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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Sylphs of the Season with Other Poems
+by Washington Allston
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Sylphs of the Season with Other Poems
+
+Author: Washington Allston
+
+Release Date: February 12, 2004 [EBook #11059]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SYLPHS ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Distributed Proofreaders
+
+
+
+
+[Transcriber's Note: Footnotes have been numbered and moved to the end.]
+
+
+
+The Sylphs of the Seasons with Other Poems.
+
+By
+
+W. Allston.
+
+
+
+
+Contents.
+
+
+
+The Sylphs of the Seasons; a Poet's Dream
+The Two Pointers; a Tale
+Eccentricity
+The Paint King
+Myrtilla: addressed to a Lady, who lamented that she had never been in love
+To a Lady who spoke slightingly of Poets
+Sonnet on a Falling Group in the Last Judgment of Michael Angelo, in the
+  Cappella Sistina
+Sonnet on the Group of the Three Angels before the Tent of Abraham, by
+  Raffaelle, in the Vatican
+Sonnet, on seeing the Picture of Ĉolus, by Peligrino Tibaldi, in the
+  Institute at Bologna
+Sonnet on Rembrant; occasioned by his Picture of Jacob's Dream
+Sonnet on the Luxembourg Gallery
+Sonnet to my venerable Friend, the President of the Royal Academy
+The Mad Lover at the Grave of his Mistress
+First Love: a Ballad
+The Complaint
+Will, the Maniac: a Ballad
+
+
+
+
+The Sylphs of the Seasons;
+
+_A Poet's Dream._
+
+
+
+
+Prefatory Note to The Sylphs of the Seasons.
+
+
+
+As it may be objected to the following Poem, that some of the images there
+introduced are not wholly peculiar to the Season described, the Author
+begs leave to state, that, both in their selection and disposition, he was
+guided by that, which, in his limited experience, was found to be the
+Season of their greatest impression: and, though he has not always felt
+the necessity of pointing out the collateral causes by which the effect
+was increased, he yet flatters himself that, in general, they are
+sufficiently implied either by what follows or precedes them. Thus, for
+instance, the _running brook_, though by no means peculiar, is
+appropriated to Spring; as affording by its motion and _seeming_
+exultation one of the most lively images of that spirit of renovation
+which animates the earth after its temporary suspension during the Winter.
+By the same rule, is assigned to Summer the _placid lake_, &c. not because
+that image is never seen, or enjoyed, at any other season; but on account
+of its affecting us more in Summer, than either in the Spring, or in
+Autumn; the indolence and languor generally then experienced disposing us
+to dwell with particular delight on such an object of repose, not to
+mention the grateful idea of coolness derived from a knowledge of its
+temperature. Thus also the _evening cloud_, exhibiting a fleeting
+representation of successive objects, is, perhaps, justly appropriated to
+Autumn, as in that Season the general decay of inanimate nature leads the
+mind to turn upon itself, and without effort to apply almost every image
+of sense or vision of the imagination,* to its own transitory state.
+
+If the above be admitted, it is needless to add more; if it be not, it
+would be useless.
+
+
+
+
+The Sylphs of the Seasons.
+
+
+
+Long has it been my fate to hear
+The slave of Mammon, with a sneer,
+  My indolence reprove.
+Ah, little knows he of the care,
+The toil, the hardship that I bear,
+While lolling in my elbow-chair,
+  And seeming scarce to move:
+
+For, mounted on the Poet's steed,
+I _there_ my ceaseless journey speed
+  O'er mountain, wood, and stream:
+And oft within a little day
+'Mid comets fierce 'tis mine to stray,
+And wander o'er the Milky-way
+  To catch a Poet's dream.
+
+But would the Man of Lucre know
+What riches from my labours flow?--
+  A DREAM is my reply.
+And who for wealth has ever pin'd,
+That had a World within his mind,
+Where every treasure he may find,
+  And joys that never die!
+
+One night, my task diurnal done,
+(For I had travell'd with the Sun
+  O'er burning sands, o'er snows)
+Fatigued, I sought the couch of rest;
+My wonted pray'r to Heaven address'd;
+But scarce had I my pillow press'd
+  When thus a vision rose.
+
+Methought within a desert cave,
+Cold, dark, and solemn as the grave,
+ I suddenly awoke.
+It seem'd of sable Night the cell,
+Where, save when from the ceiling fell
+An oozing drop, her silent spell
+ No sound had ever broke.
+
+There motionless I stood alone,
+Like some strange monument of stone
+  Upon a barren wild;
+Or like, (so solid and profound
+The darkness seem'd that wall'd me round)
+A man that's buried under ground,
+  Where pyramids are pil'd.
+
+Thus fix'd, a dreadful hour I past,
+And now I heard, as from a blast,
+  A voice pronounce my name:
+Nor long upon my ear it dwelt,
+When round me 'gan the air to melt.
+And motion once again I felt
+  Quick circling o'er my frame.
+
+Again it call'd; and then a ray,
+That seem'd a gushing fount of day,
+  Across the cavern stream'd.
+Half struck with terror and delight,
+I hail'd the little blessed light,
+And follow'd 'till my aching sight
+  An orb of darkness seem'd.
+
+Nor long I felt the blinding pain;
+For soon upon a mountain plain
+  I gaz'd with wonder new.
+There high a castle rear'd its head;
+And far below a region spread,
+Where every Season seem'd to shed
+  Its own peculiar hue.
+
+Now at the castle's massy gate,
+Like one that's blindly urged by fate,
+  A bugle-horn I blew.
+The mountain-plain it shook around,
+The vales return'd a hollow sound,
+And, moving with a sigh profound.
+  The portals open flew.
+
+Then ent'ring, from a glittering hall
+I heard a voice seraphic call,
+  That bade me "ever reign,
+All hail!" it said in accent wild,
+"For thou art Nature's chosen child,
+Whom wealth nor blood has e'er defil'd,
+  Hail, Lord of this Domain!"
+
+And now I paced a bright saloon,
+That seem'd illumin'd by the moon,
+  So mellow was the light.
+The walls with jetty darkness teem'd,
+While down them chrystal columns streamed,
+And each a mountain torrent seem'd.
+  High-flashing through the night.
+
+Rear'd in the midst, a double throne.
+Like burnish'd cloud of evening shone;
+  While, group'd the base around,
+Four Damsels stood of Faery race;
+Who, turning each with heavenly grace
+Upon me her immortal face,
+  Transfix'd me to the ground.
+
+And _thus_ the foremost of the tram:
+Be thine the throne, and thine to reign
+  O'er all the varying year!
+But ere thou rulest the Fates command;
+That of our chosen rival band
+A Sylph shall win thy heart and hand,
+  Thy sovereignty to share.
+
+For we, the sisters of a birth,
+Do rule by turns the subject earth
+  To serve ungrateful man;
+But since our varied toils impart
+No joy to his capricious heart,
+'Tis now ordain'd that human art
+  Shall rectify the plan.
+
+Then spake the Sylph of Spring serene,
+'Tis _I_ thy joyous heart I ween,
+  With sympathy shall move:
+For I with living melody
+Of birds in choral symphony,
+First wak'd thy soul to poesy,
+  To piety and love.
+
+When thou, at call of vernal breeze,
+And beck'ning bough of budding trees,
+  Hast left thy sullen fire;
+And stretch'd thee in some mossy dell.
+And heard the browsing wether's bell,
+Blythe echoes rousing from their cell
+  To swell the tinkling quire:
+
+Or heard from branch of flow'ring thorn
+The song of friendly cuckoo warn
+  The tardy-moving swain;
+Hast bid the purple swallow hail;
+And seen him now through ether sail,
+Now sweeping downward o'er the vale.
+  And skimming now the plain;
+
+Then, catching with a sudden glance
+The bright and silver-clear expanse
+  Of some broad river's stream.
+Beheld the boats adown it glide,
+And motion wind again the tide,
+Where, chain'd in ice by Winter's pride,
+  Late roll'd the heavy team:
+
+Or, lur'd by some fresh-scented gale,
+That woo'd the moored fisher's sail
+  To tempt the mighty main,
+Hast watch'd the dim receding shore,
+Now faintly seen the ocean o'er,
+Like hanging cloud, and now no more
+  To bound the sapphire plain;
+
+Then, wrapt in night the scudding bark,
+(That seem'd, self-pois'd amid the dark,
+  Through upper air to leap,)
+Beheld, from thy most fearful height,
+Beneath the dolphin's azure light
+Cleave, like a living meteor bright,
+  The darkness of the deep:
+
+'Twas mine the warm, awak'ning hand
+That made thy grateful heart expand,
+  And feel the high control
+Of Him, the mighty Power, that moves
+Amid the waters and the groves,
+And through his vast creation proves
+  His omnipresent soul.
+
+Or, brooding o'er some forest rill,
+Fring'd with the early daffodil,
+  And quiv'ring maiden-hair,
+When thou hast mark'd the dusky bed,
+With leaves and water-rust o'erspread,
+That seem'd an amber light to shed
+  On all was shadow'd there;
+
+And thence, as by its murmur call'd,
+The current traced to where it brawl'd
+  Beneath the noontide ray;
+And there beheld the checquer'd shade
+Of waves, in many a sinuous braid,
+That o'er the sunny channel play'd,
+  With motion ever gay:
+
+'Twas I to these the magick gave,
+That made thy heart, a willing slave,
+  To gentle Nature bend;
+And taught thee how with tree and flower,
+And whispering gale, and dropping shower,
+In converse sweet to pass the hour,
+  As with an early friend:
+
+That mid the noontide sunny haze
+Did in thy languid bosom raise
+  The raptures of the boy;
+When, wak'd as if to second birth,
+Thy soul through every pore look'd forth,
+And gaz'd upon the beauteous Earth
+  With myriad eyes of joy:
+
+That made thy heart, like HIS above,
+To flow with universal love
+  For every living thing.
+And, oh! if I, with ray divine,
+Thus tempering, did thy soul refine,
+Then let thy gentle heart be mine,
+  And bless the Sylph of Spring.
+
+And next the Sylph of Summer fair;
+The while her crisped, golden hair
+  Half veil'd her sunny eyes:
+Nor less may _I_ thy homage claim,
+At touch of whose exhaling flame
+The fog of Spring that chill'd thy frame
+  In genial vapour flies.
+
+Oft by the heat of noon opprest,
+With flowing hair and open vest,
+  Thy footsteps have I won
+To mossy couch of welling grot,
+Where thou hast bless'd thy happy lot.
+That thou in that delicious spot
+  May'st see, not feel, the sun:
+
+Thence tracing from the body's change,
+In curious philosophic range,
+  The motion of the mind;
+And how from thought to thought it flew,
+Still hoping in each vision new
+The faery land of bliss to view,
+  But ne'er that land to find.
+
+And then, as grew thy languid mood,
+To some embow'ring silent wood
+  I led thy careless way;
+Where high from tree to tree in air
+Thou saw'st the spider swing her snare.
+So bright!--as if, entangled there,
+  The sun had left a ray:
+
+Or lur'd thee to some beetling steep
+To mark the deep and quiet sleep
+  That wrapt the tarn below;
+And mountain blue and forest green
+Inverted on its plane serene,
+Dim gleaming through the filmy sheen
+  That glaz'd the painted show;
+
+Perchance, to mark the fisher's skiff
+Swift from beneath some shadowy cliff
+  Dart, like a gust of wind;
+And, as she skimm'd the sunny lake,
+In many a playful wreath her wake
+Far-trailing, like a silvery snake,
+  With sinuous length behind.
+
+Nor less when hill and dale and heath
+Still Evening wrapt in mimic death.
+  Thy spirit true I prov'd:
+Around thee, as the darkness stole,
+Before thy wild, creative soul
+I bade each faery vision roll,
+  Thine infancy had lov'd.
+
+Then o'er the silent sleeping land,
+Thy fancy, like a magick wand,
+  Forth caird the Elfin race:
+And now around the fountain's brim
+In circling dance they gaily skim;
+And now upon its surface swim,
+  And water-spiders chase;
+
+Each circumstance of sight or sound
+Peopling the vacant air around
+  With visionary life:
+For if amid a thicket stirr'd,
+Or flitting bat, or wakeful bird,
+Then straight thy eager fancy heard
+  The din of Faery strife;
+
+Now, in the passing beetle's hum
+The Elfin army's goblin drum
+  To pigmy battle sound;
+And now, where dripping dew-drops plash
+On waving grass, their bucklers clash,
+And now their quivering lances flash,
+  Wide-dealing death around:
+
+Or if the moon's effulgent form
+The passing clouds of sudden storm
+  In quick succession veil;
+Vast serpents now, their shadows glide,
+And, coursing now the mountain's side,
+A band of giants huge, they stride
+  O'er hill, and wood, and dale.
+
+And still on many a service rare
+Could I descant, if need there were,
+  My firmer claim to bind.
+But rest I most my high pretence
+On that my genial influence,
+Which made the body's indolence
+  The vigour of the mind.
+
+And now, in accents deep and low,
+Like voice of fondly-cherish'd woe,
+  The Sylph of Autumn sad:
+Though I may not of raptures sing,
+That grac'd the gentle song of Spring,
+Like Summer, playful pleasures bring,
+  Thy youthful heart to glad;
+
+Yet still may I in hope aspire
+Thy heart to touch with chaster fire,
+  And purifying love:
+For I with vision high and holy,
+And spell of quick'ning melancholy,
+Thy soul from sublunary folly
+  First rais'd to worlds above.
+
+What though be mine the treasures fair
+Of purple grape and yellow pear,
+  And fruits of various hue,
+And harvests rich of golden grain,
+That dance in waves along the plain
+To merry song of reaping swain,
+  Beneath the welkin blue;
+
+With these I may not urge my suit,
+Of Summer's patient toil the fruit,
+  For mortal purpose given:
+Nor may it fit my sober mood
+To sing of sweetly murmuring flood,
+Or dies of many-colour'd wood,
+  That mock the bow of heaven.
+
+But, know, 'twas mine the secret power
+That wak'd thee at the midnight hour,
+  In bleak November's reign:
+'Twas I the spell around thee cast,
+When thou didst hear the hollow blast
+In murmurs tell of pleasures past,
+  That ne'er would come again:
+
+And led thee, when the storm was o'er,
+To hear the sullen ocean roar,
+  By dreadful calm opprest;
+Which still, though not a breeze was there,
+Its mountain-billows heav'd in air,
+As if a living thing it were,
+  That strove in vain for rest.
+
+'Twas I, when thou, subdued by woe,
+Didst watch the leaves descending slow,
+  To each a moral gave;
+And as they mov'd in mournful train,
+With rustling sound, along the plain,
+Taught them to sing a seraph's strain
+  Of peace within the grave.
+
+And then uprais'd thy streaming eye,
+I met thee in the western sky
+  In pomp of evening cloud;
+That, while with varying form it roll'd;
+Some wizard's castle seem'd of gold,
+And now a crimson'd knight of old,
+  Or king in purple proud.
+
+And last, as sunk the setting sun,
+And Evening with her shadows dun,
+  The gorgeous pageant past,
+'Twas then of life a mimic shew,
+Of human grandeur here below,
+Which thus beneath the fatal blow
+  Of Death must fall at last.
+
+Oh, then with what aspiring gaze
+Didst thou thy tranced vision raise
+  To yonder orbs on high,
+And think how wondrous, how sublime
+'Twere upwards to their spheres to climb,
+And live, beyond the reach of Time,
+  Child of Eternity!
+
+And last the Sylph of Winter spake;
+The while her piercing voice did shake
+  The castle-vaults below.
+Oh, youth, if thou, with soul refin'd,
+Hast felt the triumph pure of mind,
+And learnt a secret joy to find
+  In deepest scenes of woe;
+
+If e'er with fearful ear at eve
+Hast heard the wailing tempest grieve
+  Through chink of shatter'd wall;
+The while it conjur'd o'er thy brain
+Of wandering ghosts a mournful train,
+That low in fitful sobs complain,
+  Of Death's untimely call:
+
+Or feeling, as the storm increas'd,
+The love of terror nerve thy breast,
+  Didst venture to the coast;
+To see the mighty war-ship leap
+From wave to wave upon the deep,
+Like chamoise goat from steep to steep,
+  'Till low in valleys lost;
+
+Then, glancing to the angry sky,
+Behold the clouds with fury fly
+  The lurid moon athwart;
+Like armies huge in battle, throng,
+And pour in vollying ranks along,
+While piping winds in martial song
+  To rushing war exhort:
+
+Oh, then to me thy heart be given,
+To me, ordain'd by Him in heaven
+  Thy nobler powers to wake.
+And oh! if thou with poet's soul,
+High brooding o'er the frozen pole,
+Hast felt beneath my stern control
+  The desert region quake;
+
+Or from old Hecla's cloudy height,
+When o'er the dismal, half-year's night
+  He pours his sulph'rous breath,
+Hast known my petrifying wind
+Wild ocean's curling billows bind,
+Like bending sheaves by harvest hind,
+  Erect in icy-*death;
+
+Or heard adown the mountain's steep
+The northern blast with furious sweep
+  Some cliff dissever'd dash;
+And seen it spring with dreadful bound
+From rock to rock, to gulph profound,
+While echoes fierce from caves resound
+  The never-ending crash:
+
+If thus, with terror's mighty spell
+Thy soul inspir'd, was wont to swell,
+  Thy heaving frame expand;
+Oh, then to me thy heart incline;
+For know, the wondrous charm was mine
+That fear and joy did thus combine
+  In magick union bland.
+
+Nor think confin'd my native sphere
+To horrors gaunt, or ghastly fear,
+  Or desolation wild:
+For I of pleasures fair could sing,
+That steal from life its sharpest sting,
+And man have made around it cling,
+  Like mother to her child.
+
+When thou, beneath the clear blue sky,
+So calm no cloud was seen to fly,
+  Hast gaz'd on snowy plain,
+Where Nature slept so pure and sweet,
+She seem'd a corse in winding-sheet,
+Whose happy soul had gone to meet
+  The blest Angelic train;
+
+Or mark'd the sun's declining ray
+In thousand varying colours play
+  O'er ice-incrusted heath,
+In gleams of orange now, and green,
+And now in red and azure sheen,
+Like hues on dying dolphins seen,
+  Most lovely when in death;
+
+Or seen at dawn of eastern light
+The frosty toil of Fays by night
+  On pane of casement clear,
+Where bright the mimic glaciers shine,
+And Alps, with many a mountain pine,
+And armed knights from Palestine
+  In winding march appear:
+
+'Twas I on each enchanting scene
+The charm bestow'd that banished spleen
+  Thy bosom pure and light.
+But still a _nobler_ power I claim;
+That power allied to poets' fame,
+Which language vain has dar'd to name--
+  The soul's creative might.
+
+Though Autumn grave, and Summer fair,
+And joyous Spring demand a share
+  Of Fancy's hallow'd power,
+Yet these I hold of humbler kind,
+To grosser means of earth confin'd,
+Through mortal _sense_ to reach the mind,
+  By mountain, stream, or flower.
+
+But mine, of purer nature still,
+Is _that_ which to thy secret will
+  Did minister unseen,
+Unfelt, unheard; when every sense
+Did sleep in drowsy indolence,
+And Silence deep and Night intense
+  Enshrowded every scene;
+
+That o'er thy teeming brain did raise
+The spirits of departed days[1]
+  Through all the varying year;
+And images of things remote,
+And sounds that long had ceas'd to float,
+With every hue, and every note,
+  As living now they were:
+
+And taught thee from the motley mass
+Each harmonizing part to class,
+    (Like Nature's self employ'd;)
+And then, as work'd thy wayward will,
+From these with rare combining skill,
+With new-created worlds to fill
+    Of space the mighty void.
+
+Oh then to me thy heart incline;
+To me whose plastick powers combine
+    The harvest of the mind;
+To me, whose magic coffers bear
+The spoils of all the toiling year,
+That still in mental vision wear
+    A lustre more refin'd.
+
+She ceas'd--And now in doubtful mood,
+All motionless and mute I stood,
+  Like one by charm opprest:
+By turns from each to each I rov'd,
+And each by turns again I lov'd;
+For ages ne'er could one have prov'd
+  More lovely than the rest.
+
+"Oh blessed band, of birth divine,
+What mortal task is like to mine!"--
+  And further had I spoke,
+When, lo! there pour'd a flood of light
+So fiercely on my aching sight,
+I fell beneath the vision bright,
+  And with the pain I woke.
+
+
+
+
+The Two Painters: _A Tale._
+
+
+
+  Say why in every work of man
+Some imperfection mars the plan?
+Why join'd in every human art
+A perfect and imperfect part?
+Is it that life for art is short?
+Or is it nature's cruel sport?
+Or would she thus a moral teach;
+That man should see, but never reach,
+The height of excellence, and show
+The vanity of works below?
+Or consequence of Pride, or Sloth;
+Or rather the effect of both?
+Whoe'er on life his eye has cast,
+I fear, alas, will say the last!
+
+  Once on a time in Charon's wherry
+Two Painters met, on Styx's ferry.
+Good sir, said one, with bow profound,
+I joy to meet thee under ground,
+And though with zealous spite we strove
+To blast each other's fame above,
+Yet here, as neither bay nor laurel
+Can tempt us to prolong our quarrel,
+I hope the hand which I extend
+Will meet the welcome of a friend.
+Sweet sir! replied the other Shade,
+While scorn on either nostril play'd,
+Thy proffer'd love were great and kind
+Could I in thee a _rival_ find.--
+rival, sir! returned the first,
+Ready with rising wind to burst,
+Thy meekness, sure, in this I see;
+We are not rivals, I agree:
+And therefore am I more inclin'd
+To cherish one of humble mind,
+Who apprehends that one above him
+Can never condescend to love him.
+
+  Nor longer did their courteous guile,
+Like serpent, twisting through a smile,
+Each other sting in civil phrase,
+And poison with envenom'd praise;
+For now the fiend of anger rose,
+Distending each death-withered nose,
+And, rolling fierce each glassy eye,
+Like owlets' at the noonday sky,
+Such flaming vollies pour'd of ire
+As set old Charon's phlegm on fire.
+Peace! peace! the grizly boatman cried,
+You drown the roar of Styx's tide;
+Unmanner'd ghosts! if such your strife,
+'Twere better you were still in life!
+If passions such as these you show
+You'll make another Earth below;
+Which, sure, would be a viler birth,
+Than if we made a Hell on Earth.
+At which in loud defensive strain
+'Gan speak the angry Shades again.
+I'll hear no more, cried he; 'no more'
+In echoes hoarse return'd the shore.
+To Minos' court you soon shall hie,
+(Chief Justice here) 'tis he will try
+Your jealous cause, and prove at once
+That only dunce can hate a dunce.
+
+  Thus check'd, in sullen mood they sped,
+Nor more on either side was said;
+Nor aught the dismal silence broke,
+Save only when the boatman's stroke,
+Deep-whizzing through the wave was heard,
+And now and then a spectre-bird,
+Low-cow'ring, with a hungry scream.
+For spectre-fishes in the stream.
+
+  Now midway pass'd, the creaking oar
+Is heard upon the fronting shore;
+Where thronging round in many a band,
+The curious ghosts beset the strand.
+Now suddenly the boat they 'spy,
+Like gull diminish'd in the sky;
+And now, like cloud of dusky white,
+Slow sailing o'er the deep of night,
+The sheeted group within the bark
+Is seen amid the billows dark.
+Anon the keel with grating sound
+They hear upon the pebbly ground.
+And now with kind, officious hand,
+They help the ghostly crew to land.
+
+  What news? they cried with one accord
+I pray you, said a noble lord,
+Tell me if in the world above
+I still retain the people's love:
+Or whether they, like us below,
+The motives of a Patriot know?
+And me inform, another said,
+What think they of a Buck that's dead?
+Have they discerned that, being dull,
+I knock'd my wit from watchmen's skull?
+And me, cried one, of knotty front,
+With many a scar of pride upon't
+Resolve me if the world opine
+Philosophers are still divine;
+That having hearts for friends too small,
+Or rather having none at all,
+Profess'd to love, with saving grace,
+The _abstract_ of the human race?
+And I, exclaim'd a fourth, would ask
+What think they of the Critick's task?
+Perceive they now our shallow arts;
+That merely from the want of parts
+To write ourselves, we gravely taught
+How books by others should be wrought?
+Whom interrupting, then inquir'd
+A fifth, in squalid garb attir'd,
+Do now the world with much regard
+In mem'ry hold the dirty Bard,
+Who credit gain'd for genius rare
+By shabby coat and uncomb'd hair?
+Or do they, said a Shade of prose,
+With many a pimple's ghost on nose,
+Th' eccentric author still admire,
+Who wanting that same genius' fire,
+Diving in cellars underground,
+In pipe the spark ethereal found:
+Which, fann'd by many a ribbald joke,
+From brother tipplers puff'd in smoke,
+Such blaze diffused with crackling loud,
+As blinded all the staring croud?
+And last, with jealous glancing eye,
+That seem'd in all around to pry,
+A Painter's ghost in voice suppres'd,
+Thus questioning, the group address'd;
+
+  Sweet strangers, may I too demand,
+How thrive the offspring of my hand?
+Whether, as when in life I flourish'd,
+They still by puffs of fame are nourish'd?
+Or whether have the world discern'd
+The tricks by which my fame was earn'd;
+That, lacking in my pencil skill,
+I made my tongue its office fill:
+That, marking (as for love of truth)
+In others' works a limb uncouth,
+Or face too young, or face too old,
+Or colour hot, or colour cold;
+Or hinting, (if to praise betray'd)
+'Though coloured well, it yet might _fade_;'
+And 'though its grace I can't deny,
+Yet pity 'tis so hard and dry.'--
+I thus by implication show'd
+That mine were wrought in better mode;
+And talking thus superiors down,
+Obliquely raise my own renown?
+In short, I simply this would ask,--
+If Truth has stript me of the mask;
+And, chasing Fashion's mist away,
+Expos'd me to the eye of day--[2]
+A Painter false, without a heart,
+Who lov'd himself, and not his art?
+
+  At which, with fix'd and fishy
+The Strangers both express'd amaze.
+Good Sir, said they, 'tis strange you dare
+Such meanness of yourself declare.
+
+  Were I on earth, replied the Shade,
+I never had the truth betray'd;
+For there (and I suspect like you)
+I ne'er had time myself to view.
+Yet, knowing that 'bove all creation
+I held myself in estimation,
+I deem'd that what I _lov'd_ the _best_
+Of every virtue was possess'd.
+But _here_ in colours black and true,
+Men see themselves, who never knew
+Their motives in the worldly strife,
+Or real characters through life.
+And here, alas! I scarce had been
+A little day, when every sin
+That slumber'd in my living breast,
+By Minos rous'd from torpid rest,
+Like thousand adders, rushing out,
+Entwin'd my shuddering limbs about.--
+Oh, strangers, hear!--the truth I tell--
+That fearful sight I saw was Hell.
+And, oh I with what unmeasur'd wo
+Did bitterness upon me flow,
+When thund'ring through the hissing air,
+I heard the sentence of Despair--
+'Now never hope from Hell to flee;
+Yourself is all the Hell you see!'--
+
+  He ceas'd. But still with stubborn pride
+The Rival Shades each other eyed;
+When, bursting with terrifick sound,
+The voice of Minos shook the ground,
+The startled ghosts on either side,
+Like clouds before the wind, divide;
+And leaving far a passage free,
+Each, conning his defensive plea,
+With many a crafty lure for grace.
+The Painters onward hold their pace.
+Anon before the Judgement Seat,
+With sneer confronting sneer they meet:
+And now in deep and awful strain,
+Piercing like fiery darts the brain,
+Thus Minos spake. Though I am he,
+From whom no secret thought may flee;
+Who sees it ere the birth be known
+To him, that claims it for his own;
+Yet would I still with patience hear
+What each may for himself declare,
+That all in your defence may see
+The justice pure of my decree.--
+But, hold!--It ill beseems my place
+To hear debate in such a case:
+Be therefore thou, Da Vinci's shade,
+Who when on earth to men display'd
+The scattered powers of human kind
+In thy capacious soul combin'd;
+Be thou the umpire of the strife,
+And judge as thou wert still in life.
+
+  Thus bid, with grave becoming air,
+Th' appointed judge assum'd the chair.
+And now with modest-seeming air,
+The rivals straight for speech prepare:
+And thus, with hand upon his breast,
+The Senior Ghost the Judge address'd:
+The world, (if ought the world I durst
+In this believe) did call me first
+Of those, who by the magick play
+Of harmonizing colours, sway
+The gazer's sense with such surprise,
+As make him disbelieve his eyes.
+'Tis true that some of vision dim,
+Or squeamish taste, or pedant whim,
+My works assail'd with narrow spite;
+And, passing o'er my colour bright,
+Reproach'd me for my want of grace,
+And silks and velvets out of place;
+And vulgar form, and lame design,
+And want of character; in fine,
+For lack of worth of every kind
+To charm or to enlarge the mind.
+Now this, my Lord, as will appear,
+Was nothing less than malice sheer,
+To stab me, like assassins dark,
+Because I did not hit a mark,
+At which (as I have hope of fame)
+I never once design'd to aim.
+For seeing that the life of man
+Was scarcely longer than a span;
+And, knowing that the Graphic Art
+Ne'er mortal master'd but _in part_;
+I wisely deem'd 'twere labour vain,
+Should I attempt the _whole_ to gain;
+And therefore, with ambition high,
+Aspir'd to reach what pleas'd the eye;
+Which, truly, sir, must be confess'd,
+A part that far excels the rest:
+For if, as all the world agree,
+'Twixt Painting and fair Poesy
+The diff'rence in the mode be found,
+Of colour this, and that of sound,
+'Tis plain, o'er every other grace,
+That colour holds the highest place;
+As being that distinctive part,
+Which bounds it from another art.
+If therefore, with reproof severe
+I've galled my pigmy Rival here,
+'Twas only, as your Lordship knows,
+Because his foolish envy chose
+To rank his classic forms of mud
+Above my wholesome flesh and blood.
+
+  Thus ended parle the Senior Shade.
+And now, as scorning to upbraid,
+With curving, _parabolick_ smile,
+Contemptuous, eying him the while,
+His Rival thus: 'Twere vain, my Lord,
+To wound a gnat by spear or sword[3];
+If therefore _I_, of greater might,
+Would meet this _thing_ in equal fight,
+'Twere fit that I in size should be
+As mean, diminutive, as he;
+Of course, disdaining to reply,
+I pass the wretch unheeded by.
+But since your Lordship deigns to know
+What I in my behalf may show,
+With due submission, I proclaim,
+That few on earth have borne a name
+More envied or esteem'd than mine,
+For grace, expression, and design,
+For manners true of every clime,
+And composition's art sublime.
+In academick lore profound,
+I boldly took that lofty ground,
+Which, as it rais'd me near the sky,
+Was thence for vulgar eyes too high;
+Or, if beheld, to them appear'd
+By clouds of gloomy darkness blear'd.
+Yet still that misty height I chose,
+For well I knew the world had those,
+Whose sight, by learning clear'd of rheum,
+Could pierce with ease the thickest gloom.
+Thus, perch'd sublime, 'mid clouds I wrought,
+Nor heeded what the vulgar thought.
+What, though with clamour coarse and rude
+They jested on my colours crude;
+Comparing with malicious grin,
+My drapery to bronze and tin,
+My flesh to brick and earthen ware,
+And wire of various kinds my hair;
+Or (if a landscape-bit they saw)
+My trees to pitchforks crown'd with straw;
+My clouds to pewter plates of thin edge,
+And fields to dish of eggs and spinage;
+Yet this, and many a grosser rub,
+Like fam'd Diogenes in tub,
+I bore with philosophic nerve,
+Nay, gladly bore; for, here observe,
+_'Twas that which gave to them offense,
+Did constitute my excellence._
+I see, my Lord, at this you stare:
+Yet thus I'll prove it to a hair.--
+As Mind and Body are distinct,
+Though long in social union link'd,
+And as the only power they boast,
+Is merely at each other's cost;
+If both should hold an equal station,
+They'd both be kings without a nation:
+If therefore, one would paint the Mind
+In partnership with Body join'd,
+And give to each an equal place,
+With each an equal truth and grace,
+'Tis clear the picture could not fail
+To be without or head or tail.
+And therefore as the Mind alone
+I chose should fill my graphick throne,
+To fix her pow'r beyond dispute,
+I trampled Body under foot:
+That is, in more prosaick dress,
+As I the passions would express,
+And as they ne'er could be portray'd
+Without the subject Body's aid,
+I show'd no more of that than merely
+Sufficed to represent them clearly:
+As thus--by simple means and pure
+Of light and shadow, and contour:
+But since what mortals call complexion,
+Has with the mind no more connexion
+Than ethicks with a country dance,
+I left my col'ring all to chance;
+Which oft (as I may proudly state)
+With Nature war'd at such a rate,
+As left no mortal hue or stain
+Of base, corrupting flesh, to chain
+The Soul to Earth; but, free as light,
+E'en let her soar till out of sight.
+
+  Thus spake the champion bold of mind;
+And thus the Colourist rejoin'd:
+In truth, my Lord, I apprehend,
+If I by _words_ with him contend,
+My case is gone; far he, by gift
+Of what is call'd the _gab_, can shift
+The right for wrong, with such a sleight,
+That right seems wrong and wrong the right;
+Nay, by his twisting logick make
+A square the form of circle take.
+I therefore, with submission meet,
+In justice do your Grace intreat
+To let awhile your judgment pause,
+That _works_ not _words_ may plead our cause.
+Let Merc'ry then to Earth repair,
+The works of both survey with care,
+And hither bring the best of each,
+And save us further waste of speech.
+
+  Such fair demand, the Judge replied,
+Could not with justice be denied.
+Good Merc'ry, hence! I fly, my Lord,
+The Courier said. And, at the word,
+High-bounding, wings his airy flight
+So swift his form eludes the sight;
+Nor aught is seen his course to mark,
+Save when athwart the region dark
+His brazen helm is spied afar,
+Bright-trailing like a falling star.
+
+  And now for minutes ten there stole
+A silence deep o'er every soul--
+When, lo! again before them stands
+The courier's self with empty hands.
+Why, how is this? exclaim'd the twain;
+Where are the _pictures_, sir? Explain!
+Good sirs, replied the God of Post,
+I scarce had reached the other coast,
+When Charon told me, one he ferried
+Inform'd him they were dead and buried:
+Then bade me hither haste and say,
+Their ghosts were now upon the way.
+In mute amaze the Painters stood.
+But soon upon the Stygian flood,
+Behold! the spectre-pictures float,
+Like rafts behind the towing boat:
+Now reach'd the shore, in close array,
+Like armies drill'd in Homer's day,
+When marching on to meet the foe,
+By bucklers hid from top to toe,
+They move along the dusky fields,
+A grizly troop of painted shields:
+And now, arrived in order fair,
+A gallery huge they hang in air.
+
+  The ghostly croud with gay surprize
+Began to rub their stony eyes:
+Such pleasant lounge, they all averr'd,
+None saw since he had been interr'd;
+And thus, like connoisseurs on Earth,
+Began to weigh the pictures' worth:
+But first (as deem'd of higher kind)
+Examin'd they the works of _Mind_.[4]
+Pray what is this? demanded one.--
+That, sir, is Phoebus, alias, Sun:
+A classick work you can't deny;
+The car and horses in the sky,
+The clouds on which they hold their way,
+Proclaim him all the God of Day.
+Nay, learned sir, his dirty plight
+More fit beseems the God of Night.
+Besides, I cannot well divine
+How mud like this can ever shine.--
+Then look at that a little higher.--
+I see 'tis Orpheus, by his lyre.
+The beasts that listening stand around,
+Do well declare the force of sound:
+But why the fiction thus reverse,
+And make the power of song a curse?
+The ancient Orpheus soften'd rocks,
+Yours changes living things to blocks.--
+Well, this you'll sure acknowledge fine,
+Parnassus' top with all the Nine.
+Ah, _there_ is beauty, soul and fire,
+And all that human wit inspire!--
+Good sir, you're right; for being stone,
+They're each to blunted wits a hone.
+And what is that? inquir'd another.--
+That, sir, is Cupid and his Mother.--
+What, Venus? sure it cannot be:
+That skin begrim'd ne'er felt the sea;
+That Cupid too ne'er knew the sky;
+For lead, I'm sure, could never fly.--
+I'll hear no more, the Painter said,
+Your souls are, like your bodies, dead!
+
+  With secret triumph now elate,
+His grinning Rival 'gan to prate.
+Oh, fie! my friends; upon my word,
+You're too severe: he should be _heard_;
+For _Mind_ can ne'er to glory reach,
+Without the usual aid of _speech_.
+If thus howe'er, you seal his doom,
+What hope have I unknown to Rome?
+But since the _truth_ be your dominion,
+I beg to hear your just opinion.
+This picture then--which some have thought
+By far the best I ever wrought--
+Observe it well with critick ken;
+'Tis Daniel in the Lion's Den.--
+'Tis flesh itself! exclaim'd a Critick.
+But why make Daniel paralytick?
+His limbs and features are distorted.
+And then his legs are badly sorted.
+'Tis true, a miracle you've hit,
+But not as told in Holy Writ;
+For there the miracle was braving,
+With _bones unbroke_, the Lion's craving;
+But yours (what ne'er could man befall)
+That he should _live with none at all_.--
+And pray, inquir'd another spectre,
+What Mufti's that at pious lecture?
+That's Socrates, condemned to die;
+He next, in sable, standing by,
+Is Galen[5], come to save his friend,
+If possible, from such an end;
+The other figures, group'd around,
+His Scholars, wrapt in woe profound.--
+And am I like to this portray'd?
+Exclaim'd the Sage's smiling Shade.
+Good Sir, I never knew before
+That I a Turkish turban wore,
+Or mantle hemm'd with golden stitches,
+Much less a pair of satin breeches;
+But as for him in sable clad,
+Though wond'rous kind, 'twas rather mad
+To visit one like me forlorn,
+So long before himself was born.
+And what's the next? inquir'd a third;
+A jolly blade upon my word!--
+'Tis Alexander, Philip's son,
+Lamenting o'er his battles won;
+That now his mighty toils are o'er,
+The world has nought to conquer more.
+At which, forth stalking from the host,
+Before them stood the Hero's Ghost--
+Was that, said he, my earthly form,
+The Genius of the battle-storm?
+From top to toe the figure's Dutch!
+Alas, my friend, had I been such,
+Had I that fat and meaty skull,
+Those bloated cheeks, and eyes so dull,
+That driv'ling mouth, and bottle nose,
+Those shambling legs, and gouty toes;
+Thus form'd to snore throughout the day,--
+And eat and drink the night away;
+I ne'er had felt the fev'rish flame
+That caus'd my bloody thirst for fame;
+Nor madly claim'd immortal birth,
+Because the vilest brute on Earth:
+And, oh! I'd not been doom'd to hear,
+Still whizzing in my blister'd ear,
+The curses deep, in damning peals,
+That rose from 'neath my chariot wheels,
+When I along the embattled plain
+With furious triumph crush'd the slain:
+I should not thus be doom'd to see,
+In every shape of agony,
+The victims of my cruel wrath,
+For ever dying, strew my path;
+The grinding teeth, the lips awry,
+The inflated nose, the starting eye,
+The mangled bodies writhing round,
+Like serpents, on the bloody ground;
+I should not thus for ever seem
+A charnel house, and scent the steam
+Of black, fermenting, putrid gore,
+Rank oozing through each burning pore;
+Behold, as on a dungeon wall,
+The worms upon my body crawl,
+The which, if I would brush away,
+Around my clammy fingers play,
+And, twining fast with many a coil,
+In loathsome sport my labor foil.
+
+  Enough! the frighted Painter cried,
+And hung his head in fallen pride.
+
+  Not so the other. He, of stuff
+More stubborn, ne'er would cry enough;
+But like a soundly cudgell'd oak,
+More sturdy grew at every stroke,
+And thus again his ready tongue
+With fluent logick would have rung:
+My Lord, I'll prove, or I'm a liar--
+Whom interrupting then with ire,
+Thus check'd the Judge: Oh, proud yet mean!
+And canst thou hope from me to screen
+Thy foolish heart, and o'er it spread
+A veil to cheat th' omniscient dead?
+And canst thou hope, as once on Earth,
+Applause to gain by specious worth;
+Like those that still by sneer and taunt
+Would prove pernicious what they want;
+And claim the mastership of Art,
+Because thou only know'st a _part_?
+
+  Had'st thou from Nature, not the Schools
+Distorted by pedantic rules,
+With patience wrought, such logic vain
+Had ne'er perverted thus thy brain:
+For Genius never gave delight
+By means of what offends the sight:
+Nor hadst thou deem'd, with folly mad,
+Thou could'st to Nature's beauties _add_,
+By _taking from her that which gives
+The best assurance that she lives;
+By imperfection give attraction,
+And multiply them by subtraction._
+
+  Did Raffaelle thus, whose honour'd ghost
+Is now Elysium's fairest boast?
+Far diff'rent He. Though weak and lame
+In parts that gave to others fame,
+Yet sought not _he_ by such defect
+To swindle praise for _wise neglect_
+Of _vulgar_ charms, that only _blind_
+The dazzled eye to those of Mind.
+By Heaven impressed with Genius' seal,
+An eye to see, and heart to feel,
+His soul through boundless Nature rov'd,
+And seeing felt, and feeling lov'd.
+But weak the power of mind at will
+To give the hand the painter's skill;
+For mortal works, maturing slow,
+From patient care and labour flow:
+And hence restrain'd, his youthful hand
+Obey'd a master's dull command;
+But soon with health his sickly style
+From Leonardo learn'd to smile;
+And now from Bonarroti caught
+A nobler Form; and now it sought
+Of colour fair the magic spell,
+And trac'd her to the Friar's[6] cell.
+No foolish pride, no narrow rule
+Enslav'd his soul; from every School,
+Whatever fair, whatever grand,
+His pencil, like a potent wand,
+Transfusing, bade his canvass grace.
+Progressive thus, with giant pace.
+And energy no toil could tame,
+He climb'd the rugged mount of Fame:
+And soon had reach'd the summit bold,
+When Death, who there delights to hold
+His fatal watch, with envious blow
+Quick hurl'd him to the shades below.
+
+  Thus check'd the Judge the champion vain
+Of _Classic Form_; and thus in strain,
+By anger half and pity mov'd,
+The ghostly Colourist reprov'd.
+And what didst _Thou_ aspire to gain,
+_Who_ dar'd'st the will of Jove arraign,
+That bounded thus within a span
+The little life of little man;
+With shallow art deriving thence
+Excuses for thy indolence?
+'Tis cant and hypocritic stuff!
+The life of man is long enough:
+For did he but the half improve
+He would not quarrel thus with Jove.
+
+  But most I marvel (if it be
+That aught may wond'rous seem to me)
+That Jove's high Gift, your noble Art,
+Bestow'd to raise Man's grov'ling heart,
+Refining with ethereal ray
+Each gross and selfish thought away,
+Should pander turn of paltry pelf,
+Imprisoning each within himself;
+Or like a gorgeous serpent, be
+Your splendid source of misery,
+And, crushing with his burnish'd folds,
+Still narrower make your narrow souls.
+
+  But words can ne'er reform produce,
+In Ignorance and Pride obtuse.
+Then know, ye rain and foolish Pair!
+Your doom is fix'd a yoke to bear
+Like beasts on Earth; and, thus in tether,
+Five Centuries to paint together.
+If, thus by mutual labours join'd,
+Your jarring souls should be combin'd,
+The faults of each the other mending,
+The powers of both harmonious blending;
+Great Jove, perhaps, in gracious vein,
+May send your souls on Earth again;
+Yet there One only Painter be;
+For thus the eternal Fates decree:
+One Leg alone shall never run,
+Nor two Half-Painters make but One.
+
+
+
+
+Eccentricity.
+
+
+
+    Projecere animas. VIRG.
+
+
+  Alas, my friend! what hope have I of fame,
+Who am, as Nature made me, still the same?
+And thou, poor suitor to a bankrupt muse,
+How mad thy toil, how arrogant thy views!
+What though endued with Genius' power to move
+The magick chords of sympathy and love,
+The painter's eye, the poet's fervid heart,
+The tongue of eloquence, the vital art
+Of bold Prometheus, kindling at command
+With breathing life the labours of his hand;
+Yet shall the World thy daring high pretence
+With scorn deride, for thou--hast common sense.
+
+  But dost thou, reckless of stern honour's laws,
+Intemperate hunger for the World's applause?
+Bid Nature hence; her fresh embow'ring woods,
+Her lawns and fields, and rocks, and rushing floods,
+And limpid lakes, and health-exhaling soil,
+Elastick gales, and all the glorious toil
+Of Heaven's own hand, with courtly shame discard,
+And Fame shall triumph in her city bard.
+Then, pent secure in some commodious lane,
+Where stagnant Darkness holds her morbid reign.
+Perchance snug-roosted o'er some brazier's den,
+Or stall of nymphs, by courtesy _not_ men,
+Whose gentle trade to skin the living eel,
+The while they curse it that it dares to feel[7];
+Whilst ribbald jokes and repartees proclaim
+Their happy triumph o'er the sense of shame:
+Thy city Muse invoke, that imp of mind
+By smoke engendered on an eastern wind;
+Then, half-awake, thy patent-thinking pen
+The paper give, and blot the souls of men.
+
+ The time has been when Nature's simple face
+Perennial youth possessed and winning grace;
+But who shall dare, in this refining age,
+With Nature's praise to soil his snowy page?
+What polish'd lover, unappall'd by sneers
+Dare court a beldame of six thousand years,
+When every clown with microscopick eyes
+The gaping furrows on her forehead spies?--
+'Good sir, your pardon: In her naked state,
+Her wither'd form we cannot chuse but hate;
+But fashion's art the waste of time repairs,
+Each wrinkle fills, and dies her silver hairs;
+Thus wrought anew, our gentle bosoms low;
+We cannot chuse but love what's _comme il faut_.'
+Thy city Muse invoke, that imp of mind
+By smoke engender'd on an eastern wind;
+Then, half-awake, thy patent-thinking pen
+The paper give, and blot the souls of men.
+
+ The time has been when Nature's simple face
+Perennial youth possessed and winning grace;
+But who shall dare, in this refining age,
+With Nature's praise to soil his snowy page?
+What polish'd lover, unappall'd by sneers,
+Dare court a beldame of six thousand years,
+When every clown with microscopick eyes
+The gaping furrows on her forehead spies?--
+'Good sir, your pardon: In her naked state,
+Her withered form we cannot chuse but hate;
+But fashion's art the waste of time repairs,
+Each wrinkle fills, and dies her silver hairs;
+Thus wrought anew, our gentle bosoms low;
+We cannot chuse but love what's _comme il fauts_.'
+
+  Alas, poor Cowper! could thy chasten'd eye,
+(Awhile forgetful of thy joys on high)
+Revisit earth, what indignation strange
+Would sting thee to behold the courtly change!
+Here "velvet" lawns, there "plushy" woods that lave
+Their "silken" tresses in the "glassy" wave;
+Here "'broider'd" meads, there flow'ry "carpets" spread,
+And "downy" banks to "pillow" Nature's head;
+How wouldst thou start to find thy native soil.
+Like birth-day belle, by gross mechanick toil
+Trick'd out to charm with meretricious air,
+As though all France and Manchester were there!
+But this were luxury, were bliss refin'd,
+To view the alter'd region of the mind;
+Where whim and mystery, like wizards, rule,
+And conjure wisdom from the seeming fool;
+Where learned heads, like old cremonas, boast
+Their merit soundest that are cracked the most;
+While Genius' self, infected with the joke,
+His person decks with Folly's motley cloak.
+
+  Behold, loud-rattling like a thousand drums,
+Eccentrick Hal, the child of Nature, comes!
+Of Nature once--but _now_ he acts a part,
+And Hal is now the full grown boy of art.
+In youth's pure spring his high impetuous soul
+Nor custom own'd nor fashion's vile control.
+By Truth impelled where beck'ning Nature led,
+Through life he mov'd with firm elastic tread;
+But soon the world, with wonder-teeming eyes,
+His manners mark, and goggle with surprise.
+"He's wond'rous strange!" exclaims each gaping clod,
+"A wond'rous genius, for he's wond'rous odd!"
+Where'er he goes, there goes before his fame,
+And courts and taverns echo round his name;
+'Till, fairly knocked by admiration down,
+The petted monster cracks his wond'rous crown.
+No longer now to simple Nature true,
+He studies only to be oddly new;
+Whate'er he does, whatever he deigns to say,
+Must all be said and done the oddest way;
+Nay, e'en in dress eccentrick as in thought,
+His wardrobe seems by Lapland witches wrought,
+Himself by goblins in a whirlwind drest
+With rags of clouds from Hecla's stormy crest.
+
+  'Has Truth no charms?' When first beheld, I grant,
+But, wanting novelty, has every want:
+For pleasure's thrill the sickly palate flies,
+Save haply pungent with a rare surprise.
+The humble toad that leaps her nightly round,
+The harmless tenant of the garden ground,
+Is loath'd, abhor'd, nay, all the reptile race
+Together join'd were never half so base;
+Yet snugly find her in some quarry pent,
+Through ages doom'd to one tremendous lent,
+Surviving still, as if "in Nature's spite,"
+Without or nourishment, or air, or light,
+What raptures then th' astonish'd gazer seize!
+What lovely creature like a toad can please!
+
+ Hence many an oaf, by Nature doom'd to shine
+The unknown father of an unknown line,
+If haply shipwreck'd on some desert shore
+Of Folly's seas, by man untrod before,
+Which, bleak and barren, to the starving mind
+Yields nought but fog, or damp, unwholesome wind,
+With loud applause the wond'ring world shall hail,
+And Fame embalm him in the marv'lous tale.
+
+  With chest erect, and bright uplifted eye,
+On tiptoe rais'd, like one prepared to fly.
+Yon wight behold, whose sole aspiring hope
+Eccentrick soars to catch the hangman's rope.
+In order rang'd, with date of place and time,
+Each owner's name, his parentage and crime,
+High on his walls, inscribed to glorious shame,
+Unnumber'd halters gibbet him to Fame.
+
+  Who next appears thus stalking by his side?
+Why that is one who'd sooner die than--ride!
+No inch of ground can maps unheard of show
+Untrac'd by him, unknown to every toe:
+As if intent this punning age to suit,
+The globe's circumf'rence meas'ring by the foot.
+
+  Nor less renown'd whom stars invet'rate doom
+To smiles eternal, or eternal gloom;
+For what's a _character_ save one confin'd
+To some unchanging sameness of the mind;
+To some strange, fix'd monotony of mien,
+Or dress forever brown, forever green?
+
+  A sample comes. Observe his sombre face,
+Twin-born with Death, without his brother's grace!
+No joy in mirth his soul perverted knows,
+Whose only joy to tell of others' woes.
+A fractur'd limb, a conflagrating fire,
+A name or fortune lost his tongue inspire:
+From house to house where'er misfortunes press,
+Like Fate, he roams, and revels in distress;
+In every ear with dismal boding moans--
+walking register of sighs and groans!
+
+  High tow'ring next, as he'd eclipse the moon,
+With pride upblown, behold yon live balloon.
+All trades above, all sciences and arts,
+To fame he climbs through very scorn of parts;
+With solemn emptiness distends his state,
+And, great in nothing, soars above the great;
+Nay stranger still, through apathy of blood,
+By candour number'd with the chaste and good:
+With wife, and child, domestic, stranger, friend,
+Alike he lives, as though his being's end
+Were o'er his house like formal guest to roam,
+And walk abroad to leave himself at home.
+
+  But who is _he_, that sweet obliging youth?
+He looks the picture of ingenuous truth.
+Oh, that's his antipode, of courteous race,
+The man of bows and ever-smiling face.
+Why Nature made him, or for what design'd,
+Never he knew, nor ever sought to find,
+'Till cunning came, blest harbinger of ease!
+And kindly whisper'd, 'thou wert born to please.'
+Rous'd by the news, behold him now expand,
+Like beaten gold, and glitter o'er the land.
+Well stored with nods and sly approving winks,
+Now first with this and now with that he thinks;
+Howe'er opposing, still assents to each,
+And claps a dovetail to each booby's speech.
+At random thus for all, for none, he lives,
+Profusely lavish though he nothing gives;
+The world he roves as living but to show
+A friendless man without a single foe;
+From bad to good, to bad from good to run,
+And find a character by seeking none.
+
+  Who covets fame should ne'er be over nice,
+Some slight distortion pays the market price.
+If haply lam'd by some propitious chance,
+Instruct in attitude, or teach to dance;
+Be still extravagant in deed, or word;
+If new, enough, no matter how absurd.
+
+  Then what is Genius? Nay, if rightly us'd,
+Some gift of Nature happily abus'd.
+Nor wrongly deem by this eccentrick rule
+That Nature favours whom she makes a fool;
+Her scorn and favour we alike despise;
+Not Nature's follies but our own we prize.
+
+  "Or what is wit?" a meteor bright and rare,
+What comes and goes we know not whence, or where;
+A brilliant nothing out of something wrought,
+A mental vacuum by condensing thought.
+
+  Behold Tortoso. There's a man of wit;
+To all things fitted, though for nothing fit;
+Scourge of the world, yet crouching for a name,
+And honour bartering for the breath of fame:
+Born to command, and yet an arrant slave;
+Through too much honesty a seeming knave;
+At all things grasping, though on nothing bent,
+And ease pursuing e'en with discontent;
+Through Nature, Arts, and Sciences he flies,
+And gathers truth to manufacture lies.
+
+  Nor only Wits, for tortur'd talents claim
+Of sov'reign mobs the glorious meed of fame;
+E'en Sages too, of grave and rev'rend air,
+Yclepp'd _Philosophers_, must have their share;
+Who deeper still in conjuration skill'd,
+_A mighty something out of nothing build._
+
+  'Then wherefore read? why cram the youthful head
+With all the learned lumber of the dead;
+Who seeking wisdom followed Nature's laws,
+Nor dar'd effects admit without a cause?'
+Why?--Ask the sophist of our modern school;
+To foil the workman we must know the tool;
+And, that possess'd, how swiftly is defac'd
+The noblest, rarest monument of taste!
+So neatly too, the mutilations stand
+Like native errors of the artist's hand;
+Nay, what is more, the very tool betray'd
+To seem the product of the work it made.
+
+  'Oh, monstrous slander on the human race!'
+Then read conviction in Ortuno's case.
+By Nature fashion'd in her happiest mood,
+With learning, fancy, keenest wit endued;
+To what high purpose, what exalted end
+These lofty gifts did great Ortuno bend?
+With grateful triumph did Ortuno raise
+The mighty trophies to their Author's praise;
+With skill deducing from th' harmonious whole
+Immortal proofs of One Creative soul?
+Ah, no! infatuate with the dazzling light,
+In them he saw their own creative might;
+Nay, madly deem'd, if _such_ their wond'rous _skill_,
+The phantom of a God 'twas theirs to _will_.
+
+  But granting that he _is_, he bids you show
+By what you prove it, or by what you know.
+Oh, reas'ning worm! who questions thus of Him
+That lives in all, and moves in every limb,
+Must with himself in very strangeness dwell,
+Has never heard the voice of Conscience tell
+Of right and wrong, and speak in louder tone
+Than tropick thunder of that Holy One,
+Whose pure, eternal, justice shall requite
+The deed of wrong, and justify the right.
+
+  Can such blaspheme and breathe the vital air?
+Let mad philosophy their names declare.
+Yet some there are, less daring in their aim,
+With humbler cunning butcher sense for fame;
+Who doubting still, with many a fearful pause,
+Th' existence grant of one almighty cause;
+But halting there, in bolder tone deny
+The life hereafter, when the man shall die,
+Nor mark the monstrous folly of their gain--
+That God all-wise should fashion _them_ in vain.
+
+  'Twere labour lost in this material age,
+When school boys trample on the Inspir'd Page,
+When coblers prove by syllogistick pun
+The soal they mend, and that of man are one;
+'Twere waste of time to check the Muses' speed,
+For all the _whys_ and _wherefores_ of their creed;
+To show how prov'd the juices are the same
+That feed the body, and the mental frame.
+
+  But who, half sceptic, half afraid of wrong,
+Shall walk our streets, and mark the passing throng;
+The brawny oaf in mould herculean cast,
+The pigmy statesman trembling in his blast,
+The cumb'rous citizen of portly paunch,
+Unwont to soar beyond the smoaking haunch;
+The meagre bard behind the moving tun,
+His shadow seeming lengthen'd by the sun;
+Who forms scarce visible shall thus descry,
+Like flitting clouds athwart the mental sky;
+From giant bodies then bare gleams of mind,
+Like mountain watch-lights blinking to the wind;
+Nor blush to find his unperverted eye
+Flash on his heart, and give his tongue the lie.
+
+  'Tis passing strange! yet, born as if to show
+Man to himself his most malignant foe,
+There are (so desperate is the madness grown)
+Who'd rather live a _lie_ than live unknown;
+Whose very tongues, with force of holy writ,
+Their doctrines damn with self-recoiling wit.
+
+  Behold yon dwarf, of visage pale and wan;
+A sketch of life, a remnant of a man!
+Whose livid lips, as now he moulds a grin,
+Like charnel doors disclose the waste within;
+Whose stiffen'd joints within their sockets grind,
+Like gibbets creaking to the passing wind;
+Whose shrivell'd skin with much adhesion clings
+His bones around in hard compacted rings,
+If veins there were, no blood beneath could force,
+Unless by miracle, its trickling course;--
+Yet even _he_ within that sapless frame,
+A mind sustained that climb'd the steeps of fame.
+Such is the form by mystic Heaven design'd,
+The earthly mansion of the rarest mind.
+But, mark his gratitude. This soul sublime,
+This soul lord paramount o'er space and time,
+This soul of fire, with impious madness sought,
+Itself to prove of mortal matter wrought;
+Nay, bred, engendered, on the grub-worm plan,
+From that vile clay which made his outward man,
+That shadowy form which dark'ning into birth,
+But seem'd a sign to mark a soul on earth.
+
+  But who shall cast an introverted eye
+Upon himself, that will not there descry
+A conscious life that shall, nor cannot die?
+E'en at our birth, when first the infant mould
+Gives it a mansion and an earthly hold,
+Th' exulting Spirit feels the heavenly fire
+That lights her tenement will ne'er expire;
+And when, in after years, disease and age,
+Our fellow-bodies sweeping from life's stage,
+Obtrude the thought of death, e'en then we seem,
+As in the revelation of a dream,
+To hear a voice, more audible than speech,
+Warn of a part which death can never reach.
+Survey the tribes of savage men that roam
+Like wand'ring herds, each wilderness their home;--
+Nay, even there th' immortal spirit stands
+Firm on the verge of death, and looks to brighter lands.
+
+  Shall human wisdom then, with beetle sight,
+Because obstructed in its blund'ring flight,
+Despise the deep conviction of our birth,
+And limit life to this degraded earth?
+
+  Oh, far from me be that insatiate pride,
+Which, turning on itself, drinks up the tide
+Of natural light; 'till one eternal gloom,
+Like walls of adamant enclose the tomb.
+Tremendous thought! that this transcendant Power,
+Fell'd with the body in one fatal hour,
+With all its faculties, should pass like air
+For ages without end as though it never were!
+
+  Say, whence, obedient, to their destin'd end
+The various tribes of living nature tend?
+Why beast, and bird, and all the countless race
+Of earth and waters, each his proper place
+Instinctive knows, and through the endless chain
+Of being moves in one harmonious strain;
+While man alone, with strange perversion, draws
+Rebellious fame from Nature's broken laws?
+Methinks I hear, in that still voice which stole
+On Horeb's mount o'er rapt Elijah's soul,
+With stern reproof indignant Heaven reply:
+'Tis o'erweening Pride, that blinds the eye
+Of reasoning man, and o'er his darkened life
+Confusion spreads and misery and strife.
+
+  With wonder fill'd and self-reflecting praise,
+The slave of pride his mighty powers surveys;
+On Reason's sun (by bounteous Nature given,
+To guide the soul upon her way to heaven)
+Adoring gazes, 'till the dazzling light,
+To darkness sears his rain presumptuous sight;
+Then bold, though blind, through error's night he runs,
+In fancy lighted by a thousand suns;
+For bloody laurels now the warrior plays,
+Now libels nature for the poet's bays;
+Now darkness drinks from metaphysic springs,
+Or follows fate on astrologick wings:
+'Mid toils at length the world's loud wonder won,
+With Persian piety, to Reason's sun
+Profound he bows, and, idolist of fame,
+Forgets the God who lighted first the flame.
+
+  All potent Reason! what thy wond'rous light?
+A shooting star athwart a polar night;
+A bubble's gleam amid the boundless main;
+A sparkling sand on waste Arabia's plain:
+E'en such, vain Power, thy limited control,
+E'en such thou art, to mans mysterious soul!
+
+  Presumptuous man! would'st thou aspiring reach
+True wisdom's height, let conscious weakness teach
+Thy feeble soul her poor dependant state,
+Nor madly war with Nature to be great.
+
+  Come then, Humility, thou surest guide!
+On earth again with frenzied men reside;
+Tear the dark film of vanity and lies,
+And inward turn their renovated eyes;
+In aspect true let each himself behold,
+By self deform'd in pride's portentous mould.
+And if thy voice, on Bethl'em's holy plain
+Once heard, can reach their flinty hearts again,
+Teach them, as fearful of a serpent's gaze,
+Teach them to shun the gloating eye of praise;
+That slightest swervings from their nature's plan
+Make them a lie, and poison all the man,
+'Till black corruption spread the soul throughout,
+Whence thick and fierce, like fabled mandrakes, sprout
+The seeds of rice with more than tropick force,
+Exhausting in the growth their very vital source.
+
+  Nor wrongly deem the cynick muse aspires,
+With monkish tears to quench our nobler fires.
+Let honest pride our humble hearts inflame,
+First to deserve, ere yet we look to, fame;
+Not fame miscall'd, the mob's applauding stare;
+This monsters have, proportion'd as they're rare;
+But that sweet praise, the tribute of the good,
+For wisdom gain'd, through love of truth pursued.
+Coeval with our birth, this pure desire
+Was given to lift our grov'ling natures higher,
+Till that high praise, by genuine merit wrung
+From men's slow justice, shall employ the tongue
+Of yon Supernal Court, from whom may flow
+Or bliss eternal or eternal wo.
+And since in all this hope exalting lives,
+Let virtuous toil improve what Nature gives:
+Each in his sphere some glorious palm may gain,
+For Heaven all-wise created nought in vain.
+
+  Oh, task sublime, to till the human soil
+Where fruits immortal crown the lab'ror's toil!
+Where deathless flowers, in everlasting bloom,
+May gales from Heaven with odorous sweets perfume;
+Whose fragrance still when man's last work is done,
+And hoary Time his final course has run,
+Thro' ages back, with fresh'ning power shall last,
+Mark his long track, and linger where he past!
+
+
+
+
+The Paint-Kings.
+
+
+
+Fair Ellen was long the delight of the young,
+  No damsel could with her compare;
+Her charms were the theme of the heart and the tongue.
+And bards without number in extacies sung,
+  The beauties of Ellen the fair.
+
+Yet cold was the maid; and tho' legions advanced,
+  All drill'd by Ovidean art,
+And languish'd, and ogled, protested and danced,
+Like shadows they came, and like shadows they glanced
+  From the hard polish'd ice of her heart.
+
+Yet still did the heart of fair Ellen implore
+  A something that could not be found;
+Like a sailor she seem'd on a desolate shore,
+With nor house, nor a tree, nor a sound but the roar
+  Of breakers high dashing around.
+
+From object to object still, still would she veer,
+  Though nothing, alas, could she find;
+Like the moon, without atmosphere, brilliant and clear,
+Yet doom'd, like the moon, with no being to cheer
+  The bright barren waste of her mind.
+
+But rather than sit like a statue so still
+  When the rain made her mansion a _pound_,
+Up and down would she go, like the sails of a mill,
+And pat every stair, like a woodpecker's bill,
+  From the tiles of the roof to the ground.
+
+One morn, as the maid from her casement inclin'd,
+    Pass'd a youth, with a frame in his hand.
+The casement she clos'd--not the eye of her mind;
+For, do all she could, no, she could not be blind;
+    Still before her she saw the youth stand.
+
+"Ah, what can he do," said the languishing maid,
+    "Ah, what with that frame can he do?"
+And she knelt to the Goddess of Secrets and pray'd,
+When the youth pass'd again, and again he display'd
+    The frame and a picture to view.
+
+"Oh, beautiful picture!" the fair Ellen cried,
+    "I must see thee again or I die."
+Then under her white chin her bonnet she tied,
+And after the youth and the picture she hied,
+    When the youth, looking back, met her eye.
+
+"Fair damsel," said he (and he chuckled the while)
+  "This picture I see you admire:
+Then take it, I pray you, perhaps 'twill beguile
+Some moments of sorrow; (nay, pardon my smile)
+  Or, at least, keep you home by the fire."
+
+Then Ellen the gift with delight and surprise
+  From the cunning young stripling receiv'd.
+But she knew not the poison that enter'd her eyes,
+When sparkling with rapture they gaz'd on her prize--
+  Thus, alas, are fair maidens deceiv'd!
+
+'Twas a youth o'er the form of a statue inclin'd,
+  And the sculptor he seem'd of the stone;
+Yet he languished as tho' for its beauty he pin'd
+And gaz'd as the eyes of the statue so blind
+  Reflected the beams of his own.
+
+Twas the tale of the sculptor Pygmalion of old;
+  Fair Ellen remember'd, and sigh'd;
+"Ah, could'st thou but lift from that marble so cold,
+Thine eyes too imploring, thy arms should enfold,
+  And press me this day as thy bride."
+
+She said: when, behold, from the canvass arose
+  The youth, and he stepp'd from the frame:
+With a furious transport his arms did enclose
+The love-plighted Ellen: and, clasping, he froze
+  The blood of the maid with his flame!
+
+She turn'd and beheld on each shoulder a wing.
+  "Oh, heaven! cried she, who art thou?"
+From the roof to the ground did his fierce answer ring,
+As frowning, he thunder'd " I am the PAINT-KING!
+  And mine, lovely maid, thou art now!"
+
+Then high from the ground did the grim monster lift
+  The loud screaming maid like a blast;
+And he sped through the air like a meteor swift,
+While the clouds, wand'ring by him, did fearfully drift
+  To the right and the left as he pass'd.
+
+Now suddenly sloping his hurricane flight,
+  With an eddying whirl he descends;
+The air all below him becomes black as night,
+And the ground where he treads, as if mov'd with affright,
+  Like the surge of the Caspian bends.
+
+"I am here!" said the Fiend, and he thundering knock'd
+  At the gates of a mountainous cave;
+The gates open flew, as by magick unlocked,
+While the peaks of the mount, reeling to and fro, rock'd
+  Like an island of ice on the wave.
+
+"Oh, mercy!" cried Ellen, and swoon'd in his arms,
+  But the PAINT-KING, he scoff'd at her pain.
+"Prithee, love," said the monster, "what mean these alarms?"
+She hears not, she sees not the terrible charms,
+  That work her to horrour again.
+
+She opens her lids, but no longer her eyes
+  Behold the fair youth she would woo;
+Now appears the PAINT-KING in his natural guise;
+His face, like a palette of villainous dies,
+  Black and white, red, and yellow, and blue.
+
+On the skull of a Titan, that Heaven defied,
+  Sat the fiend, like the grito Giant Gog,
+While aloft to his mouth a huge pipe he applied,
+Twice as big as the Eddystone Lighthouse, descried
+  As it looms through an easterly fog.
+
+And anon, as he puff'd the vast volumes, were seen,
+  In horrid festoons on the wall,
+Legs and arms, heads and bodies emerging between,
+Like the drawing-room grim of the Scotch Sawney Beane,
+  By the Devil dress'd out for a ball.
+
+"Ah me!" cried the Damsel, and fell at his feet.
+  "Must I hang on these walls to be dried?"
+"Oh, no!" said the fiend, while he sprung from his seat,
+"A far nobler fortune thy person shall meet;
+  Into paint will I grind thee, my bride!"
+
+Then, seizing the maid by her dark auburn hair,
+  An oil jug he plung'd her within.
+Seven days seven nights, with the shrieks of despair,
+Did Ellen in torment convulse the dun air,
+  All covered with oil to the chin.
+
+On the morn of the eighth on a huge sable stone
+  Then Ellen, all reeking, he laid;
+With a rock for his muller he crush'd every bone,
+But, though ground to jelly, still, still did she groan;
+  For life had forsook not the maid.
+
+Now reaching his palette, with masterly care
+  Each tint on its surface he spread;
+The blue of her eyes, and the brown of her hair,
+And the pearl and the white of her forehead so fair,
+  And her lips' and her cheeks' rosy red.
+
+Then, stamping his foot, did the monster exclaim,
+  "Now I brave, cruel Fairy, thy scorn!"
+When lo! from a chasm wide-yawning there came
+A light tiny chariot of rose-colour'd flame,
+  By a team of ten glow-worms upborne.
+
+Enthroned In the midst on an emerald bright,
+  Fair Geraldine sat without peer;
+Her robe was a gleam of the first blush of light,
+And her mantle the fleece of a noon-cloud white,
+  And a beam of the moon was her spear.
+
+In an accent that stole on the still charmed air
+  Like the first gentle language of Eve,
+Thus spake from her chariot the Fairy so fair:
+"I come at thy call, but, oh Paint-King, beware.
+  Beware if again you deceive."
+
+"Tis true," said the monster, "thou queen of my heart,
+  Thy portrait I oft have essay'd;
+Yet ne'er to the canvass could I with my art
+The least of thy wonderful beauties impart;
+  And my failure with scorn you repaid.
+
+"Now I swear by the light of the Comet-King's tail!"
+  And he tower'd with pride as he spoke,
+"If again with these magical colours I fail,
+The crater of Etna shall hence be my jail,
+  And my food shall be sulphur and smoke.
+
+"But if I succeed, then, oh, fair Geraldine!
+  Thy promise with justice I claim,
+And thou, queen of Fairies, shalt ever be mine,
+The bride of my bed; and thy portrait divine
+  Shall fill all the earth with my fame."
+
+He spake; when, behold, the fair Geraldine's form
+  On the canvass enchantingly glow'd;
+His touches--they flew like the leaves in a storm;
+And the pure pearly white and the carnation warm
+  Contending in harmony flow'd;
+
+And now did the portrait a twin-sister seem
+  To the figure of Geraldine fair:
+With the same _sweet_ expression did faithfully teem
+Each muscle; each feature; in short not a gleam
+  Was lost of her beautiful hair.
+
+Twas the Fairy herself! but, alas, her blue eyes
+  Still a pupil did ruefully lack;
+And who shall describe the terrifick surprise
+That seiz'd the PAINT-KING when, behold, he descries
+  Not a speck on his palette of black!
+
+"I am lost!" said the Fiend, and he shook like a leaf;
+  When, casting his eyes to the ground,
+He saw the lost pupils of Ellen with grief
+In the jaws of a mouse, and the sly little thief
+  Whisk away from his sight with a bound.
+
+"I am lost!" said the Fiend, and he fell like a stone;
+  Then rising the Fairy in ire
+With a touch of her finger she loosen'd her zone,
+(While the limbs on the wall gave a terrible groan,)
+  And she swelled to a column of fire.
+
+Her spear now a thunder-bolt flash'd in the air,
+  And sulphur the vault fill'd around:
+She smote the grim monster; and now by the hair
+High-lifting, she hurl'd him in speechless despair
+  Down the depths of the chasm profound.
+
+Then over the picture thrice waving her spear,
+  "Come forth!" said the good Geraldine;
+When, behold, from the canvass descending, appear
+Fair Ellen, in person more lovely than e'er,
+  With grace more than ever divine!
+
+
+
+
+Myrtilla.
+
+  _Addressed to a LADY, who lamented that she had never been in love._
+
+
+              "Al nuovo giorno,
+  Pietosa man' mi sollevo."
+
+                   METASTASIO.
+
+
+
+"Ah me! how sad," Myrtilla cried,
+  "To waste alone my years!"
+While o'er a streamlet's flow'ry side
+She pensive hung, and watch'd the tide
+  That dimpled with her tears.
+
+"The world, though oft to merit blind,
+  Alas, I cannot blame;
+For they have oft the knee inclined.
+And pour'd the sigh--but, like the wind
+  Of winter, cold it came.
+
+"Ah no! neglect I cannot rue."
+  Then o'er the limpid stream
+She cast her eyes of ether blue;
+Her wat'ry eyes look'd up to view
+  Their lovelier parent's beam.
+
+And ever as the sad lament
+  Would thus her lips divide,
+Her lips, like sister roses bent
+By passing gales, elastick sent
+  Their blushes from the tide.
+
+While mournful o'er her pictur'd face
+  Did then her glances steal,
+She seem'd she thought a marble Grace,
+T' enslave with love the human race,
+  But ne'er that love to feel.
+
+"Ah, what avail those eyes replete
+  With charms without a name!
+Alas, no kindred rays they meet,
+To kindle by collision sweet
+  Of mutual love the flame!
+
+"Oh, 'tis the worst of cruel things,
+  This solitary state!
+Yon bird that trims his purple wings,
+As on the bending bow he swings.
+  Prepares to join his mate.
+
+"The little glow-worm sheds her light,
+  Nor sheds her light in vain--
+That still her tiny lover's sight
+Amid the darkness of the night
+  May trace her o'er the plain.
+
+"All living nature seems to move
+  By sympathy divine--
+The sea, the earth, the air above;
+As if one universal love
+  Did all their hearts entwine!
+
+"My heart alone of all my kind
+  No love can ever warm:
+That only can resemblance find
+With waste Arabia, where the wind
+  Ne'er breathes on human form;
+
+"A blank, embodied space, that knows
+  No changes in its reign,
+Save when the fierce tornado throws
+Its barren sands, like drifted snows,
+  In ridges o'er the plain."
+
+Thus plain'd the maid; and now her eyes
+  Slow-lifting from the tide,
+Their liquid orbs with sweet surprise
+A youth beheld in extacies,
+  Mute standing by her side.
+
+"Forbear, oh, lovely maid, forbear,"
+  The youth enamour'd cried,
+"Nor with Arabia's waste compare
+The heart of one so young and fair,
+  To every charm allied.
+
+"Or, if Arabia--rather say,
+  Where some delicious spring
+Remurmurs to the leaves that play
+Mid palm and date and flow'ret gay,
+  On zephyr's frolick wing.
+
+"And now, methinks, I cannot deem
+  The picture else but true;
+For I a wand'ring trav'ller seem
+O'er life's drear waste, without a gleam
+  Of hope--if not in _you_."
+
+Thus spake the youth; and then his tongue
+  Such converse sweet distill'd,
+It seem'd, as on his words she hung,
+As though a heavenly spirit sung,
+  And all her soul he fill'd.
+
+He told her of his cruel fate,
+  Condemn'd along to rove,
+From infancy to man's estate,
+Though courted by the fair and great,
+  Yet never once to love.
+
+And then from many a poet's page
+  The blest reverse he proved:
+How sweet to pass life's pilgrimage,
+From purple youth to sere old age,
+  Aye loving and beloved!
+
+Here ceased the youth; but still his words
+  Did o'er her fancy play;
+They seem'd the matin song of birds,
+Or like the distant low of herds
+  That welcomes in the day.
+
+The sympathetick chord she feels
+  Soft thrilling in her soul;
+And, as the sweet vibration steals
+Through every vein, in tender peals
+  She seems to hear it roll.
+
+Her alter'd heart, of late so drear,
+  Then seem'd a faery land,
+Where nymphs and rosy loves appear
+On margin green of fountain clear,
+  And frolick hand in hand.
+
+But who shall paint her crimson blush,
+  Nor think his hand of stone,
+As now the secret with a flush
+Did o'er her aching senses rush--
+  _Her heart was not her own!_
+
+The happy Lindor, with a look
+  That every hope confessed,
+Her glowing hand exulting took,
+And press'd it, as she fearful shook,
+  In silence to his breast.
+
+Myrtilla felt the spreading flame,
+  Yet knew not how to chide;
+So sweet it mantled o'er her frame,
+That, with a smile of pride and shame,
+  She own'd herself his bride.
+
+No longer then, ye fair, complain,
+  And call the fates unkind;
+The high, the low, the meek, the vain,
+Shall each a sympathetick swain,
+Another _self_ shall find.
+
+
+
+
+To a Lady Who Spoke Slightingly of Poets.
+
+
+
+Oh, censure not the Poet's art,
+Nor think it chills the feeling heart
+  To love the gentle Muses.
+Can that which in a stone or flower,
+As if by transmigrating power,
+  His gen'rous soul infuses;
+
+Can that for social joys impair
+The heart that like the lib'ral air
+  All Nature's self embraces;
+That in the cold Norwegian main,
+Or mid the tropic hurricane
+  Her varied beauty traces;
+
+That in her meanest work can find
+A fitness and a grace combin'd
+  In blest harmonious union,
+That even with the cricket holds,
+As if by sympathy of souls,
+  Mysterious communion;
+
+Can that with sordid selfishness
+His wide-expanded heart impress,
+  Whose consciousness is loving;
+Who, giving life to all he spies,
+His joyous being multiplies,
+  In youthfulness improving?
+
+Oh, Lady, then, fair queen of Earth,
+Thou loveliest of mortal birth,
+  Spurn not thy truest lover;
+Nor censure _him_ whose keener sense
+Can feel thy magic influence
+  Where nought the world discover;
+
+Whose eye on that bewitching face
+Can every source unnumber'd trace
+  Of germinating blisses;
+See Sylphids o'er thy forehead weave
+The lily-fibred film, and leave
+  It fix'd with honied kisses;
+
+While some within thy liquid eyes,
+Like minnows of a thousand dies
+  Through lucid waters glancing,
+In busy motion to and fro,
+The gems of diamond-beetles sow,
+  Their lustre thus enhancing;
+
+Here some, their little vases fill'd
+With blushes for thy cheek distill'd
+  From roses newly blowing,
+Each tiny thirsting pore supply;
+And some in quick succession by
+  The down of peaches strewing;
+
+There others who from hanging bell
+Of cowslip caught the dew that fell
+  While yet the day was breaking,
+And o'er thy pouting lips diffuse
+The tincture--still its glowing hues
+  Of purple morn partaking:
+
+Here some, that in the petals prest
+Of humid honeysuckles, rest
+  From nightly fog defended,
+Flutter their fragrant wings between,
+Like humming-birds that scarce are seen,
+  They seem with air so blended!
+
+While some, in equal clusters knit.
+On either side in circles flit,
+  Like bees in April swarming,
+Their tiny weight each other lend,
+And force the yielding cheek to bend,
+ Thy laughing dimples forming.
+
+Nor, Lady, think the Poet's eye
+Can only outward charms espy,
+  Thy form alone adoring--
+Ah, Lady, no: though fair they be.
+Yet he a fairer sight may see,
+  Thy lovely _soul_ exploring:
+
+And while from part to part it flies
+The gentle Spirit he descries,
+  Through every line pursuing;
+And feels upon his nature shower
+That pure, that humanizing power,
+  Which raises by subduing.
+
+
+
+
+Sonnet
+
+_On a Falling Group in the Last Judgement of MICHAEL ANGELO, in the
+Cappella Sistina._
+
+
+
+How vast, how dread, overwhelming is the thought
+Of Space interminable! to the soul
+A circling weight that crushes into nought
+Her mighty faculties! a wond'rous whole,
+Without or parts, beginning, or an end!
+How fearful then on desp'rate wings to send
+The fancy e'en amid the waste profound!
+Yet, born as if all daring to astound,
+Thy giant hand, oh Angelo, hath hurl'd
+E'en human forms, with all their mortal weight,
+Down the dread void--fall endless as their fate!
+Already now they seem from world to world
+For ages thrown; yet doom'd, another past,
+Another still to reach, nor e'er to reach the last!
+
+
+
+
+Sonnet
+
+_On the Group of the Three Angels before the Tent of Abraham, by
+RAFFAELLE, in the Vatican._
+
+
+
+Oh, now I feel as though another sense
+From Heaven descending had informed my soul;
+I feel the pleasurable, full control
+Of Grace, harmonious, boundless, and intense.
+In thee, celestial Group, embodied lives
+The subtle mystery; that speaking gives
+Itself resolv'd: the essences combin'd
+Of Motion ceaseless, Unity complete.
+Borne like a leaf by some soft eddying wind,
+Mine eyes, impelled as by enchantment sweet,
+From part to part with circling motion rove,
+Yet seem unconscious of the power to move;
+From line to line through endless changes run,
+O'er countless shapes, yet seem to gaze on One.
+
+
+
+
+Sonnet
+
+_On seeing the Picture of Ĉolus by PELIGRINO TIBALDI, in the Institute at
+Bologna._
+
+
+
+Full well, Tibaldi, did thy kindred mind
+The mighty spell of Bonarroti own.
+Like one who, reading magick words, receives
+The gift of intercourse with worlds uknnown,
+'Twas thine, decyph'ring Nature's mystick leaves,
+To hold strange converse with the viewless wind;
+To see the Spirits, in embodied forms,
+Of gales and whirlwinds, hurricanes and storms.
+For, lo! obedient to thy bidding, teems
+Fierce into shape their stern relentless Lord:
+His form of motion ever-restless seems;
+Or, if to rest inclin'd his turbid soul,
+On Hecla's top to stretch, and give the word
+To subject Winds that sweep the desert pole.
+
+
+
+
+Sonnet
+
+_On REMBRANT; occasioned by his Picture of Jacob's Dream._
+
+
+
+As in that twilight, superstitious age
+When all beyond the narrow grasp of mind
+Seem'd fraught with meanings of supernal kind,
+When e'en the learned philosophic sage,
+Wont with the stars thro' boundless space to range.
+Listen'd with rev'rence to the changeling's tale;
+E'en so, thou strangest of all beings strange!
+E'en so thy visionary scenes I hail;
+That like the ramblings of an idiot's speech,
+No image giving of a thing on earth.
+Nor thought significant in Reason's reach,
+Yet in their random shadowings give birth
+To thoughts and things from other worlds that come,
+And fill the soul, and strike the reason dumb.
+
+
+
+
+Sonnet
+
+_On the Luxembourg Gallery._
+
+
+
+There is a Charm no vulgar mind can reach.
+No critick thwart, no mighty master teach;
+A Charm how mingled of the good and ill!
+Yet still so mingled that the mystick whole
+Shall captive hold the struggling Gazer's will,
+'Till vanquish'd reason own its full control.
+And such, oh Rubens, thy mysterious art,
+The charm that vexes, yet enslaves the heart!
+Thy lawless style, from timid systems free,
+Impetuous rolling like a troubled sea,
+High o'er the rocks of reason's lofty verge
+Impending hangs; yet, ere the foaming surge
+Breaks o'er the bound, the refluent ebb of taste
+Back from the shore impels the wat'ry waste.
+
+
+
+
+Sonnet
+
+_To my venerable Friend, the President of the Royal Academy._
+
+
+
+From one unus'd in pomp of words to raise
+A courtly monument of empty praise,
+Where self, transpiring through the flimsy pile,
+Betrays the builder's ostentatious guile,
+Accept, oh West, these unaffected lays,
+Which genius claims and grateful justice pays.
+Still green in age, thy vig'rous powers impart
+The youthful freshness of a blameless heart;
+For thine, unaided by another's pain,
+The wiles of envy, or the sordid train
+Of selfishness, has been the manly race
+Of one who felt the purifying grace
+Of honest fame; nor found the effort vain
+E'en far itself to love thy soul-ennobling art.
+
+
+
+
+The Mad Lover
+
+_At the Grave of his Mistress._
+
+
+
+Stay, gentle Stranger, softly tread!
+  Oh, trouble not this hallow'd heap.
+Vile Envy says my Julia's dead;
+  But Envy thus Will never sleep.
+
+Ye creeping Zephyrs, hist you, pray,
+  Nor press so hard yon wither'd leaves;
+For Julia sleeps beneath this clay--
+  Nay, feel it, how her bosom heaves!
+
+Oh, she was purer than the stream
+  That saw the first created morn;
+Her words were like a sick man's dream
+  That nerves with health a heart forlorn.
+
+And who their lot would hapless deem
+  Those lovely, speaking lips to view;
+That light between like rays that beam
+  Through sister clouds of rosy hue?
+
+Yet these were to her fairer soul
+  But, as yon op'ning clouds on high
+To glorious worlds that o'er them roll,
+  The portals to a brighter sky.
+
+And shall the glutton worm defile
+  This spotless tenement of love,
+That like a playful infant's smile
+  Seem'd born of purest light above?
+
+And yet I saw the sable pall
+  Dark-trailing o'er the broken ground--
+The earth did on her coffin fall--
+  I heard the heavy, hollow sound
+
+Avaunt, thou Fiend! nor tempt my brain
+  With thoughts of madness brought from Hell!
+No wo like this of all her train
+  Has Mem'ry in her blackest cell.
+
+'Tis all a tale of fiendish art--
+  Thou com'st, my love, to prove it so!
+I'll press thy hand upon my heart--
+  It chills me like a hand of snow!
+
+Thine eyes are glaz'd, thy cheeks are pale,
+  Thy lips are livid, and thy breath
+Too truly tells the dreadful tale---
+  Thou comest from the house of death!
+
+Oh, speak, Beloved! lest I rave;
+  The fatal truth I'll bravely meet,
+And I will follow to the grave,
+  And wrap me in thy winding sheet.
+
+
+
+
+First Love.
+
+_A Ballad_[8].
+
+
+
+Ah me! how hard the task to bear
+  The weight of ills we know!
+But harder still to dry the tear,
+  That mourns a nameless we.
+
+If by the side of Lucy's wheel
+  I sit to see her spin,
+My head around begins to reel,
+  My heart to beat within.
+
+Or when on harvest holliday
+  I lead the dance along,
+If Lucy chance to cross my way,
+  So sure she leads me wrong,
+
+If I attempt the pipe to play,
+  And catch my Lucy's eye,
+The trembling musick dies away,
+  And melts into a sigh.
+
+Where'er I go, where'er I turn,
+  If Lucy there be found,
+I seem to shiver, yet I burn,
+  My head goes swimming round.
+
+I cannot bear to see her smile,
+  Unless she smile on me;
+And if she frown, I sigh the while,
+  But know not whence it be.
+
+Ah, what have I to Lucy done
+  To cause me so much stir?
+From rising to the setting sun
+  I sigh, and think of her.
+
+In vain I strive to join the throng
+  In social mirth and ease;
+Now lonely woods I stray among,
+  For only woods can please.
+
+Ah, me! this restless heart I fear
+  Will never be at rest,
+'Till Lucy cease to live, or tear
+  Her image from my breast.
+
+
+
+
+The Complaint.
+
+
+
+"Oh, had I Colin's winning ease,"
+  Said Lindor with a sigh,
+"So carelessly ordained to please,
+  I'd every care defy.
+
+"If Colin but for Daphne's hair
+  A simple garland weave,
+He gives it with so sweet an air
+  He seems a crown to give.
+
+"But, though I cull the fairest flower
+  That decks the breast of spring,
+And posies from the woodland bower
+  For Daphne's bosom bring,
+
+"When I attempt to give the fair,
+  With many a speech in store,
+My half-form'd words dissolve in air,
+  I blush and dare no more.
+
+"And shall I then expect a smile
+  From Daphne on my love,
+When every word and look the while
+  My clownish weakness prove?
+
+"Oft at the close of summer day,
+  When Daphne wander'd by,
+I've left my little flock astray,
+  And follow'd with a sigh.
+
+"Yet, fearing to approach too near,
+  I lingered far behind:
+And, lest my step should reach her ear,
+  I shook at every wind.
+
+"How happy then must Colin be
+  Who never knew this fear,
+Whose sweet address at liberty
+  Commands the fair-one's ear!
+
+"A smile, a tear, a word, a sigh,
+  Stand ready at his call;
+In me unknown they live and die,
+  Who have and feel them all."
+
+Ah, simple swain, how little knows
+  The love-sick mind to scan
+Those gifts which real love bestows
+  To mark the favoured man.
+
+Secure, let fluent parrots feign
+  The musick of the dove;
+'Tis only in the eye may reign
+  The eloquence of love.
+
+
+
+
+Will, the Maniac.
+
+_A Ballad._
+
+
+
+HARK! what wild sound is on the breeze?
+  'Tis Will, at evening fall
+Who sings to yonder waving trees
+  That shade his prison wall.
+
+Poor Will was once the gayest swain
+  At village dance was seen;
+No freer heart of wicked stain
+  E'er tripp'd the moonlight green.
+
+His flock was all his humble pride,
+  A finer ne'er was shorn;
+And only when a lambkin died
+  Had Will a cause to mourn.
+
+But now poor William's brain is turn'd,
+  He knows no more his flock;
+For when I ask'd "if them he mourn'd,"
+  He mock'd the village clock.
+
+No, William does not mourn his fold,
+  Though tenantless and drear;
+Some say, a love he never told
+  Did crush his heart with fear.
+
+And she, 'tis said, for whom he pin'd
+  Was heiress of the land,
+A lovely lady, pure of mind
+  Of open heart and hand.
+
+And others tell, as _how_ he strove
+  To win the noble fair.
+Who, scornful, jeer'd his simple love.
+  And left him to despair.
+
+Will wander'd then amid the rocks
+  Through all the live long day,
+And oft would creep where bursting shocks
+  Had rent the earth away.
+
+He lov'd to delve the darksome dell
+  Where never pierc'd a ray,
+There to the wailing night-bird tell,
+'How love was turn'd to clay.'
+
+And oft upon yon craggy mount,
+  Where threatening cliffs hang high,
+Have I observ'd him stop to count
+  With fixless stare the sky.
+
+
+
+
+
+Footnotes
+
+
+
+[1] In a late beautiful poem by Mr. Montgomery is the following lines
+"_The spirits of departed hours_." The Author, fearing that so singular a
+coincidence of thought and language might subject him to the charge of
+plagiarism, thinks it necessary to state that his poem was written long
+before he had the pleasure of reading Mr. M.'s.
+
+[2] The Author would be sorry to have it supposed that he alludes here to
+any individual; for he can say with truth, that such a character has never
+fallen under his observation: much less would he be thought to reflect on
+the Artists, as a class of men to which such baseness may be generally
+imputed. The case here is merely _supposed_, to shew how easily imbecility
+and selfishness may pervert this most innocent of all arts to the vilest
+purposes. He may be allowed also to disclaim an opinion too generally
+prevalent; namely, that envy and detraction are the natural offspring of
+the art. That Artists should possess a portion of these vices, in common
+with Poets, Musicians, and other candidates for fame, is reasonably to be
+expected; but that they should exclusively monopolise them, or even hold
+an undue proportion, 'twere ungenerous to suppose. The Author has known
+Artists in various countries; and can truly say, that, with a very few
+exceptions, he has found them candid and liberal; prompt to discover
+merit, and just in applauding it. If there have been exceptions, he has
+also generally been able to trace their cause to the unpropitious
+coincidence of narrow circumstances, a defective education, and poverty of
+intellect. Is it then surprising, that in the hands of such a triumvirate
+the art should be degraded to an imposture, to the trick of a juggler? but
+it surely would be a cause of wonder, if, with such leprous members, the
+sound and respectable body of its professors should escape the suspicion
+of partaking their contamination.
+
+[3] "Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?" Pope.
+
+[4] The Author having no revenge to gratify, and consequently no pleasure
+in giving pain, has purposely excluded the Works of all living Artists
+from this Gallery.
+
+[5] To those who are conversant with the Works of the Old Masters this
+piece of anachronism will hardly appear exaggerated.
+
+[6] Fra. Bartolomeo.
+
+[7] See Boswell's Life of Johnson.
+
+[8] This and the two following ballads were written at a very early age,
+and have already appeared in some of the Periodical Works of their day.
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Sylphs of the Season with Other
+Poems, by Washington Allston
+
+*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SYLPHS ***
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