Classic Poem

TO A YOUNG ARTIST .

From sunny Adria's sea-surrounded towers,
From Tyber's vales and Arno's viny bowers,
The Muse of Painting seeks Britannia's plain,
And leads to Thames's bank her favourite train:
There, where a nation's wealth her dome has plac'd,
With her kind Sister's Attic beauties grac'd,
She, like the Spring, as liberal and as gay,
Bids her rich hand its annual stores display;
And mimic Being glowing round the walls,
From scene to scene the rapt attention calls.
There, where the Public gives the palm of praise,
And only Merit to renown can raise.
Doubtless, my Friend, the just ambition's thine
To see thy future works distinguish'd shine.
Hear then thy poet's monitory lay,
That hints not useless may perchance convey,
No artist I, like him of Gallia's shore,
Whose pencil practis'd, ere he taught his lore;
Yet Taste incites me others' works to view,
And risk a judgment haply not untrue.
Were painting's path my pleasing road to fame,
The choice of subject much my care should claim;
His graphic power he sure but ill bestows,
Who best a trifle's nice resemblance shows.
Though the rich tints so finely blended fall,
When carps and pheasants deck the rural hall,
That oft, like Zeuxis' grapes, they scarcely fail
To tempt to touch the feather or the scale, —
Yet not ev'n Elmer's skill can make us prize
What every field or every pond supplies;
Regret gives pain to view such wondrous art
Tried on no theme that interests the heart.
The pride of Genius should thy hand restrain
From all that Life's inferior ranks contain:
Thy conscious pallet ne'er its hues should spare
To draw a sportsman's hound or racer's mare;
Nor thy reluctant crayon stoop to trace
A fool's dull eye, or villain's ill-mark'd face.
But deem not Portrait's gifts I mean to slight, —
Portrait, the source of many a pure delight!
When bards' or sages' works our wishes fire
To see their forms whose minds we there admire,
The featur'd canvass full to view displays
Reason's deep calm or Fancy's glowing rays,
When Beauty's charms their varied graces wear,
Love's gentle smile, or Mirth's vivacious air,
The pleasing image strikes remotest climes,
And goes unalter'd down to distant times.
When Death's relentless hand in dust has laid
The school-companion, or the first-lov'd maid;
The father kind, with filial awe rever'd:
The tender mother, by her cares endear'd;
When from our arms the darling child is torn,
Or when the husband or the wife we mourn —
As on their picture many a glance we cast,
Remembrance wanders to the vanish'd past;
Our thoughts o'er numberless minutiae roll,
And pain-mix'd pleasure solaces the soul.
To Portrait's study should thy choice incline,
Ev'n there to aim at excellence be thine:
And strive to reach the point attain'd by few,
Preserve the likeness, and the spirit too.
Of Landscape's province wide extends the range,
From the deep vale and humble rural grange,
To Cambrian heaths sublimely brown and bare,
Or Alpine ice-points glittering white in air:
And not from Nature only she designs,
But different parts of different scenes combines;
Or new creations of her own she forms,
Illumes with sunshine, or involves in storms?
Familiar prospects would thy hand bestow?
Mark what our hay-fields and our hop-grounds show;
Where in neat rows the russet cocks are seen,
Or from tall poles depend festoons of green;
And long straight paths in perspective extend,
And yellow sandhills close behind ascend,
Nor sweeter contrast sure can meet the eye
Than village lanes in vernal months supply,
When amber clouds, in sky of soft bright blue,
Hang o'er the copse just crown'd with verdure new;
Or where the orchard's sun-gilt branches spread
Their bloom of white, or faintly-blushing red.
The fairest scenes, when peopled, look more fair,
But these to people asks peculiar care:
We wish not here for Virgil's classic swains,
Nor dryad-nymphs light tripping o'er the plains;
Nor yet the grinning Hobbinols of Gay,
Nor cottage Marians, in their torn array:
The rustic life, in every varied place,
Can boast its few of beauty and of grace;
From them select the forms that most may please,
And clothe with simple elegance and ease:
Such forms in Smith's delightful spots we prize,
And such in Sandby's pleasant fields arise.
The' observant artist much from travel gains:
Increase of knowledge well rewards his pains.
Now his pleas'd eye o'er Tuscan prospects roves,
Their sunny corn-fields and their cypress groves:
Their roads, where sports from tree to tree the vine,
And through broad leaves its crystal clusters shine;
Their white Casines, with olive groves around;
And glittering cliffs with towns and castles crown'd.
Now his pleas'd step a wider circuit tries,
Where Nile's vast flood on Egypt's level lies;
While midst the tide tall palms their tops uprear,
And causeways broad and cities fair appear.
Now Indian climes he east or west explores,
Quits the dull factory and the sandy shores,
Climbs craggy hills, pervades romantic woods,
Or winds along the cataracts of the floods;
Through beasts and birds and insects, fruits and flow'rs,
In shape and colour all distinct from ours;
Or strays o'er isles that spicy vales unfold,
Midst skies of glory and midst seas of gold;
Such skies, such seas, as Hodges' pencil drew,
And round the rocks of Ulittea threw,
Whate'er we copy, or whate'er we feign,
Through all the piece one character should reign;
When Claude's bright morn on Mola's precincts dawns,
What sweet quiescence marks the groves and lawns!
How calm his herds among the ruins graze!
How calm his curious peasant stands to gaze!
When bold Salvator under turbid skies
Bids his scath'd hills and blasted trees arise,
Behind wild rocks bids his wild streams be lost,
And from vast cliffs shows broken fragments lost;
Midst them no shepherds lead their flocks along,
Nor village maidens seem to tune their song;
But solemn angurs flights of birds survey,
Or stern-ey'd robbers wait the passing prey.
In Rubens' forest, when the wounded boa,
Plung'd in the stream, attempts the further shore,
How the fierce dogs retard his awkward speed!
How the fierce hunters urge the straining steed!
And eager one the winged arrow sends,
And one firm-fix'd the' expectant spear protends.
To History's group, where passion'd thought express'd
Strikes kindred feelings on the gazer's breast, —
To History's group, the epic of thy art,
Proceed we now, and what we can, impart.
The mighty Masters of Italian name
All Rome, all Florence, and Bologna claim;
Whose fresco forms still animate their walls,
Whose living canvass decks their domes and halls:
What various powers for these their glory won,
And what of theirs to choose, and what to shun,
Illustrious Reynolds much in prose has told,
And more my verse pretends not to unfold.
These still thy study but with caution make,
Nor prize the picture for the painter's sake;
Raffaelle himself, beneath himself oft feil,
And meaner hands' best works his worst excel.
'Tis general Nature, in thy art and mine,
Must give our fame in future times to shine:
Sublime and pathos, like the Sun's fix'd flame
Remain, and please through every age the same;
Humour's light shapes, like vapours in the sky,
Rise, pass, and vary, and for ever fly:
Hogarth and Swift, if living, might deplore
Half their keen jokes, that now are jokes no more.
What Truth's rich page of real event supplies,
What Fancy's powers of fabled act devise,
Before thee lie — but where the field so wide,
There Judgment's hand Selection's step must guide.
To Horror's forms the mind aversion feels,
To Spaniolet's flay'd saints and torturing wheels;
Nor praise for nauseous images we win,
For Spenser's Error, or for Milton's Sin.
Mythology, that Greek enchantress, long
Has reign'd the idol of the painting throng;
But Reason's thought disdains Ovidian dreams
Absurd, of nymphs transform'd to trees and streams;
And Virtue Homer's wanton gods abhors,
With all their lewd amours and all their idle wars.
The Battle's conflicts ample scope bestow,
The' effects of fury, fear, and pain, to show;
As different features these unlike express,
The contrast's force affects us more or less.
But here Confusion holds his crowded reign,
And the tir'd eye attempts to rest in vain:
And o'er the scene Humanity complains,
Where mangled corses lie, and blood the land distains.
When in the fore-ground kings or generals stand,
Direct the' attack, or head the charging band,
Their graceful forms we unconcern'd survey,
Who fight for conquest, or who fight for pay:
Nor in their postures can there much be prais'd,
Their pistols levell'd, or their falchions rais'd;
And to dull sameness here so oft we fall,
That who beholds one piece, beholds them all,
But War's dire field, not all confin'd to these,
Affords us often incidents that please:
For oft the' Historian's, oft the Poet's art,
Can win our wishes on some hero's part;
His country nam'd, his place and parents known,
Our busy thought his perils makes its own.
To fierce Pelides, midst Scamander's waves,
When young Lycaon's voice for pity craves;
The Chief's stern brow, and lance suspended high,
The Youth's bent knee and deprecating eye,
Not West's rich pencil need disdain to trace,
Or Romney's stroke with glowing colours grace.
When Dythyrambus, on Oita's plain,
Mourns the brave Persian whom his hand has slain,
Nor marks his danger from the' approaching foe,
Nor his bold friend prepar'd to ward the blow;
In one what grief, in one what vengeful rage,
In one what ardour, might the sight engage!
The gentle Kauffman's traits can best declare
The sentimental feelings of the Fair,
When soft Erminia in the silvan shade
Leaves Tancred's name on every tree display'd;
Or kind Louisa pens the friendly scroll,
To soothe the mournful sister of her soul.
The same skill'd hand more strong expression tries,
At Edward's feet when Woodville's daughter lies,
Or, midst the' admiring weeping train around,
Fond Eleanora sucks the poison'd wound,
Delightful Artist! — Grace her pencil guides,
And Delicacy o'er its stroke presides!
The' immortal Swans, appointed to redeem
Genius and Worth from Lethe's silent stream,
Pleas'd with their charge shall bear her medall'd name
To the fair Priestess of the fane of Fame,
Such tender subjects, if thy choice they gain,
Enough for thee as yet untouch'd remain
Now from the page of Richardson bestow
On Clementina's face the lines of woe;
Or let sweet Harriet's livelier beauty wear
The soul-fraught eye and apprehensive air;
Or draw the proud olivia's rage-flush'd charms,
When the calm hero seiz'd her deadly arms;
And paint that hero, firm in trial prov'd,
Unaw'd by Danger, and by Vice unmov'd
To Sterne's soft Maniac let thy hand impart
The languid cheek, the look that pierc'd his heart.
When to her Virgin saint the vesper song she rais'd,
O, earnest view'd him as he sat and gaz'd.
Mark, if thou can'st, Philanthropy divine,
That swells the breast and bids the features shine,
When the tear glistening starts from Toby's eyes
Fix'd on the couch where poor Le Fevre dies.
The Grecian classics venerable lore
I see thee often diligent explore;
What Homer's Muse to Chian cities taught,
Or Pity's priest to Athens' audience brought
Methinks, now rising from thy plastic hand,
Troy's hoary Monarch shall a suppliant stand;
To stern Achilles all his griefs explain,
And ask his Hector's corse, nor ask in vain.
Now Jove's kind son to Thebes's sorrowing King
Shall his restor'd unknown Alcestis bring;
Admetus' eyes his anguish'd thoughts declare,
And turn disgusted from the proffer'd Fair.
The dark Sublime of extra-natural scenes
The vulgar magic's puerile rite demeans;
Where hags their caldrons fraught with toads prepare,
Or glide on broomsticks through the midnight air;
Chain'd on the rock let bold Prometheus lie,
And cast wild looks, upbraiding, to the sky
Bid Milton's Satan from the barning steep
Call his wide legions, slumbering on the deep;
Or Camoens' Spirit of the Cape upraise,
And show him only by the lightning's blaze:
Or place sad Hosier's Ghost amid the tide,
Where by the pale Moon anchor'd navies ride
O where is he, whose thought such grandeur gave
To bold Fitzwalter and the barens brave,
When, rang'd in arms along their Thames's strand,
They snatch'd their charter from a tyrant's hand
Through all the scenes his rapid stroke bestow'd,
Rosa's wild grace and daring spirit glow'd:
In him — ah lost ere half his powers were shown! —
Britain perhaps an Angelo had known!
Wouldst thou his honours emulous pursue,
And give the Patriot Energy to view, —
Deep in the gloom of Dalecarlia's mine,
Bid Freedom's flame in Vasa's visage shine:
The pass of fam'd Thermopylae display,
And Sparta's Monarch's port august portray,
" For pontiffs and for kings, the painter's skill
From sacred story toils, their walls to fill;
Whete'er we turn the subjects strike the eye,
And few untried are left for us to try.
Yet who has Jeptha's matchless woe express'd,
By his lov'd daughter's sudden sight distress'd;
Or shown the Patriarchs, struck with wild amaze,
As on the Viceroy's hidden cup they gaze?
Or who, when Israel's hosts on Edom's plain
Despairing lie — a thirst-afflicted train! —
Has bade the Prophet and his minstrel stand,
And call new waters o'er the burning sand
When David's chiefs, with generous thought inspir'd,
Bring the clear wave his sickening soul desir'd;
What dignity might to his act be given,
The pure libation pouring out to Heaven.
No more of Theme; Design must now succeed
The mind's strong picture when we hear or read
Where every person finds his proper place,
And turn of attitude and turn of face:
The artist's powers in this must greatly fail,
Whose figures point not out at once his tale
When Lystra's crowd around the Apostles throng,
And joyful lead the victim-ox along;
Ask we the cause, while he that cause explains,
Whose limb, late useless, strength and use obtains?
When West's young Warrior bleeding on the ground,
His mournful group of martial friends surround;
Their gallant General instantly we know,
Their griefs, their cares, his life's importance show;
Quebec's proud tower, the' encountering troops between,
In distant view discriminates the scene.
As in the Drama all events should tend
In course unbroken to the purpos'd end;
So must the picture's business still maintain
The same connective unity of train.
When Copley's Youth, swift-struggling through the wave,
The anxious boatmen strain each nerve to save:
As strives the ravenous shark to reach his prey,
One lifts the javelin to arrest his way;
And now, as near his dreadful jaws expand,
One casts the cord, and one extends the hand:
What care, what pity, mark their eager eyes!
What hopes, what terrors, in our bosoms rise!
The skilful painter, at whose option lie
Positions various, fails not all to try;
And those prefers, where every part the best
Accordance keeps, illustrating the rest.
By different modes effect he oft obtains;
To one Chief Figure now the' attention gains;
Now force on Second Characters bestows,
And all his meaning by reflection shows;
Now through the whole, each rank, and sex, and age,
One common ruling passion bids engage.
When Raffaelle's Saviour from the tomb ascends,
Such majesty and grace his presence blends,
That the fix'd eye contemplates him alone,
Nor heeds the' astonish'd guards around him thrown.
When Vandyke's General, whose victorious spear
Sunk Persia's pride, and check'd the Goth's career,
Of service paid with indigence complains,
And sightless age on daily alms sustains;
As the young Chief the' affecting scene surveys,
How all his form the emotion'd soul betrays!
" O thus has Fortune for the brave decreed?
Of toils and dangers this at last the meed?
When Rome's fair Princess, who from Syria's
Her late-lost consort's sacred ashes bore,
With steps slow-moving o'er Brundusium's strand, shore
Meets her lov'd friends — a numerous mourning band —
Her gentle frame no gestures rude disgrace,
No vulgar grief deforms her beauteous face;
Her downcast eyes immoveable remain,
Fix'd on the urn her careful hands sustain.
The widow'd mother, by her garment's folds,
Close on each side each tender offspring holds
While Melancholy all the train o'ershades
Of hoary warriors and of blooming maids;
And all their breasts with pity seem to heave,
And for the dead and for the living grieve.
The Great Sublime with energy to' express
Exert thy utmost power, nor fear excess.
When Passion's tumults in the bosom rise,
Inflate the features, and enrage the eyes;
To Nature's outline can we draw too true,
Or Nature's colours give too full to view?
Did Reynolds' hand with force too strong disclose
Those looks that mark the' unutterable woes,
When Ugoline, the wretch, in prison lies,
And hears his dying children's piercing cries,
And while fell Hunger haunts the' impervious walls,
And one by one the suffering victim calls,
Invokes the lightning's bolt those walls to rend,
Or earth to open, and his miseries end?
Our Bards indeed, I own, here often fail,
And spoil with bombast and conceit their tale;
Their heroes rant in many a curious strain
Of thought, that none could think in anger or in pain.
Celestial scenes with cantion must be tried,
Where knowledge fails, and fancy sole can guide:
The G REAT F IRST C AUSE no form reveals to sight,
We mark his presence by excess of light;
While angel-shapes at ease on wing remain,
Or on thin clouds their airy steps sustain.
But though, fair Painting! thus by just design,
And strong expression, much to please is thine;
Yet not from these thy utmost praises rise,
For useful moral oft thy work supplies.
When, midst Poussin's Arcadian vale serene,
The virgin's sculptur'd monument is seen,
And the sad shepherd pointing seems to say,
" O Death, no place is sacred from thy sway!"
Our mournful thoughts the well-known truth recal,
That youth and beauty oft untimely fall.
On Carthage' plains when Marius meets the eye,
And the stern praetor's mandate bids him fly;
Fresh from the view the strong reflection springs,
How strange the vast vierssitude of things!
Rome's rival city to the dust depress'd;
Her haughty Consul there denied to rest!
When Persia's conqueror, midst her female train.
Appears the chaste, the generous, and humane;
His look, his action, on the mind impress
The needful knowledge how to bear success
Thus may thy Art, O Friend, for ever prove
Of force, to virtue, and from vice, to move!
To statesmen, thoughtless on the heights of pow'r,
Mark Wolsey's fall, or show his final hour;
To patriot eyes give Marvell's calm disdain,
When Danby urg'd the tempting bribe in vain;
Or bid the' Inconstant her own doom deplore
In the sad exit of the hapless Shore,
Without the' entheus Nature's self bestows,
The world no painter nor no poet knows:
But think not mind in its own depth contains
A source of wealth that no disbursement drains:
Quick Observation, ever on the wing,
Home, like the bee, its useful stores must bring;
From hills, and vales, and rocks, and streams, and trees,
And towns, and all that people those and these;
From meanest objects that may hints inspire,
Discolour'd walls, or heaps of glowing fire.
Care too beside thee still must take her place,
Retouch each stroke, and polish every grace;
For when we join not dignity with ease,
Nor thou canst paint, nor I can write, to please.
Perfection's point the artist nearest gains,
Who with his work unsatisfied remains:
Da Vinci's thought an excellence conceiv'd,
That his eye miss'd in all his hand achiev'd.
The clear-obscure how happiest to produce,
And what of various tints the various use,
My lay to that presumes not to aspire,
Nor with trite precept this thy ear shall tire;
Coreggio's practice that describes the best;
In Fresnoy's theory this we find express'd.
No rude incongruence should thy piece disgrace,
No motley modes of different time and place;
By Grecian chiefs no Gallic airs be worn,
Nor in their hands be modern weapons borne;
Nor mix the crested helm and coat of mail
With the vast curl'd peruke, or pointed tail.
And sacred ever be the solemn scene
From base intrusion of burlesque and mean;
Nor in a Patriarch's or Apostle's sight
Set snarling dogs and growling cats to fight.
One caution further must the Muse impart;
Shun Naked Form, that scandal of thy art:
Even Dryden blames them who refuse to spare
The painful blushes of the modest Fair.
Let Decency her veil of drapery throw,
And Grace diffuse its folds in easy flow,
And now, my Friend, for thee may Fortune find
Employ congenial to thy liberal mind;
Not tasks impos'd by power, or chose for gain,
Begun reluctant, and pursued with pain
What warms the heart, the hand with force reveals,
And all that force the charm'd spectator feels:
For Genius, piercing as the' electric flame,
When wak'd in one, in others wakes the same.