Classic Poem

Strike a bold stroke (my muse!) and let me see,
Thou fear'st no colours in thy Poetry,
For Pictures are dumb Poems; they that write
Best Poems, do but paint in Black and White.
The Pensill's Amulets forbid to die,
And vest us with a fair Eternity.
What think ye of the gods to whose huge name
The Pagans bow'd their humble knees? Whence came
Their immortalities but from a shade,
But from Those Pourtraictures the Painter made?
They saddled Jove's fierce Eagle like a Colt,
And made him grasp in's fist a Thunderbolt.
Painters did all: Jove had (at their command)
Spur'd a Jackdaw, and held a Switch in's hand.
The demi-gods, and all their glories, be
Apelles debtours, for their deity.
O how the Catholicks crosse themselves, and throng
Around a Crucifix! when all along
That's but a Picture. How the spruce trim Lasse,
Dotes on a Picture in the Looking-glasse?
And how ineffable's the Peasant's joy,
When he has drawn his Picture in his Boy.
Bright Angels condescend to share a part,
And borrow glorious Plumes from our rare Art.
Kings triumph in our sackcloth, Monarchs bear
Reverence t'our Canvase 'bove the Robes They wear.
Great Fortunes, large Estate, (for all their noise)
Are nothing in the world but painted toies,
Th' AEgyptian Hieroglyphicks, Pictures be,
And Pictures taught them all their A. B. C.
The Presbyterian, th' Independent too,
All would a color have for what they do.
And who so just that does not sometimes try,
To turn pure Painter, and deceive the eye?
Our honest sleight of hand prevails with all;
Hence springs an emulation generall,
Mark how the pretty female-artists try
To shame poor Nature with an Indian die.
Mark how the snail with's grave majestic pace,
Paint earth's green Wastcoat with a silver lace.
But (since all Rhymthes are dark, and seldom go
Without the Sun) the Sun's a Painter too;
(Heav'ns fam'd Vandyke) the Sun, he paints ('tis clear)
Twelve signes throughout the Zodiack every year:
'Tis He, that at the spicy Spring's gay birth
Makes Pencils of his Beames, and paints the Earth;
He Limns the Rainbow, when it strutt's so proud
Upon the Dusky surface of a Cloud;
He daubs the Moors, and when they sweat with toil
'Tis then He paints them All at length in oile;
The blushing fruits, the glosse of flour's so pure
Owe their varities to his Minature.
Yet, what's the Sun? each thing where e're we go
Would be a Rubens or an Angelo.
Gaze up, some winter night, and you'l confesse,
Heaven's a large Gallery of Images.
Then stoop down to the Earth, wonder, and scan.
The Master-piece of th' whole Creation, Man:
Man, that exact Originall in each limb,
And Woman, that fair copy drawn from him.
What e're we see's one Bracelet, whose each Bead
Is cemented, and hangs by Painting's thread.
Thus (like the soul o th' world) our subtle Art
Insinuates itself through every part.
Strange Rarity! which canst the Body save,
From the coorse usage in a sullen grave,
Yet never make it Mummie! Strange, that hand,
That spans and circumscribes the Sea and Land;
That drawes from death to th' life without a Spell
As Orpheus did Eurydice from Hell.
But all my Lines are rude, and all such praise
Dead colour'd nonsense. Painters scorn slight Baies.
Let the great Art commend itself, and then
You'l praise the Pensill, and deride the Pen.