Temperance, thy better guard, appears:
For thee I ſee her fondly fill
Her cryſtal cup from Nature's pureſt rill;
Chief nouriſher of life! beſt antidote of ill
I ſee the hallow'd ſhade of HALES*,
Who felt, like thee, for human woe,
And taught the health-diffuſing gales
Thro' Horror's murky cells to blow,
As thy protecting angel wait;
To ſave thee from the ſnares of Fate,
[127] Commiſſion'd from the Eternal Throne:
I hear him praiſe, in wonder's warmeſt tone,
The virtues of thy heart, more active than his own.
Thy ſoul ſupplies new funds of health,
That fail not, in the trying hour,
Above Arabia's ſpicy wealth
And Pharmacy's reviving power.
The tranſports of the generous mind,
Feeling its bounty to mankind,
Inſpirit every mortal part;
And, far more potent than precarious art,
Give radiance to the eye, and vigor to the heart.
Bleſt HOWARD! who like thee can feel
This vital ſpring in all its force?
New ſtar of philanthropic zeal;
Enlight'ning nations in thy courſe!
And ſhedding Comfort's heavenly dew
On meagre Want's deſerted crew!
Friend to the wretch, whom friends diſclaim,
Who feels ſtern Juſtice, in his famiſh'd frame,
A perſecuting fiend beneath an angel's name.
[128]
Authority! unfeeling power,
Whoſe iron heart can coldly doom
The Debtor, dragg'd from Pleaſure's bower,
To ſicken in the dungeon's gloom!
O might thy terror-ſtriking call
Profuſion's ſons alone enthrall!
But thou canſt Want with Guilt confound:
Thy bonds the Man of virtuous toil ſurround,
Driven by malicious Fate within thy dreary bound.
How ſavage are thy ſtern decrees!
Thy cruel miniſter I ſee
A weak, laborious victim ſeize,
By worth entitled to be free!
Behold, in the afflicting ſtrife,
The faithful partner of his life,
In vain thy ruthleſs ſervant court,
To ſpare her little children's ſole ſupport,
Whom this terrific form has frighten'd from their ſport.
Nor weeps ſhe only from the thought,
Thoſe infants muſt no longer ſhare
His aid, whoſe daily labour bought
The pittance of their ſcanty fare.
[129] The horrors of the loathſome jail
Her inly-bleeding heart aſſail:
E'en now her fears, from fondneſs bred,
See the loſt partner of her faithful bed
Drop, in that murd'rous ſcene, his pale, expiring head.
Take comfort yet in theſe keen pains,
Fond mourner! check thy guſhing tears!
The dungeon now no more contains
Thoſe perils which thy fancy fears:
No more Contagion's baleful breath
Speaks it the hideous cave of Death:
HOWARD has planted ſafety there;
Pure miniſter of light! his heavenly care
Has purg'd the damp of Death from that polluted air.
Nature! on thy maternal breaſt
For ever be his worth engrav'd!
Thy boſom only can atteſt
How many a life his toil has ſav'd:
Nor in thy reſcued Sons alone,
Great Parent! this thy guardian own!
[130] His arm defends a dearer ſlave;
Woman, thy darling! 'tis his pride to ſave*
From evils, that ſurpaſs the horrors of the grave.
Ye ſprightly nymphs, by Fortune nurſt,
Who ſport in Joy's unclouded air,
Nor ſee the diſtant ſtorms, that burſt
In ruin on the humble Fair;
Ye know not to what bitter ſmart
A kindred form, a kindred heart,
Is often doom'd, in life's low vale,
Where frantic fears the ſimple mind aſſail,
And fierce afflictions preſs, and friends and fortune fail.
See yon' ſweet ruſtic, drown'd in tears!
It is not Guilt—'tis Miſery's flood,
[131] While dire Suſpicion's charge ſhe hears
Of ſhedding infant, filial blood:
Nature's fond dupe! but not her foe!
That form, that face, the falſhood ſhew:—
Yet Law exacts her ſtern demand;
She bids the dungeon's grating doors expand,
And the young captive faints beneath the gaoler's hand.
Ah, ruffian! ceaſe thy ſavage aim!
She cannot 'ſcape thy harſh controul:
Shall iron load that tender frame,
And enter that too-yielding ſoul?—
Unfeeling wretch! of baſeſt mind!
To miſery deaf, to beauty blind!
I ſee thy victim vainly plead;
For the worſt fiend of hell's malignant breed,
Extortion, grins applauſe, and prompts thy ruthleſs deed.
With brutal force, and ribald jeſt,
Thy manacles I ſee thee ſhake;
Mocking the merciful requeſt,
That Modeſty and Juſtice make;
[132] E'en Nature's ſhriek, with anguiſh ſtrong,
Fails to ſuſpend the impious wrong;
Till HOWARD's hand, with brave diſdain,
Throws far away this execrable chain:
O Nature, ſpread his fame thro' all thy ample reign!
His care exulting BRITAIN found,
Here firſt diſplay'd, not here confin'd!
No ſingle tract of earth could bound
The active virtues of his mind.
To all the lands, where'er the tear,
That mourn'd the Priſoner's wrongs ſevere,
Sad Pity's gliſt'ning cheek impearl'd,
Eager he ſteer'd, with every ſail unfurl'd,
A friend to every clime! a Patriot of the World!
Ye nations thro' whoſe fair domain
Our flying ſons of joy have paſt,
By Pleaſure driven with looſen'd rein,
Aſtoniſh'd that they flew ſo faſt!
How did the heart-improving ſight
Awake your wonder and delight,
[133]
When, in her unexampled chace,
Philanthropy outſtript keen Pleaſure's pace,
When with a warmer ſoul ſhe ran a nobler race!
Where-e'er her generous Briton went,
Princes his ſupplicants became:
He ſeem'd the enquiring angel, ſent
To ſcrutinize their ſecret ſhame*.
Captivity, where he appear'd,
Her languid head with tranſport rear'd;
And gazing on her godlike gueſt,
Like thoſe of old, whom Heaven's pure ſervant bleſt,
E'en by his ſhadow ſeem'd of demons diſpoſſeſt.
Amaz'd her foreign children cry,
Seeing their patron paſs along;
"O! who is he, whoſe daring eye
Can ſearch into our hidden wrong?
What monarch's Heaven-directed mind,
With royal bounty unconfin'd,
[134] Has tempted Freedom's ſon to ſhare
Theſe perils; ſearching with an angel's care
Each cell of dire Diſeaſe, each cavern of Deſpair?"
No monarch's word, nor lucre's luſt,
Nor vain ambition's reſtleſs fire,
Nor ample power, that ſacred truſt!
His life-diffuſing toils inſpire:
Rous'd by no voice, ſave that whoſe cries
Internal bid the ſoul ariſe
From joys, that only ſeem to bleſs,
From low purſuits, which little minds poſſeſs,
To Nature's nobleſt aim, the Succour of Diſtreſs!
Taught by that God, in Mercy's robe,
Who his coeleſtial throne reſign'd,
To free the priſon of the globe
From vice, th' oppreſſor of the mind!
For thee, of miſery's rights bereft,
For thee, Captivity! he left
Inviting Eaſe, who, in her bower,
Bade him with ſmiles enjoy the golden hour,
While Fortune deck'd his board with Pleaſure's feſtive flower.
[133]
While to thy virtue's utmoſt ſcope
I boldly ſtrive my aim to raiſe
As high as mortal hand may hope
To ſhoot the glittering * ſhaft of Praiſe;
Say! HOWARD, ſay! what may the Muſe,
Whoſe melting eye thy merit views,
What guerdon may her love deſign?
What may ſhe aſk for thee, from Power Divine,
Above the rich rewards which are already thine?
Sweet is the joy when Science flings
Her light on philoſophic thought;
When Genius, with keen ardor, ſprings
To claſp the lovely truth he ſought:
Sweet is the joy, when Rapture's fire
Flows from the ſpirit of the lyre;
When Liberty and Virtue roll
Spring-tides of fancy o'er the poet's ſoul,
That waft his flying bark thro' ſeas above the pole.
[136]
Sweet the delight, when the gall'd heart
Feels Conſolation's lenient hand
Bind up the wound from Fortune's dart
With Friendſhip's life-ſupporting band!
And ſweeter ſtill, and far above
Theſe fainter joys, when pureſt Love
The ſoul his willing captive keeps!
When he in bliſs the melting ſpirit ſteeps,
Who drops delicious tears, and wonders that he weeps!
But not the brighteſt joy, which Arts,
In floods of mental light, beſtow;
Nor what firm Friendſhip's zeal imparts,
Bleſt antidote of bittereſt woe!
Nor thoſe that Love's ſweet hours diſpenſe,
Can equal the ecſtatic ſenſe,
When, ſwelling to a fond exceſs,
The grateful praiſes of reliev'd diſtreſs,
Re-echoed thro' the heart, the ſoul of Bounty bleſs.
Theſe tranſports, in no common ſtate,
Supremely pure, ſublimely ſtrong,
Above the reach of envious fate,
Bleſt HOWARD! theſe to thee belong:
[137] While years encreaſing o'er thee roll,
Long may this ſunſhine of the ſoul
New vigor to thy frame convey!
Its radiance thro' thy noon of life diſplay,
And with ſereneſt light adorn thy cloſing day!
And when the Power, who joys to ſave,
Proclaims the guilt of earth forgiven;
And calls the priſoners of the grave
To all the liberty of Heaven:
In that bright day, whoſe wonders blind
The eye of the aſtoniſh'd mind;
When life's glad angel ſhall reſume
His ancient ſway, announce to Death his doom,
And from exiſtence drive that tyrant of the tomb:
In that bleſt hour, when Seraphs ſing
The triumphs gain'd in human ſtrife;
And to their new aſſociates bring
The wreaths of everlaſting life:
May'ſt thou, in Glory's hallow'd blaze,
Approach th' Eternal Fount of Praiſe,
With thoſe who lead th' angelic van,
Thoſe pure adherents to their Saviour's plan,
Who liv'd but to relieve the Miſeries of Man!

ODE TO Mr. WRIGHT of DERBY.
[]ODE TO Mr. WRIGHT of DERBY, 1783.

[]
AWAY! ye ſweet, but trivial Forms,
That from the placid pencil riſe,
When playful art the landſcape warms
With Italy's unclouded ſkies!
Stay, Vanity! nor yet demand
Thy portrait from the painter's hand!
Nor aſk thou, Indolence, to aid thy dream,
The ſoft illuſion of the mimic ſtream,
That twinkles to thy ſight with Cynthia's trembling beam!
[142]
Be thine, my friend, a nobler taſk!
Beſide thy vacant eaſel ſee
Gueſts, who, with claims ſuperior, aſk
New miracles of art from thee:
Valour, who mocks unequal ſtrife,
And Clemency, whoſe ſmile is life!
"WRIGHT! let thy ſkill (this radiant pair exclaim)
"Give to our view our favorite ſcene of Fame,
"Where Britain's Genius blaz'd in glory's brighteſt flame."
Celeſtial miniſters! ye ſpeak
To no dull agent ſloth-oppreſt,
Who coldly hears, in ſpirit weak,
Heroic Virtue's high beheſt:
Behold! tho' envy ſtrives to foil
The Artiſt bent on public toil,
Behold! his flames terrific luſtre ſhed;
His naval blaze mounts from its billowy bed;
And Calpe proudly rears her war-illumin'd head.
In gorgeous pomp for ever ſhine,
Bright monument of Britain's force!
Tho' doom'd to feel her fame decline
In ill-ſtarr'd war's o'erwhelming courſe,
[143]
Tho' Europe's envious realms unite
To cruſh her, in unequal fight,
Her Genius, deeply ſtung with generous ſhame,
On this exulting rock array'd in flame
Equals her ancient feats, and vindicates her name.
How fiercely Britiſh valor pours
The deluge of deſtroying fire,
Which o'er that watery Babel roars,
Bidding the baffled hoſt retire,
And leave their fall'n, to yield their breath
In different pangs of double death!
Ye ſhall not periſh: no! ye hapleſs brave,
Reckleſs of peril, thro' the fiery wave
See! Britiſh mercy ſteers, each proſtrate foe to ſave.
Ye gallant Chiefs, whoſe deeds proclaim
The genuine hero's feeling ſoul,
Elliot, and Curtis, with whoſe name
Honor enrich'd his radiant roll,
Bleſt is your fate; nor bleſt alone,
That reſcued foes your virtues own,
That Britain triumphs in your filial worth:
Bleſt in the period of your glory's birth,
When art can bid it live to decorate the earth!
[144]
Alas! what deeds, where virtue reign'd,
Have in oblivious darkneſs died,
When Painting, by the Goths enchain'd,
No life-ſecuring tints ſupplied!—
Of all thy powers, enchanting art!
Thou deemeſt this the deareſt part,
To guard the rights of valor, and afford
Surviving luſtre to the hero's ſword:
For this, heroic Greece thy martial charms ador'd.
Rival of Greece, in arms, in arts,
Tho' deem'd in her declining days,
Britain yet boaſts unnumber'd hearts,
Who keenly pant for public praiſe:
Her battles yet are firmly fought
By Chiefs with Spartan courage fraught:
Her Painters with Athenian zeal unite
To trace the glories of the proſp'rous fight,
And gild th' embattled ſcene with art's immortal light.
Tho' many a hand may well portray
The ruſhing war's infuriate ſhock,
Proud Calpe bids thee, WRIGHT! diſplay
The terrors of her blazing rock:
[145] The burning bulks of baffled Spain,
From thee ſhe claims, nor claims in vain,
Thou mighty maſter of the mimic flame,
Whoſe matchleſs pencil, with peculiar aim,
Has form'd of laſting fire the baſis of thy fame.
Juſt in thy praiſe, thy country's voice
Loudly aſſerts thy ſignal power:
In this reward may'ſt thou rejoice,
In modeſt labour's ſilent hour,
Far from thoſe ſeats, where envious leagues,
And dark cabals, and baſe intrigues
Exclude meek Merit from his proper home;
Where Art, whom Royalty forbade to roam,
Againſt thy talents clos'd her ſelf-diſhonor'd dome.
When partial pride, and mean neglect,
The nerves of injur'd Genius gall,
What kindly ſpells of keen effect
His energy of heart recall?
Perchance there is no ſpell ſo ſtrong
As Friendſhip's ſympathetic ſong:
By fancy link'd in a fraternal band,
Artiſt and Bard in ſweet alliance ſtand;
They ſuffer equal wounds, and mutual aid demand.
[146]
Go, then, to ſlighted worth devote
Thy willing verſe, my fearleſs Muſe!
Haply thy free and friendly note
Some joyous ardor may infuſe
In fibres, that ſeverely ſmart
From potent Envy's poiſon'd dart:
Thro' WRIGHT's warm breaſt bid tides of vigor roll,
Guard him from meek Depreſſion's chill controul,
And rouſe him to exert each ſinew of his ſoul!

ODE TO THE COUNTESS DE GENLIS. 1784.
[]ODE TO THE COUNTESS DE GENLIS. 1784.

[]
I.
NO more let Engliſh pride arraign
The Gallic Muſe, as light and vain,
Whoſe trifling fingers can but weave
The flimſy novel, to deceive
Inaction's languid hour;
Where ſentiment, from nothing ſpun,
Shines like a garden-cobweb in the ſun,
Thrown in autumnal nights o'er many a wither'd flower.
II.
Too often, in the giddy fit
Of wanton or ſatiric wit,
The raſh and frolic ſons of France
Have ſketch'd the frivolous romance;
While reaſon ſtood aloof;
While modeſty the work diſclaim'd;
And griev'd religion, with diſdain inflam'd,
On the licentious page pronounc'd her juſt reproof.
[150]III.
The Genius of the generous land
Survey'd the vain fantaſtic band,
And kindling with indignant pride,
Athirſt for genuine glory, cried:
"Too long have ye diſgrac'd
"The Gallic name!—ye ſophiſts, hence!
"A female hand ſhall expiate your offence,
"The wrongs that ye have done to virtue, truth, and taſte.
IV.
"Riſe, my GENLIS! thoſe ills correct,
"That ſpring from this pernicious ſect:
"To infancy's important years,
"That ſeaſon of parental fears,
"Devote thy varied page!
"Mould and defend the youthful heart
"Againſt the ſubtle, ſoul-debaſing art
"Of the ſarcaſtic wit, and ſelf-intitled ſage!"
[151]V.
Illumin'd with angelic zeal,
And wiſhing Nature's general weal,
The lovely moraliſt aroſe:
The flame that from religion flows
Play'd round her penſive head:
The tender virtues ſmiling ſtrove
T' enrich the variegated web ſhe wove,
Where wiſdom's temperate hand the flowers of fancy ſpread.
VI.
The ſiſters of theatric power,
Whoſe intermingled ſun and ſhower
Give to the ſtage, in friendly ſtrife,
Each touching charm of chequer'd life,
Inſpir'd the friend of youth:
Arts yet unknown to her they taught,
To fix and charm quick childhood's rambling thought
With unexampled ſcenes of tenderneſs and truth.
[152]VII.
Her pathos is not proudly built
On ſplendid or impaſſion'd guilt;
The little incidents, that riſe
As ſportive youth's light ſeaſon flies,
Her ſimple drama fill;
Yet he, the ſweet Socratic ſage*,
Who ſteep'd in tears the wide Athenian ſtage,
Fram'd not his moral ſcene with more pathetic ſkill.
VIII.
In the rich novel's ampler field
Her genius rears a radiant ſhield,
With fancy's blazonry impreſt;
Potent to ſave the youthful breaſt
From paſſion's poiſon'd dart:
Like that which Homer's gods produce,
Its high-wrought beauties ſhine with double uſe,
To charm the curious mind, and guard th' unwary heart.
[153]IX.
Ye Fairies! 'twas your boaſt to bind
In ſweet amaze the infant mind:
But ſcorning fiction's faded flower,
Behold GENLIS in magic power
Your ſorcery excells!
She, firſt of childhood's pleaſing friends!
Arm'd with the force that liberal ſcience lends,
From art and nature frames her more attractive ſpells*.
X.
Lovely magician! in return
For the ſweet tears of fond concern,
With moral pleaſure's tender thrill
Awak'd by thy enchanting ſkill,
Accept this votive rhyme!
Spurn not a wreath of foreign hue,
Tho' rudely twin'd of humble flowers, that grew
In a ſequeſter'd vale of Albion's wayward clime!
[154]XI.
Think, if from Britain's churliſh ſky
This verſe to foreign genius fly,
Think not our letter'd females raiſe
No titles to melodious praiſe:—
Keen ſcience cannot find
One clime within the earth's wide zone,
Whoſe daughters, Britain! have ſurpaſs'd thy own
In the career of art, the triumphs of the mind.
XII.
This honeſt boaſt of Engliſh pride,
Which meaner merit might deride,
Will ne'er the juſt GENLIS beguile
Of one diſdainful, envious ſmile;
For envy ne'er conceal'd
From her clear ſight a rival's claim;
Her voice has ſwell'd my fair compatriots fame,
Pleas'd with their glorious march o'er learning's varied field!
[155]XIII.
Doubly, GENLIS! may'ſt thou rejoice,
Whene'er impartial glory's voice
Ranks with the happieſt toils of men
The graceful works of woman's pen,
Tho' not of Gallic frame:
For O! beneath whatever ſkies
Records of female genius may ariſe,
Thoſe records muſt enfold thy fair and fav'rite name.
XIV.
In every clime where arts have ſmil'd,
Where'er the mother loves her child,
And pants, with anxious zeal poſſeſt,
To fortify the tender breaſt
And the young mind enlarge,
From thy chaſte page ſhe'll learn the art,
Fondly to play the ſage preceptor's part,
And draw her deareſt joys from that important charge:
[156]XV.
Wherever youth, with curious view,
Inſtructive pleaſure ſhall purſue,
The little lively ſtudent there,
With rapt attention's keeneſt air,
Shall o'er thy volumes bend:
And while his tears their charm confeſs,
His grateful voice ſhall in their author bleſs
The ſpirit-kindling guide, the heart-enchanting friend.

SONNETS, SONGS, AND OCCASIONAL VERSES.

[]

SONNET TO THE EARL OF HARDWICKE,
With the Second Edition of the Epiſtles to ROMNEY. 1779.

[159]
HARDWICKE! whoſe bright applauſe a poet crown'd
Unknown to thee and to the Muſe's quire,
Permit his hand with joyous pride to ſound
A note of gratitude on freedom's lyre!
And fear not flattery's ſong from one plac'd higher
Than ſhe has power to raiſe her menial crew;
From one who, proud of independent fire,
Scorns the baſe Noble, but reveres the true.
The liberal ſpirit feels thy generous praiſe
Fall from pure honour's ſphere, like genial dew;
Bleſt if its vital influence ſhall raiſe
A future flower more worthy of thy view!
Bleſt if in theſe re-poliſh'd lays thou find
Some light reflected from thy letter'd mind!

SONNET TO EDWARD GIBBON, ESQ.
On the Publication of his Second and Third Volumes. 1781.

[160]
WITH proud delight th' imperial founder gaz'd
On the new beauty of his ſecond Rome,
When on his eager eye rich temples blaz'd,
And his fair city roſe in youthful bloom:
A pride more noble may thy heart aſſume,
O GIBBON! gazing on thy growing work;
In which, conſtructed for a happier doom,
No haſty marks of vain ambition lurk:
Thou may'ſt deride both time's deſtructive ſway,
And baſer envy's beauty-mangling dirk;
Thy gorgeous fabrick, plann'd with wiſe delay,
Shall baffle foes more ſavage than the Turk:
As ages multiply its fame ſhall riſe,
And earth muſt periſh ere its ſplendor dies.

SONNET TO THE SAME.
Written in MADAME DE LAMBERT's Eſſays on Friendſhip and Old Age; in the Name of the Lady who tranſlated them.

[161]
HOW may I, GIBBON, to thy taſte confide
This artleſs copy of a Gallic gem?
Wilt thou not caſt th' unpoliſh'd work aſide,
And with juſt ſcorn my failing line condemn?
No! thou wilt never, with pedantic phlegm,
Spurn the firſt produce of a female mind;
Young flowers! that, trembling on a tender ſtem,
Court thy protection from each ruder wind.
Tho' I may injure, by a coarſer ſtyle,
The work that Lambert's graceful hand deſign'd,
I ſtill, if favour'd by thy partial ſmile,
Shall boaſt like her of friendſhip's joys refin'd.
Nor fear from age her liſt of female woes,
If, as my years increaſe, thy friendſhip grows.

SONNET TO EDMUND ANTROBUS, ESQ.
With the ſame Eſſays.

[162]
KIND Hoſt! who bordering on the vale of years,
Keep'ſt in thy generous heart a youthful glow,
Whoſe liberal elegance of ſoul endears
The joy thy bounty glories to beſtow;
Accept a volume, in whoſe pages flow
The mild effuſions of a female mind!
Firſt of the letter'd fair that France can ſhew,
Of ſprightly wit with moral truth combin'd!
In the faint copy may thy candour ſee
Some ſlight reſemblance of her ſtyle refin'd:
Whate'er the merits of the book, in thee
May all the bleſſings of its theme be join'd!
Thine be that joy which friendſhip's boſom fills;
And thine the peace of age, without its ills!

SONNET TO DR. HARINGTON,
On his adding Muſic to a Song of the Author's.

[163]
HARMONIOUS friend! to whom my honor'd Muſe
Is eager to declare how much ſhe owes,
Accept, and with indulgent eye peruſe
Her haſty verſe, impatient to diſcloſe
How from your aid her new attraction flows.
Cold as the figure of unfiniſh'd clay,
Which by Prometheus' plaſtic hand aroſe,
My lifeleſs ſong in half exiſtence lay:
I could not add the ſpark of heav'nly flame:
To harmony's high ſphere I dar'd not ſtray
To ſteal from thence—but in this languid frame
You pour, without a theft, the vital ray:
Your generous art the quick'ning ſpirit gives,
And by your tuneful fire the Ballad lives.

SONNET TO WILLIAM MELMOTH, ESQ.

[164]
MELMOTH! in talents and in virtues bleſt!
Pleas'd I contemplate thy attractive page,
Where thy mild Pliny, and Rome's guardian Sage,
Of purer eloquence, thy powers atteſt,
And rare felicity:—near half an age
Our poliſh'd tongue has rank'd thee with the beſt
Of England's claſſics; yet detraction's rage
Has fail'd to point her arrows at thy breaſt:
Rich in thoſe palms that taſte and truth beſtow,
Who praiſe in learning's field thy long career,
By what nice ſkill, that worth can ſeldom ſhew,
Haſt thou eluded ſlander's envious ſneer?
Bleſt who excel! but tenfold bliſs they know,
Who in excelling live without a foe.

SONNET TO MRS. HAYLEY,
On her Voyage to America. 1784.

[165]
THOU vext Atlantic, who haſt lately ſeen
Britain's vain thunder on her offspring hurl'd,
And the blind parent, in her frantic ſpleen,
Pouring weak vengeance on a filial world!
Thou, whoſe rough billows in loud fury curl'd,
Have roar'd indignant under many a keel;
And while contention all her ſails unfurl'd,
Have groan'd the weight of ill-ſtarr'd war to feel;
Now let thy placid waters gaily bear
A freight far differing from blood-thirſty ſteel;
See HAYLEY now to croſs thy flood prepare,
A female merchant, fraught with friendly zeal!
Give her kind gales, ye ſpirits of the air,
Kind as her heart, and as her purpoſe fair!

SONNET TO JOHN SARGENT, ESQ.
On his Doubts of publiſhing his Drama, intitled, 'THE MINE.' 1784.

[166]
AWAY with diffidence and modeſt fear,
Thou happy fav'rite of Caſtalia's quire!
Withhold no longer from the public ear
The rich delight thy varied lays inſpire!
Nor from the Preſs with trembling awe retire!
That dread eſſay is dangerous alone,
When mimic droſs adulterates the lyre:
Thine is of pureſt gold—its perfect tone
The fancy and the heart alike obey:
Invention's ſelf has made her MINE thy own;
Give its new gems to blaze in open day,
And ſeat that bounteous queen on glory's throne.
A brother Bard, if he may boaſt the name,
Sounds with proud joy this prelude to thy fame.

SONNET TO MR. WILLIAM LONG,
On his Recovery from a dangerous Illneſs. 1785.

[167]
BLEST be the day which bids my grief ſubſide,
Rais'd by the ſickneſs of my diſtant friend!
Bleſt the dear lines, ſo long to hope deny'd,
By languor's aching fingers kindly penn'd!
How keen the fear to feel his letters end,
Whoſe wit was my delight, whoſe truth my guide!
But how did joy that painful fear tranſcend,
When I again his well known hand deſcried!
Such was the dread of new-created man,
When firſt he miſs'd the ſetting orb of day;
Such the delight that thro' his boſom ran,
When he perceiv'd the reaſcending ray.
Ah no! his thoughts endur'd leſs anxious ſtrife;
Thou, Friendſhip! art the ſun of mental life.

EPITAPH ON WILLIAM BRYANT,
Aged 91, Pariſh Clerk of EARTHAM. 1779.

[168]
BY ſportive youth and buſy manhood bleſt,
Here, thou meek father of our village, reſt!
If length of days, in toilſome duties ſpent,
With chearful honeſty, and mild content;
If age, endur'd with firm and patient mind;
If life with willing piety reſign'd;
If theſe are certain proofs of human worth,
Which, dear to heaven, demand the praiſe of earth;
E'en Pride ſhall venerate this humble ſod,
That holds a Chriſtian worthy of his GOD.

SONG.

[169]
I.
YE cliffs! I to your airy ſteep
Aſcend with trembling hope and fear,
To gaze on this extenſive deep,
And watch if WILLIAM's ſails appear.
II.
Long months elapſe, while here I breathe
Vain expectation's frequent prayer;
Till bending o'er the waves beneath,
I drop the tear of dumb deſpair.
III.
But ſee a gliſtening ſail in view!
Tumultuous hopes ariſe:
'Tis he!—I feel the viſion true,
I truſt my conſcious eyes.
IV.
His promis'd ſignals from the maſt
My timid doubts deſtroy:
What was your pain, ye terrors paſt,
To this ecſtatic joy!

SONG.

[170]
I.
FROM glaring ſhew, and giddy noiſe,
The pleaſures of the vain,
Take me, ye ſoft, ye ſilent joys,
To your retreats again.
II.
Be mine, ye cool, ye peaceful groves,
Whoſe ſhades to love belong;
Where echo, as ſhe fondly roves,
Repeats my STELLA's ſong.
III.
Ah, STELLA! why ſhould I depart
From ſolitude and thee,
When in that ſolitude thou art
A perfect world to me!

SONG.

[171]
I.
'TIS Memory's aid my vows implore,
For ſhe will ſmile when fortune's coy;
And to the eye of love reſtore
The ſpirit of departed joy.
II.
O plunge me ſtill, with magic art,
In ſoothing fancy's ſoft abyſs;
And fill my fond, my faithful heart
With viſions of thy purer bliſs!

SONG.

[172]
I.
STAY! O ſtay, thou lovely ſhade
Brought by ſleep to ſorrow's aid:
Ah! the ſweet illuſion ends!
Light and Reaſon, cruel friends!
Bid me not, with frantic care,
Vainly worſhip fleeting air!
II.
Night, return on rapid wing!
Round my head thy poppies fling!
Hateful day! thy reign be brief!
Darkneſs is the friend of grief.
Could'ſt thou, ſleep! my dream reſtore,
I ſhould wiſh to wake no more.

SONG.

[173]
I.
ENJOY, my child, the balmy ſleep,
Which o'er thy form new beauty throws;
And long thy tranquil ſpirit keep
A ſtranger to thy mother's woes!
Tho' in diſtreſs,
I feel it leſs,
While gazing on thy ſweet repoſe.
II.
Condemn'd to pangs like inward fire,
That thro' my injur'd boſom roll,
How would my heart in death deſire
Relief from fortune's hard controul,
Did not thy arms
And infant charms
To earth enchain my anxious ſoul!
[174]III.
Flow faſt, my tears!—by you reliev'd,
I vent my anguiſh thus unknown;
But ceaſe, e'er ye can be perceiv'd
By this dear child, to pity prone,
Whoſe tender heart
Would ſeize a part
In grief, that ſhould be all my own.
IV.
Our cup of woe, which angels fill,
Perchance it is my lot to drain;
While that of joy, unmix'd with ill,
May thus, my child, for thee remain;
If thou art free,
(So Heaven decree!)
I bleſs my doom of double pain.

ODE TO RICHARD VERNON SADLEIR, ESQ.
1777.

[175]
I.
BUSINESS, be gone! Thou vulture, Care,
No more the quivering ſinews tear
Of Sadleir's mortal frame!
Full well his firm and active mind,
Has paid the duties that mankind
From ſenſe and virtue claim.
II.
Alas! too well—for mental toil
Our fine machinery will ſpoil,
As Nature has decreed:
She form'd the powers that raiſe the ſoul
Like wheels, that kindle as they roll,
And periſh by their ſpeed.
[176]III.
Let health and vigour on the ſtage
Support the ſcene, while milder age
Reſigns the buſtling part:
If flowers the buſy path adorn,
Ingratitude there plants her thorn,
Which pierces to the heart.
IV.
Oft haſt thou ſeen her poiſon'd ſhoot,
Where Hope expected faireſt fruit;
Yet ſtill thy bounty flows
Like conſtant dew that falls on earth,
Although it wakens into birth
The nightſhade with the roſe.
V.
Thy warmth of heart O ſtill retain!
Nor of ingratitude complain,
Howe'er her wounds may burn!
Bliſs from benevolence muſt flow;
Angels are bleſt while they beſtow,
Unconſcious of return.
[177]VI.
And happineſs we only find
In thoſe exertions of the mind
That form the ardent friend:
In theſe it dwells, with theſe it flies,
As all the comet's ſplendor dies
Whene'er its motions end.
VII.
O let the luſtre of thy ſoul
No more eccentrically roll
Thro' Labour's long career!
O haſte, it's dangerous courſe confine,
And let it permanently ſhine
In Pleaſure's milder ſphere!
VIII.
In Friendſhip's name thy voice invites
Our willing hearts to ſocial rites,
Where Laughter is thy gueſt:
But, O! theſe eyes with anguiſh burn,
And fear their weaken'd orbs to turn
From Nature's verdant veſt.
[178]IX.
Thy invitation then forbear,
Tho' at thy board, in union rare,
Kind Plenty reigns with Wit:
Thy roof is joyous, but I doubt
That we ſhould find the brilliant rout
For burning eyes unfit.
X.
Thy noiſy town and duſty ſtreet
Do thou exchange for this retreat,
Whoſe charms thy ſongs commend:
On Learning's page forbid to look,
We yet can read that dearer book—
The viſage of a friend.

A CARD OF INVITATION
TO Mr. GIBBON, at BRIGHTHELMSTONE. 1781.

[179]
AN Engliſh Sparrow, pert and free,
Who chirps beneath his native tree,
Hearing the Roman Eagle's near,
And feeling more reſpect than fear,
Thus, with united love and awe,
Invites him to his ſhed of ſtraw.
Tho' he is but a twittering Sparrow,
The field he hops in rather narrow,
When nobler plumes attract his view
He ever pays them homage due,
And looks with reverential wonder
On him whoſe talons bear the thunder;
Nor could the Jack-daws e'er inveigle
His voice to vilify the Eagle,
Tho', iſſuing from thoſe holy tow'rs
In which they build their warmeſt bow'rs,
[180] Their Sovereign's haunt they ſlily ſearch,
In hopes to find him on his perch
(For PINDAR ſays, beſide his God
The thunder-bearing Bird will nod)
Then, peeping round his ſtill retreat,
They pick from underneath his feet
Some molted feather he lets fall,
And ſwear he cannot fly at all.—
Lord of the ſky! whoſe pounce can tear
Theſe croakers, that infeſt the air,
Truſt him, the Sparrow loves to ſing
The praiſe of thy imperial wing!
He thinks thou'lt deem him, on his word,
An honeſt, tho' familiar Bird;
And hopes thou ſoon wilt condeſcend
To look upon thy little friend;
That he may boaſt around his grove
A viſit from the BIRD OF JOVE.

TO MR. MASON,
On his ſending the Author his Tranſlation of DUFRESNOY, with Notes by Sir JOSHUA REYNOLDS. 1783.

[181]
I.
DEAR Brother of the tuneful art,
To whom I juſtly bend,
I prize, with a fraternal heart,
The pleaſing gift you ſend.
II.
With pride, by envy undebas'd,
My Engliſh ſpirit views
How far your elegance of taſte
Improves a Gallic Muſe.
III.
I thought that Muſe but meanly dreſt
When her ſtiff gown was Latin;
But you have turn'd her grogram veſt
Into fine folds of ſattin.
[182]IV.
Mild REYNOLDS looks with liberal favor
On your adopted girl;
And to the graceful robe you gave her,
Adds rich feſtoons of pearl.

IMPROMPTU TO MR. MEYER,
On his ſending the Author, from the Continent, two Prints, repreſenting The Coronation of VOLTAIRE, and ROUSSEAU's Arrival in Elyſium. 1784.

[183]
I.
THE Song that ſhakes the feſtive roof,
When mirth and muſic's livelieſt notes aſcend,
Is not more pleaſing than the proof
Of kind remembrance from an abſent friend.
II.
Then gueſs the pleaſure that we ſhare,
And thus, dear MEYER, accept the thanks we owe;
While we behold the crown'd VOLTAIRE,
And ſee Elyſium hail our lov'd ROUSSEAU!
[184]III.
May all the honor, all the joy,
Known by each genius in thy gift portray'd,
Be thine, without the dull alloy
That ting'd their golden days with duſky ſhade!
IV.
As lively as the gay VOLTAIRE,
With his keen pen may thy fine pencil ſtrive!
May'ſt thou as long delight the fair,
And triumph like the Bard, at eighty-five!
V.
As tender as the warm ROUSSEAU,
Like him thy happier thoughts on nature fix!
But 'midſt thy proſpering children know
A true Elyſium—on this ſide the Styx!

A RECEIPT
To make a TRAGEDY.

[185]
TAKE a virgin from Aſia, from Afric, or Greece,
At leaſt a king's daughter, or emperor's niece:
Take an elderly miſs for her kind confidant,
Still ready with pity or terror to pant,
While ſhe faints and revives like the ſenſitive plant:
Take a Hero thought buried ſome ten years or more,
But with life enough left him to rattle and roar:
Take a horrid old brute who deſerves to be rack'd,
And call him a tyrant ten times in each act:
Take a prieſt of cold blood, and a warrior of hot,
And let them alternately bluſter and plot:
Then throw in of ſoldiers and ſlaves quantum ſuff.
Let them march, and ſtand ſtill, fight, and halloo enough.
Now ſtir all together theſe ſeparate parts,
And ſeaſon them well with Ohs! faintings, and ſtarts:
[186] Squeeze in, while they're ſtirring, a potent infuſion
Of rage, and of horror, of love and illuſion;
With madneſs and murder complete the concluſion.
Let your princeſs, tho' dead by the murderous dagger,
In a wanton bold epilogue ogle and ſwagger:
Prove her paſt ſcenes of virtue are vapor and ſmoke,
And the ſtage's morality merely a joke:
Let her tell with what follies our country is curſt,
And wiſely conclude that play-writing's the worſt.
Now ſerve to the public this olio complete,
And puff in the papers your delicate treat.

TO MISS SEWARD,
On her being at EARTHAM, in the variable Weather, Auguſt, 1782.

[187]
I.
"WHENCE are theſe ſtorms?"—an angry poet cry'd,
Who ſaw his ſhady ſummer haunts defac'd;
Saw o'er his ſhatter'd grove black whirlwinds ride,
And loud lamented this untimely waſte.
II.
He ſpoke, and Aeolus uprear'd his head:
Half his huge form, round which dark clouds were driv'n,
Riſing from ocean's broad and billowy bed,
Fill'd up the vaſt expanſe from earth to heav'n.
III.
As his fierce eye ſurvey'd the rough profound,
From the ſtern god the voice of anger broke;
Air, earth, and ſea, reverberate the ſound,
And ſhrinking nature ſhudder'd as he ſpoke:
[188]IV.
"Know, thou vain Bard, within thy manſion dwells
"The wond'rous ſource of all this wild uproar;
"Thence round my cave the din of diſcord ſwells,
"And I my rebel offspring rule no more.
V.
"To own my laws my mad'ning ſons refuſe,
"All, all are deaf to my paternal pow'r;
"Struggling alike to kiſs that vagrant Muſe,
"Who deigns to viſit thy ſequeſter'd bow'r.
VI.
"Rough Boreas, us'd in theſe ſtill months to fleep,
"Starts from his cell, in paſſion's wild alarms;
"While dripping Auſter ruſhes from the deep,
"To ſnatch the Fair-one from his brother's arms.
VII.
"Each other's fond ambition to deſtroy,
"Alike they ſtruggle, mercileſs as death;
"See my young Zephyr, Nature's tender joy,
"Encounters Eurus with contentious breath.
[189]VIII.
"Ceaſe, my raſh ſons, this cruel war to wage,
"Tho' tempting beauty gave your conflict birth,
"Leſt Famine, waken'd by your frantic rage,
"Stalk in fell triumph o'er the blaſted earth.
IX.
"See ſhiv'ring mortals mourn th' inverted year,
"While Ceres weeps her golden pride depreſt:
"If ye no longer Nature's law revere,
"Yet mildly liſten to your ſire's requeſt:—
X.
"Let each in order taſte the tempting bliſs,
"For which theſe mutual wounds ye vainly bear;
"Each unmoleſted take one precious kiſs,
"And freely claſp this phrenzy-kindling Fair."
XI.
He paus'd;—black Boreas, eldeſt of his race,
Whoſe ſtormy paſſion the chill Maiden ſhocks,
Binds her reluctant in his ſtrong embrace,
And ſports licentious in her auburn locks.
[190]XII.
Eurus ſucceeds, of leſs diſguſting mien,
Yet mad the trembling Fair-one to aſſail;
Beneath his preſſure, more intenſely keen,
The wounded ruby of her lip grows pale.
XIII.
Next, with mild charms, and leſs tumultuous love,
By melting Auſter ſee the nymph careſt;
He, with the ſoftneſs of the murm'ring dove,
Waves his moiſt pinions o'er her ſofter breaſt.
XIV.
Now, lively Zephyr, the ſweet Muſe is thine,
O long embrace her in our laughing ſkies!
And round her bid this joyous landſcape ſhine,
Rich as her verſe, and radiant as her eyes!

CONTENT.
Written at the requeſt of a Lady, for the Vaſe at Batheaſton, 1781.

[191]
"HOW idle are mortals!" (ſaid Wiſdom to Youth)
"They ſlight the clear dictates of Reaſon and Truth;
"They worſhip Ambition, to Pleaſure they bend,
"Yet blindly o'erlook a more excellent friend:
"And hence their vain hopes are eternally croſt,
"Their life in a tempeſt of wiſhes is loſt;
"Still deſtin'd to toil, and of toil to repent,
"For neglect of juſt vows to the Goddeſs Content;
"That Goddeſs from whom all felicity flows,
"Who unites every good in the gift ſhe beſtows;
"So free of her bounty to all who confeſs it,
"To ſolicit her ſmile is almoſt to poſſeſs it."
When I heard this fine ſpeech, my fond paſſion was rais'd,
And I ſet forth in queſt of the Being ſo prais'd;
[192] At the manſion of Grandeur my ſearch I begin,
And aſk if the Goddeſs Content is within:
But Pride, who as centinel guarded the door,
Said bluntly he ne'er heard her title before;
He told me I wanted a poor ruſtic ſlut,
And bade me go look in ſome little thatch'd hut.
I march'd to the Villager's lowly abode,
'Twas a ſnug pretty cottage, and ſtood near the road:
And here a good woman, poſſeſſing, tho' humble,
A face that could frown, and a tongue that would grumble,
Said—the perſon I aſk'd for had lodg'd in her cot,
But, alas! ſuch good luck was no longer her lot;
For ſhe quitted her roof, where ſhe oft had repos'd,
When yon great houſe was built, and the common inclos'd.
I conceiv'd, as I now bade the village farewell,
With the mild ſons of Science this Goddeſs muſt dwell;
But thoſe, where I ſought ſome obliging inſtructor,
Were ſquabbling about an electric conductor.
[193] Some cry'd up the point; ſome commended the ball;
The ſoft breath of Science was turn'd to a ſquall:
The Sages no mental conductor could find
To draw off the flame that now flaſh'd on their mind.
In haſte I exclaim'd, to the Learned adieu!
For e'en Science offends, when ſhe talks like a ſhrew.
Having wander'd ſo wide of the object I ſought,
I was now led to think, and rejoic'd at the thought,
This Goddeſs (herſelf for her charms ſo renown'd)
With the daughters of Beauty muſt ſurely be found:
With this hope I approach'd (unperceiv'd by them all)
Three lovely young girls juſt array'd for the ball;
In each, whoſe bright eyes on a mirror were bent,
I thought I diſcover'd a ſpark of Content;
But watching them more, in their beautiful faces,
Of the goddeſs I ſought I no more ſaw the traces;
For as they ſurvey'd, with a critical glance,
The elegant MONTAGU move in the dance,
In her exquiſite figure ſuch graces were ſhewn,
That viewing her charms they diſtruſted their own.
[194] Thou gentleſt of nymphs! while thy triumphs increaſe,
Unconſcious of beauty, ſo fatal to peace!
Tho' the ſparks of Content in one ſex thou may'ſt ſmother,
Bright Ecſtaſy's flame thou wilt raiſe in the other.
If in boſom parental Content could reſide,
The heart of thy parent this treaſure muſt hide;
But, alas! 'tis a truth which all parents lament,
Their tender anxiety ſtifles Content.
O tell me, while vainly to find thee I pant,
Dear latent Divinity! where is thy haunt?
"Away to Batheaſton," Good-nature replies,
"Behold ſhe there weaves the poetical prize."
With thy Myrtle, kind MILLER! O let me be crown'd,
Then my ſearch is repaid, and the Goddeſs is found:
Nay, if to another your wreath you aſſign,
And give it to verſe far ſuperior to mine,
My ſearch's dear object I ſtill muſt attain,
And the proof of this wonder's exceedingly plain,
[195] It reſts on this maxim, by Horace invented,
The Bard who writes worſt is the Bard moſt contented.
My claim to this bleſſing thus made very clear,
If I've nothing to hope, I have nothing to fear;
For MILLER can pleaſe while the mind ſhe amuſes,
Both when ſhe beſtows, and e'en when ſhe refuſes;
In truth I ſuſpect, from her ſingular aim,
The Goddeſs I ſeek is conceal'd by her name:
She herſelf is Content, and her houſe is the fane,
Where Spleen and Ill-nature no favours obtain:
Some mortals in vain for admiſſion muſt pray,
But all who once enter go ſmiling away.
END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.
Notes
*
Ver. 77. See NOTE 1.
*
Ver. 100. See NOTE II.
*
Ver. 108. See NOTE III.
Ver. 126. See NOTE IV.
*
Ver. 194. See NOTE V.
*
Ver. 198. See NOTE VI.
Ver. 202. See NOTE VII.
Ver. 206. See NOTE VIII.
§
Ver. 210. See NOTE IX.
Ver. 216. See NOTE X.
*
Ver. 228. See NOTE XI.
*
Ver. 244. See NOTE XII.
Ver. 251. See NOTE XIII.
Ver. 254. See NOTE XIV.
*
Ver. 260. See NOTE XV.
Ver. 268. See NOTE XVI.
Unde prius nulli velarunt Tempora Muſae. LUCRETIUS, Lib. iv. Ver. 5.
*
Ver. 282. See NOTE XVII.
Ver. 284. See NOTE XVIII.
Ver. 290. See NOTE XIX.
§
Ver. 295. See NOTE XX.
Ver. 297. See NOTE XXI.
*
Ver. 299. See NOTE XXII.
Ver. 305. See NOTE XXIII.
Ver. 310. See NOTE XXIV.
§
Ver. 316. See NOTE XXV.
*
Ver. 323. See NOTE XXVI.
*
Ver. 342. See NOTE XXVII.
Ver. 345. See NOTE XXVIII.
Ver. 353. See NOTE XXIX.
§
Ver. 356. See NOTE XXX.
*
Ver. 380. See NOTE XXXI.
*
Ver. 388. See NOTE XXXII.
Ver. 391. See NOTE XXXIII.
Ver. 395. See NOTE XXXIV.
*
Ver. 405. See NOTE XXXV.
*
Ver. 427. See NOTE XXXVI.
Ver. 435. See NOTE XXXVII.
Ver. 441. See NOTE XXXVIII.
*
Ver. 447. See NOTE XXXIX.
*
Ver. 15. See NOTE XL.
Ver. 33. See NOTE XLI.
*
Ver. 45. See NOTE XLII.
*
Ver. 93. See NOTE XLIII.
Ver. 97. See NOTE XLIV.
*
Ver. 101. See NOTE XLV.
Ver. 111. See NOTE XLVI.
*
Ver. 134. See NOTE XLVII.
Ver. 138. See NOTE XLVIII.
*
Ver. 151. See NOTE XLIX.
Ver. 165. See NOTE L.
*
Ver. 255 See NOTE LI.
*
Ver. 369. See NOTE LII.
*
Ver. 436. See NOTE LIII.
Ver. 441. See NOTE LIV.
*
Ver. 468. See NOTE LV.
*
Ver. 523. See NOTE LVI.
*
Vide the Gentleman's Magazine for November 1778, p. 526.
*
CHARLES HOWARD, Earl of Nottingham.
‘Muſſabat tacito Medecina timore. LUCRETIUS.
*
STEPHEN HALES, miniſter of Teddington: he died at the age of 84, 1761; and has been juſtly called ‘"An ornament to his profeſſion, as a clergyman, and to his country, as a philoſopher."’ I had the happineſs of knowing this excellent man, when I was very young; and well remember the warm glow of benevolence which uſed to animate his countenance, in relating the ſucceſs of his various projects for the benefit of mankind. I have frequently heard him dwell with great pleaſure on the fortunate incident which led him to the diſcovery of his Ventilator, to which I have alluded.—He had ordered a new floor for one of his rooms; his carpenter not having prepared the work ſo ſoon as he expected, he thought the ſeaſon improper for laying down new boards, when they were brought to his houſe, and gave orders for their being depoſited in his barn;—from their accidental poſition in that place, he caught his firſt idea of this uſeful invention.
*
Mr. HOWARD has been the happy inſtrument of preſerving female priſoners from an infamous and indecent outrage.—It was formerly a cuſtom in our gaols to load their legs and thighs with irons, for the deteſtable purpoſe of extorting money from theſe injured ſufferers.—This circumſtance, unknown to me when the Ode was written, has tempted me to introduce the few additional ſtanzas, as it is my ardent wiſh to render this tribute to an exalted character as little unworthy as I can of the very extenſive and ſublime merit which it aſpires to celebrate.
*
I am credibly informed that ſeveral Princes, or at leaſt perſons in authority, requeſted Mr. Howard not to publiſh a minute account of ſome priſons, which reflected diſgrace on their government.
*
. . . . [...]
[...]
[...]
[...].
PINDAR.
*
Euripides.
*
Alluding to the Tale intitled, "La Féerie de l'Art & de la Nature."
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