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diff --git a/old/11059-8.txt b/old/11059-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..75036a7 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/11059-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3152 @@ +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 *** + +***** This file should be named 11059-8.txt or 11059-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/1/0/5/11059/ + +Produced by Distributed Proofreaders + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Allston</title> + +<style type="text/css"> + <!-- + + body { + margin .5em; + font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; + } + + h1, h2 { + text-align: center; + font-weight: bold; + font-variant: small-caps + } + + .smallcaps { font-variant: small-caps } + + a { text-decoration: none; } + a:hover { background-color: #ffffcc } + + div.chapter { + margin-top: 4em; + } + + hr { + height: 1px; + width: 80%; + } + + div.note { + border-style: dashed; + border-width: 1px; + border-color: #000000; + background-color: #ccffcc; + font-size: .8em; + margin: 10px; + } + + div.note p { + margin: 10px 10px 10px 10px; + } + +--> +</style> +</head> + +<body> + + +<pre> + +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: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SYLPHS *** + + + + +Produced by Distributed Proofreaders + + + + + +</pre> + +<div class="note"><p>[<span class="smallcaps">Transcriber's Note:</span> Footnotes have been numbered and moved to the end.]</p></div> + + +<div class="tp"> +<h1 class="title">The Sylphs of the Seasons<br /> +with Other Poems.</h1> + +<p align="center" class="smallcaps">By</p> + +<h2 class="author">W. Allston.</h2> +</div> + + +<div class="chapter" id="toc"> +<h2>Contents.</h2> + + + +<p><a href="#p01">The Sylphs of the Seasons; a Poet's Dream</a></p> +<p><a href="#p02">The Two Pointers; a Tale</a></p> +<p><a href="#p03">Eccentricity</a></p> +<p><a href="#p04">The Paint King</a></p> +<p><a href="#p05">Myrtilla: addressed to a Lady, who lamented that she had never been in love</a></p> +<p><a href="#p06">To a Lady who spoke slightingly of Poets</a></p> +<p><a href="#p07">Sonnet on a Falling Group in the Last Judgment of Michael Angelo, in the Cappella Sistina</a></p> +<p><a href="#p08">Sonnet on the Group of the Three Angels before the Tent of Abraham, by Raffaelle, in the Vatican</a></p> +<p><a href="#p09">Sonnet, on seeing the Picture of Æolus, by Peligrino Tibaldi, in the Institute at Bologna</a></p> +<p><a href="#p10">Sonnet on Rembrant; occasioned by his Picture of Jacob's Dream</a></p> +<p><a href="#p11">Sonnet on the Luxembourg Gallery</a></p> +<p><a href="#p12">Sonnet to my venerable Friend, the President of the Royal Academy</a></p> +<p><a href="#p13">The Mad Lover at the Grave of his Mistress</a></p> +<p><a href="#p14">First Love: a Ballad</a></p> +<p><a href="#p15">The Complaint</a></p> +<p><a href="#p16">Will, the Maniac: a Ballad</a></p> +</div> + + + +<h1 class='title'>The Sylphs of the Seasons;</h1> + +<h2 class="subtitle"><i>A Poet's Dream.</i></h2> + + + +<div class="chapter" id="preface"> +<h2>Prefatory Note to The Sylphs of the Seasons.</h2> + + + +<p>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 <i>running brook</i>, though by no means peculiar, is +appropriated to Spring; as affording by its motion and <i>seeming</i> +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 <i>placid lake</i>, &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 <i>evening cloud</i>, 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.</p> + +<p>If the above be admitted, it is needless to add more; if it be not, it +would be useless.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="chapter" id="p01"> +<h2>The Sylphs of the Seasons.</h2> + + + +<p>Long has it been my fate to hear<br /> +The slave of Mammon, with a sneer,<br /> + My indolence reprove.<br /> +Ah, little knows he of the care,<br /> +The toil, the hardship that I bear,<br /> +While lolling in my elbow-chair,<br /> + And seeming scarce to move:</p> + +<p>For, mounted on the Poet's steed,<br /> +I <i>there</i> my ceaseless journey speed<br /> + O'er mountain, wood, and stream:<br /> +And oft within a little day<br /> +'Mid comets fierce 'tis mine to stray,<br /> +And wander o'er the Milky-way<br /> + To catch a Poet's dream.</p> + +<p>But would the Man of Lucre know<br /> +What riches from my labours flow?--<br /> + A DREAM is my reply.<br /> +And who for wealth has ever pin'd,<br /> +That had a World within his mind,<br /> +Where every treasure he may find,<br /> + And joys that never die!</p> + +<p>One night, my task diurnal done,<br /> +(For I had travell'd with the Sun<br /> + O'er burning sands, o'er snows)<br /> +Fatigued, I sought the couch of rest;<br /> +My wonted pray'r to Heaven address'd;<br /> +But scarce had I my pillow press'd<br /> + When thus a vision rose.</p> + +<p>Methought within a desert cave,<br /> +Cold, dark, and solemn as the grave,<br /> + I suddenly awoke.<br /> +It seem'd of sable Night the cell,<br /> +Where, save when from the ceiling fell<br /> +An oozing drop, her silent spell<br /> + No sound had ever broke.</p> + +<p>There motionless I stood alone,<br /> +Like some strange monument of stone<br /> + Upon a barren wild;<br /> +Or like, (so solid and profound<br /> +The darkness seem'd that wall'd me round)<br /> +A man that's buried under ground,<br /> + Where pyramids are pil'd.</p> + +<p>Thus fix'd, a dreadful hour I past,<br /> +And now I heard, as from a blast,<br /> + A voice pronounce my name:<br /> +Nor long upon my ear it dwelt,<br /> +When round me 'gan the air to melt.<br /> +And motion once again I felt<br /> + Quick circling o'er my frame.</p> + +<p>Again it call'd; and then a ray,<br /> +That seem'd a gushing fount of day,<br /> + Across the cavern stream'd.<br /> +Half struck with terror and delight,<br /> +I hail'd the little blessed light,<br /> +And follow'd 'till my aching sight<br /> + An orb of darkness seem'd.</p> + +<p>Nor long I felt the blinding pain;<br /> +For soon upon a mountain plain<br /> + I gaz'd with wonder new.<br /> +There high a castle rear'd its head;<br /> +And far below a region spread,<br /> +Where every Season seem'd to shed<br /> + Its own peculiar hue.</p> + +<p>Now at the castle's massy gate,<br /> +Like one that's blindly urged by fate,<br /> + A bugle-horn I blew.<br /> +The mountain-plain it shook around,<br /> +The vales return'd a hollow sound,<br /> +And, moving with a sigh profound.<br /> + The portals open flew.</p> + +<p>Then ent'ring, from a glittering hall<br /> +I heard a voice seraphic call,<br /> + That bade me "ever reign,<br /> +All hail!" it said in accent wild,<br /> +"For thou art Nature's chosen child,<br /> +Whom wealth nor blood has e'er defil'd,<br /> + Hail, Lord of this Domain!"</p> + +<p>And now I paced a bright saloon,<br /> +That seem'd illumin'd by the moon,<br /> + So mellow was the light.<br /> +The walls with jetty darkness teem'd,<br /> +While down them chrystal columns streamed,<br /> +And each a mountain torrent seem'd.<br /> + High-flashing through the night.</p> + +<p>Rear'd in the midst, a double throne.<br /> +Like burnish'd cloud of evening shone;<br /> + While, group'd the base around,<br /> +Four Damsels stood of Faery race;<br /> +Who, turning each with heavenly grace<br /> +Upon me her immortal face,<br /> + Transfix'd me to the ground.</p> + +<p>And <i>thus</i> the foremost of the tram:<br /> +Be thine the throne, and thine to reign<br /> + O'er all the varying year!<br /> +But ere thou rulest the Fates command;<br /> +That of our chosen rival band<br /> +A Sylph shall win thy heart and hand,<br /> + Thy sovereignty to share.</p> + +<p>For we, the sisters of a birth,<br /> +Do rule by turns the subject earth<br /> + To serve ungrateful man;<br /> +But since our varied toils impart<br /> +No joy to his capricious heart,<br /> +'Tis now ordain'd that human art<br /> + Shall rectify the plan.</p> + +<p>Then spake the Sylph of Spring serene,<br /> +'Tis <i>I</i> thy joyous heart I ween,<br /> + With sympathy shall move:<br /> +For I with living melody<br /> +Of birds in choral symphony,<br /> +First wak'd thy soul to poesy,<br /> + To piety and love.</p> + +<p>When thou, at call of vernal breeze,<br /> +And beck'ning bough of budding trees,<br /> + Hast left thy sullen fire;<br /> +And stretch'd thee in some mossy dell.<br /> +And heard the browsing wether's bell,<br /> +Blythe echoes rousing from their cell<br /> + To swell the tinkling quire:</p> + +<p>Or heard from branch of flow'ring thorn<br /> +The song of friendly cuckoo warn<br /> + The tardy-moving swain;<br /> +Hast bid the purple swallow hail;<br /> +And seen him now through ether sail,<br /> +Now sweeping downward o'er the vale.<br /> + And skimming now the plain;</p> + +<p>Then, catching with a sudden glance<br /> +The bright and silver-clear expanse<br /> + Of some broad river's stream.<br /> +Beheld the boats adown it glide,<br /> +And motion wind again the tide,<br /> +Where, chain'd in ice by Winter's pride,<br /> + Late roll'd the heavy team:</p> + +<p>Or, lur'd by some fresh-scented gale,<br /> +That woo'd the moored fisher's sail<br /> + To tempt the mighty main,<br /> +Hast watch'd the dim receding shore,<br /> +Now faintly seen the ocean o'er,<br /> +Like hanging cloud, and now no more<br /> + To bound the sapphire plain;</p> + +<p>Then, wrapt in night the scudding bark,<br /> +(That seem'd, self-pois'd amid the dark,<br /> + Through upper air to leap,)<br /> +Beheld, from thy most fearful height,<br /> +Beneath the dolphin's azure light<br /> +Cleave, like a living meteor bright,<br /> + The darkness of the deep:</p> + +<p>'Twas mine the warm, awak'ning hand<br /> +That made thy grateful heart expand,<br /> + And feel the high control<br /> +Of Him, the mighty Power, that moves<br /> +Amid the waters and the groves,<br /> +And through his vast creation proves<br /> + His omnipresent soul.</p> + +<p>Or, brooding o'er some forest rill,<br /> +Fring'd with the early daffodil,<br /> + And quiv'ring maiden-hair,<br /> +When thou hast mark'd the dusky bed,<br /> +With leaves and water-rust o'erspread,<br /> +That seem'd an amber light to shed<br /> + On all was shadow'd there;</p> + +<p>And thence, as by its murmur call'd,<br /> +The current traced to where it brawl'd<br /> + Beneath the noontide ray;<br /> +And there beheld the checquer'd shade<br /> +Of waves, in many a sinuous braid,<br /> +That o'er the sunny channel play'd,<br /> + With motion ever gay:</p> + +<p>'Twas I to these the magick gave,<br /> +That made thy heart, a willing slave,<br /> + To gentle Nature bend;<br /> +And taught thee how with tree and flower,<br /> +And whispering gale, and dropping shower,<br /> +In converse sweet to pass the hour,<br /> + As with an early friend:</p> + +<p>That mid the noontide sunny haze<br /> +Did in thy languid bosom raise<br /> + The raptures of the boy;<br /> +When, wak'd as if to second birth,<br /> +Thy soul through every pore look'd forth,<br /> +And gaz'd upon the beauteous Earth<br /> + With myriad eyes of joy:</p> + +<p>That made thy heart, like HIS above,<br /> +To flow with universal love<br /> + For every living thing.<br /> +And, oh! if I, with ray divine,<br /> +Thus tempering, did thy soul refine,<br /> +Then let thy gentle heart be mine,<br /> + And bless the Sylph of Spring.</p> + +<p>And next the Sylph of Summer fair;<br /> +The while her crisped, golden hair<br /> + Half veil'd her sunny eyes:<br /> +Nor less may <i>I</i> thy homage claim,<br /> +At touch of whose exhaling flame<br /> +The fog of Spring that chill'd thy frame<br /> + In genial vapour flies.</p> + +<p>Oft by the heat of noon opprest,<br /> +With flowing hair and open vest,<br /> + Thy footsteps have I won<br /> +To mossy couch of welling grot,<br /> +Where thou hast bless'd thy happy lot.<br /> +That thou in that delicious spot<br /> + May'st see, not feel, the sun:</p> + +<p>Thence tracing from the body's change,<br /> +In curious philosophic range,<br /> + The motion of the mind;<br /> +And how from thought to thought it flew,<br /> +Still hoping in each vision new<br /> +The faery land of bliss to view,<br /> + But ne'er that land to find.</p> + +<p>And then, as grew thy languid mood,<br /> +To some embow'ring silent wood<br /> + I led thy careless way;<br /> +Where high from tree to tree in air<br /> +Thou saw'st the spider swing her snare.<br /> +So bright!--as if, entangled there,<br /> + The sun had left a ray:</p> + +<p>Or lur'd thee to some beetling steep<br /> +To mark the deep and quiet sleep<br /> + That wrapt the tarn below;<br /> +And mountain blue and forest green<br /> +Inverted on its plane serene,<br /> +Dim gleaming through the filmy sheen<br /> + That glaz'd the painted show;</p> + +<p>Perchance, to mark the fisher's skiff<br /> +Swift from beneath some shadowy cliff<br /> + Dart, like a gust of wind;<br /> +And, as she skimm'd the sunny lake,<br /> +In many a playful wreath her wake<br /> +Far-trailing, like a silvery snake,<br /> + With sinuous length behind.</p> + +<p>Nor less when hill and dale and heath<br /> +Still Evening wrapt in mimic death.<br /> + Thy spirit true I prov'd:<br /> +Around thee, as the darkness stole,<br /> +Before thy wild, creative soul<br /> +I bade each faery vision roll,<br /> + Thine infancy had lov'd.</p> + +<p>Then o'er the silent sleeping land,<br /> +Thy fancy, like a magick wand,<br /> + Forth caird the Elfin race:<br /> +And now around the fountain's brim<br /> +In circling dance they gaily skim;<br /> +And now upon its surface swim,<br /> + And water-spiders chase;</p> + +<p>Each circumstance of sight or sound<br /> +Peopling the vacant air around<br /> + With visionary life:<br /> +For if amid a thicket stirr'd,<br /> +Or flitting bat, or wakeful bird,<br /> +Then straight thy eager fancy heard<br /> + The din of Faery strife;</p> + +<p>Now, in the passing beetle's hum<br /> +The Elfin army's goblin drum<br /> + To pigmy battle sound;<br /> +And now, where dripping dew-drops plash<br /> +On waving grass, their bucklers clash,<br /> +And now their quivering lances flash,<br /> + Wide-dealing death around:</p> + +<p>Or if the moon's effulgent form<br /> +The passing clouds of sudden storm<br /> + In quick succession veil;<br /> +Vast serpents now, their shadows glide,<br /> +And, coursing now the mountain's side,<br /> +A band of giants huge, they stride<br /> + O'er hill, and wood, and dale.</p> + +<p>And still on many a service rare<br /> +Could I descant, if need there were,<br /> + My firmer claim to bind.<br /> +But rest I most my high pretence<br /> +On that my genial influence,<br /> +Which made the body's indolence<br /> + The vigour of the mind.</p> + +<p>And now, in accents deep and low,<br /> +Like voice of fondly-cherish'd woe,<br /> + The Sylph of Autumn sad:<br /> +Though I may not of raptures sing,<br /> +That grac'd the gentle song of Spring,<br /> +Like Summer, playful pleasures bring,<br /> + Thy youthful heart to glad;</p> + +<p>Yet still may I in hope aspire<br /> +Thy heart to touch with chaster fire,<br /> + And purifying love:<br /> +For I with vision high and holy,<br /> +And spell of quick'ning melancholy,<br /> +Thy soul from sublunary folly<br /> + First rais'd to worlds above.</p> + +<p>What though be mine the treasures fair<br /> +Of purple grape and yellow pear,<br /> + And fruits of various hue,<br /> +And harvests rich of golden grain,<br /> +That dance in waves along the plain<br /> +To merry song of reaping swain,<br /> + Beneath the welkin blue;</p> + +<p>With these I may not urge my suit,<br /> +Of Summer's patient toil the fruit,<br /> + For mortal purpose given:<br /> +Nor may it fit my sober mood<br /> +To sing of sweetly murmuring flood,<br /> +Or dies of many-colour'd wood,<br /> + That mock the bow of heaven.</p> + +<p>But, know, 'twas mine the secret power<br /> +That wak'd thee at the midnight hour,<br /> + In bleak November's reign:<br /> +'Twas I the spell around thee cast,<br /> +When thou didst hear the hollow blast<br /> +In murmurs tell of pleasures past,<br /> + That ne'er would come again:</p> + +<p>And led thee, when the storm was o'er,<br /> +To hear the sullen ocean roar,<br /> + By dreadful calm opprest;<br /> +Which still, though not a breeze was there,<br /> +Its mountain-billows heav'd in air,<br /> +As if a living thing it were,<br /> + That strove in vain for rest.</p> + +<p>'Twas I, when thou, subdued by woe,<br /> +Didst watch the leaves descending slow,<br /> + To each a moral gave;<br /> +And as they mov'd in mournful train,<br /> +With rustling sound, along the plain,<br /> +Taught them to sing a seraph's strain<br /> + Of peace within the grave.</p> + +<p>And then uprais'd thy streaming eye,<br /> +I met thee in the western sky<br /> + In pomp of evening cloud;<br /> +That, while with varying form it roll'd;<br /> +Some wizard's castle seem'd of gold,<br /> +And now a crimson'd knight of old,<br /> + Or king in purple proud.</p> + +<p>And last, as sunk the setting sun,<br /> +And Evening with her shadows dun,<br /> + The gorgeous pageant past,<br /> +'Twas then of life a mimic shew,<br /> +Of human grandeur here below,<br /> +Which thus beneath the fatal blow<br /> + Of Death must fall at last.</p> + +<p>Oh, then with what aspiring gaze<br /> +Didst thou thy tranced vision raise<br /> + To yonder orbs on high,<br /> +And think how wondrous, how sublime<br /> +'Twere upwards to their spheres to climb,<br /> +And live, beyond the reach of Time,<br /> + Child of Eternity!</p> + +<p>And last the Sylph of Winter spake;<br /> +The while her piercing voice did shake<br /> + The castle-vaults below.<br /> +Oh, youth, if thou, with soul refin'd,<br /> +Hast felt the triumph pure of mind,<br /> +And learnt a secret joy to find<br /> + In deepest scenes of woe;</p> + +<p>If e'er with fearful ear at eve<br /> +Hast heard the wailing tempest grieve<br /> + Through chink of shatter'd wall;<br /> +The while it conjur'd o'er thy brain<br /> +Of wandering ghosts a mournful train,<br /> +That low in fitful sobs complain,<br /> + Of Death's untimely call:</p> + +<p>Or feeling, as the storm increas'd,<br /> +The love of terror nerve thy breast,<br /> + Didst venture to the coast;<br /> +To see the mighty war-ship leap<br /> +From wave to wave upon the deep,<br /> +Like chamoise goat from steep to steep,<br /> + 'Till low in valleys lost;</p> + +<p>Then, glancing to the angry sky,<br /> +Behold the clouds with fury fly<br /> + The lurid moon athwart;<br /> +Like armies huge in battle, throng,<br /> +And pour in vollying ranks along,<br /> +While piping winds in martial song<br /> + To rushing war exhort:</p> + +<p>Oh, then to me thy heart be given,<br /> +To me, ordain'd by Him in heaven<br /> + Thy nobler powers to wake.<br /> +And oh! if thou with poet's soul,<br /> +High brooding o'er the frozen pole,<br /> +Hast felt beneath my stern control<br /> + The desert region quake;</p> + +<p>Or from old Hecla's cloudy height,<br /> +When o'er the dismal, half-year's night<br /> + He pours his sulph'rous breath,<br /> +Hast known my petrifying wind<br /> +Wild ocean's curling billows bind,<br /> +Like bending sheaves by harvest hind,<br /> + Erect in icy-*death;</p> + +<p>Or heard adown the mountain's steep<br /> +The northern blast with furious sweep<br /> + Some cliff dissever'd dash;<br /> +And seen it spring with dreadful bound<br /> +From rock to rock, to gulph profound,<br /> +While echoes fierce from caves resound<br /> + The never-ending crash:</p> + +<p>If thus, with terror's mighty spell<br /> +Thy soul inspir'd, was wont to swell,<br /> + Thy heaving frame expand;<br /> +Oh, then to me thy heart incline;<br /> +For know, the wondrous charm was mine<br /> +That fear and joy did thus combine<br /> + In magick union bland.</p> + +<p>Nor think confin'd my native sphere<br /> +To horrors gaunt, or ghastly fear,<br /> + Or desolation wild:<br /> +For I of pleasures fair could sing,<br /> +That steal from life its sharpest sting,<br /> +And man have made around it cling,<br /> + Like mother to her child.</p> + +<p>When thou, beneath the clear blue sky,<br /> +So calm no cloud was seen to fly,<br /> + Hast gaz'd on snowy plain,<br /> +Where Nature slept so pure and sweet,<br /> +She seem'd a corse in winding-sheet,<br /> +Whose happy soul had gone to meet<br /> + The blest Angelic train;</p> + +<p>Or mark'd the sun's declining ray<br /> +In thousand varying colours play<br /> + O'er ice-incrusted heath,<br /> +In gleams of orange now, and green,<br /> +And now in red and azure sheen,<br /> +Like hues on dying dolphins seen,<br /> + Most lovely when in death;</p> + +<p>Or seen at dawn of eastern light<br /> +The frosty toil of Fays by night<br /> + On pane of casement clear,<br /> +Where bright the mimic glaciers shine,<br /> +And Alps, with many a mountain pine,<br /> +And armed knights from Palestine<br /> + In winding march appear:</p> + +<p>'Twas I on each enchanting scene<br /> +The charm bestow'd that banished spleen<br /> + Thy bosom pure and light.<br /> +But still a <i>nobler</i> power I claim;<br /> +That power allied to poets' fame,<br /> +Which language vain has dar'd to name--<br /> + The soul's creative might.</p> + +<p>Though Autumn grave, and Summer fair,<br /> +And joyous Spring demand a share<br /> + Of Fancy's hallow'd power,<br /> +Yet these I hold of humbler kind,<br /> +To grosser means of earth confin'd,<br /> +Through mortal <i>sense</i> to reach the mind,<br /> + By mountain, stream, or flower.</p> + +<p>But mine, of purer nature still,<br /> +Is <i>that</i> which to thy secret will<br /> + Did minister unseen,<br /> +Unfelt, unheard; when every sense<br /> +Did sleep in drowsy indolence,<br /> +And Silence deep and Night intense<br /> + Enshrowded every scene;</p> + +<p>That o'er thy teeming brain did raise<br /> +The spirits of departed days[<a href="#fn1">1</a>]<br /> + Through all the varying year;<br /> +And images of things remote,<br /> +And sounds that long had ceas'd to float,<br /> +With every hue, and every note,<br /> + As living now they were:</p> + +<p>And taught thee from the motley mass<br /> +Each harmonizing part to class,<br /> + (Like Nature's self employ'd;)<br /> +And then, as work'd thy wayward will,<br /> +From these with rare combining skill,<br /> +With new-created worlds to fill<br /> + Of space the mighty void.</p> + +<p>Oh then to me thy heart incline;<br /> +To me whose plastick powers combine<br /> + The harvest of the mind;<br /> +To me, whose magic coffers bear<br /> +The spoils of all the toiling year,<br /> +That still in mental vision wear<br /> + A lustre more refin'd.</p> + +<p>She ceas'd--And now in doubtful mood,<br /> +All motionless and mute I stood,<br /> + Like one by charm opprest:<br /> +By turns from each to each I rov'd,<br /> +And each by turns again I lov'd;<br /> +For ages ne'er could one have prov'd<br /> + More lovely than the rest.</p> + +<p>"Oh blessed band, of birth divine,<br /> +What mortal task is like to mine!"--<br /> + And further had I spoke,<br /> +When, lo! there pour'd a flood of light<br /> +So fiercely on my aching sight,<br /> +I fell beneath the vision bright,<br /> + And with the pain I woke.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="chapter" id="p02"> +<h2>The Two Painters: <i>A Tale.</i></h2> + + + +<p> Say why in every work of man<br /> +Some imperfection mars the plan?<br /> +Why join'd in every human art<br /> +A perfect and imperfect part?<br /> +Is it that life for art is short?<br /> +Or is it nature's cruel sport?<br /> +Or would she thus a moral teach;<br /> +That man should see, but never reach,<br /> +The height of excellence, and show<br /> +The vanity of works below?<br /> +Or consequence of Pride, or Sloth;<br /> +Or rather the effect of both?<br /> +Whoe'er on life his eye has cast,<br /> +I fear, alas, will say the last!</p> + +<p> Once on a time in Charon's wherry<br /> +Two Painters met, on Styx's ferry.<br /> +Good sir, said one, with bow profound,<br /> +I joy to meet thee under ground,<br /> +And though with zealous spite we strove<br /> +To blast each other's fame above,<br /> +Yet here, as neither bay nor laurel<br /> +Can tempt us to prolong our quarrel,<br /> +I hope the hand which I extend<br /> +Will meet the welcome of a friend.<br /> +Sweet sir! replied the other Shade,<br /> +While scorn on either nostril play'd,<br /> +Thy proffer'd love were great and kind<br /> +Could I in thee a <i>rival</i> find.--<br /> +rival, sir! returned the first,<br /> +Ready with rising wind to burst,<br /> +Thy meekness, sure, in this I see;<br /> +We are not rivals, I agree:<br /> +And therefore am I more inclin'd<br /> +To cherish one of humble mind,<br /> +Who apprehends that one above him<br /> +Can never condescend to love him.</p> + +<p> Nor longer did their courteous guile,<br /> +Like serpent, twisting through a smile,<br /> +Each other sting in civil phrase,<br /> +And poison with envenom'd praise;<br /> +For now the fiend of anger rose,<br /> +Distending each death-withered nose,<br /> +And, rolling fierce each glassy eye,<br /> +Like owlets' at the noonday sky,<br /> +Such flaming vollies pour'd of ire<br /> +As set old Charon's phlegm on fire.<br /> +Peace! peace! the grizly boatman cried,<br /> +You drown the roar of Styx's tide;<br /> +Unmanner'd ghosts! if such your strife,<br /> +'Twere better you were still in life!<br /> +If passions such as these you show<br /> +You'll make another Earth below;<br /> +Which, sure, would be a viler birth,<br /> +Than if we made a Hell on Earth.<br /> +At which in loud defensive strain<br /> +'Gan speak the angry Shades again.<br /> +I'll hear no more, cried he; 'no more'<br /> +In echoes hoarse return'd the shore.<br /> +To Minos' court you soon shall hie,<br /> +(Chief Justice here) 'tis he will try<br /> +Your jealous cause, and prove at once<br /> +That only dunce can hate a dunce.</p> + +<p> Thus check'd, in sullen mood they sped,<br /> +Nor more on either side was said;<br /> +Nor aught the dismal silence broke,<br /> +Save only when the boatman's stroke,<br /> +Deep-whizzing through the wave was heard,<br /> +And now and then a spectre-bird,<br /> +Low-cow'ring, with a hungry scream.<br /> +For spectre-fishes in the stream.</p> + +<p> Now midway pass'd, the creaking oar<br /> +Is heard upon the fronting shore;<br /> +Where thronging round in many a band,<br /> +The curious ghosts beset the strand.<br /> +Now suddenly the boat they 'spy,<br /> +Like gull diminish'd in the sky;<br /> +And now, like cloud of dusky white,<br /> +Slow sailing o'er the deep of night,<br /> +The sheeted group within the bark<br /> +Is seen amid the billows dark.<br /> +Anon the keel with grating sound<br /> +They hear upon the pebbly ground.<br /> +And now with kind, officious hand,<br /> +They help the ghostly crew to land.</p> + +<p> What news? they cried with one accord<br /> +I pray you, said a noble lord,<br /> +Tell me if in the world above<br /> +I still retain the people's love:<br /> +Or whether they, like us below,<br /> +The motives of a Patriot know?<br /> +And me inform, another said,<br /> +What think they of a Buck that's dead?<br /> +Have they discerned that, being dull,<br /> +I knock'd my wit from watchmen's skull?<br /> +And me, cried one, of knotty front,<br /> +With many a scar of pride upon't<br /> +Resolve me if the world opine<br /> +Philosophers are still divine;<br /> +That having hearts for friends too small,<br /> +Or rather having none at all,<br /> +Profess'd to love, with saving grace,<br /> +The <i>abstract</i> of the human race?<br /> +And I, exclaim'd a fourth, would ask<br /> +What think they of the Critick's task?<br /> +Perceive they now our shallow arts;<br /> +That merely from the want of parts<br /> +To write ourselves, we gravely taught<br /> +How books by others should be wrought?<br /> +Whom interrupting, then inquir'd<br /> +A fifth, in squalid garb attir'd,<br /> +Do now the world with much regard<br /> +In mem'ry hold the dirty Bard,<br /> +Who credit gain'd for genius rare<br /> +By shabby coat and uncomb'd hair?<br /> +Or do they, said a Shade of prose,<br /> +With many a pimple's ghost on nose,<br /> +Th' eccentric author still admire,<br /> +Who wanting that same genius' fire,<br /> +Diving in cellars underground,<br /> +In pipe the spark ethereal found:<br /> +Which, fann'd by many a ribbald joke,<br /> +From brother tipplers puff'd in smoke,<br /> +Such blaze diffused with crackling loud,<br /> +As blinded all the staring croud?<br /> +And last, with jealous glancing eye,<br /> +That seem'd in all around to pry,<br /> +A Painter's ghost in voice suppres'd,<br /> +Thus questioning, the group address'd;</p> + +<p> Sweet strangers, may I too demand,<br /> +How thrive the offspring of my hand?<br /> +Whether, as when in life I flourish'd,<br /> +They still by puffs of fame are nourish'd?<br /> +Or whether have the world discern'd<br /> +The tricks by which my fame was earn'd;<br /> +That, lacking in my pencil skill,<br /> +I made my tongue its office fill:<br /> +That, marking (as for love of truth)<br /> +In others' works a limb uncouth,<br /> +Or face too young, or face too old,<br /> +Or colour hot, or colour cold;<br /> +Or hinting, (if to praise betray'd)<br /> +'Though coloured well, it yet might <i>fade</i>;'<br /> +And 'though its grace I can't deny,<br /> +Yet pity 'tis so hard and dry.'--<br /> +I thus by implication show'd<br /> +That mine were wrought in better mode;<br /> +And talking thus superiors down,<br /> +Obliquely raise my own renown?<br /> +In short, I simply this would ask,--<br /> +If Truth has stript me of the mask;<br /> +And, chasing Fashion's mist away,<br /> +Expos'd me to the eye of day--[<a href="#fn2">2</a>]<br /> +A Painter false, without a heart,<br /> +Who lov'd himself, and not his art?</p> + +<p> At which, with fix'd and fishy<br /> +The Strangers both express'd amaze.<br /> +Good Sir, said they, 'tis strange you dare<br /> +Such meanness of yourself declare.</p> + +<p> Were I on earth, replied the Shade,<br /> +I never had the truth betray'd;<br /> +For there (and I suspect like you)<br /> +I ne'er had time myself to view.<br /> +Yet, knowing that 'bove all creation<br /> +I held myself in estimation,<br /> +I deem'd that what I <i>lov'd</i> the <i>best</i><br /> +Of every virtue was possess'd.<br /> +But <i>here</i> in colours black and true,<br /> +Men see themselves, who never knew<br /> +Their motives in the worldly strife,<br /> +Or real characters through life.<br /> +And here, alas! I scarce had been<br /> +A little day, when every sin<br /> +That slumber'd in my living breast,<br /> +By Minos rous'd from torpid rest,<br /> +Like thousand adders, rushing out,<br /> +Entwin'd my shuddering limbs about.--<br /> +Oh, strangers, hear!--the truth I tell--<br /> +That fearful sight I saw was Hell.<br /> +And, oh I with what unmeasur'd wo<br /> +Did bitterness upon me flow,<br /> +When thund'ring through the hissing air,<br /> +I heard the sentence of Despair--<br /> +'Now never hope from Hell to flee;<br /> +Yourself is all the Hell you see!'--</p> + +<p> He ceas'd. But still with stubborn pride<br /> +The Rival Shades each other eyed;<br /> +When, bursting with terrifick sound,<br /> +The voice of Minos shook the ground,<br /> +The startled ghosts on either side,<br /> +Like clouds before the wind, divide;<br /> +And leaving far a passage free,<br /> +Each, conning his defensive plea,<br /> +With many a crafty lure for grace.<br /> +The Painters onward hold their pace.<br /> +Anon before the Judgement Seat,<br /> +With sneer confronting sneer they meet:<br /> +And now in deep and awful strain,<br /> +Piercing like fiery darts the brain,<br /> +Thus Minos spake. Though I am he,<br /> +From whom no secret thought may flee;<br /> +Who sees it ere the birth be known<br /> +To him, that claims it for his own;<br /> +Yet would I still with patience hear<br /> +What each may for himself declare,<br /> +That all in your defence may see<br /> +The justice pure of my decree.--<br /> +But, hold!--It ill beseems my place<br /> +To hear debate in such a case:<br /> +Be therefore thou, Da Vinci's shade,<br /> +Who when on earth to men display'd<br /> +The scattered powers of human kind<br /> +In thy capacious soul combin'd;<br /> +Be thou the umpire of the strife,<br /> +And judge as thou wert still in life.</p> + +<p> Thus bid, with grave becoming air,<br /> +Th' appointed judge assum'd the chair.<br /> +And now with modest-seeming air,<br /> +The rivals straight for speech prepare:<br /> +And thus, with hand upon his breast,<br /> +The Senior Ghost the Judge address'd:<br /> +The world, (if ought the world I durst<br /> +In this believe) did call me first<br /> +Of those, who by the magick play<br /> +Of harmonizing colours, sway<br /> +The gazer's sense with such surprise,<br /> +As make him disbelieve his eyes.<br /> +'Tis true that some of vision dim,<br /> +Or squeamish taste, or pedant whim,<br /> +My works assail'd with narrow spite;<br /> +And, passing o'er my colour bright,<br /> +Reproach'd me for my want of grace,<br /> +And silks and velvets out of place;<br /> +And vulgar form, and lame design,<br /> +And want of character; in fine,<br /> +For lack of worth of every kind<br /> +To charm or to enlarge the mind.<br /> +Now this, my Lord, as will appear,<br /> +Was nothing less than malice sheer,<br /> +To stab me, like assassins dark,<br /> +Because I did not hit a mark,<br /> +At which (as I have hope of fame)<br /> +I never once design'd to aim.<br /> +For seeing that the life of man<br /> +Was scarcely longer than a span;<br /> +And, knowing that the Graphic Art<br /> +Ne'er mortal master'd but <i>in part</i>;<br /> +I wisely deem'd 'twere labour vain,<br /> +Should I attempt the <i>whole</i> to gain;<br /> +And therefore, with ambition high,<br /> +Aspir'd to reach what pleas'd the eye;<br /> +Which, truly, sir, must be confess'd,<br /> +A part that far excels the rest:<br /> +For if, as all the world agree,<br /> +'Twixt Painting and fair Poesy<br /> +The diff'rence in the mode be found,<br /> +Of colour this, and that of sound,<br /> +'Tis plain, o'er every other grace,<br /> +That colour holds the highest place;<br /> +As being that distinctive part,<br /> +Which bounds it from another art.<br /> +If therefore, with reproof severe<br /> +I've galled my pigmy Rival here,<br /> +'Twas only, as your Lordship knows,<br /> +Because his foolish envy chose<br /> +To rank his classic forms of mud<br /> +Above my wholesome flesh and blood.</p> + +<p> Thus ended parle the Senior Shade.<br /> +And now, as scorning to upbraid,<br /> +With curving, <i>parabolick</i> smile,<br /> +Contemptuous, eying him the while,<br /> +His Rival thus: 'Twere vain, my Lord,<br /> +To wound a gnat by spear or sword[<a href="#fn3">3</a>];<br /> +If therefore <i>I</i>, of greater might,<br /> +Would meet this <i>thing</i> in equal fight,<br /> +'Twere fit that I in size should be<br /> +As mean, diminutive, as he;<br /> +Of course, disdaining to reply,<br /> +I pass the wretch unheeded by.<br /> +But since your Lordship deigns to know<br /> +What I in my behalf may show,<br /> +With due submission, I proclaim,<br /> +That few on earth have borne a name<br /> +More envied or esteem'd than mine,<br /> +For grace, expression, and design,<br /> +For manners true of every clime,<br /> +And composition's art sublime.<br /> +In academick lore profound,<br /> +I boldly took that lofty ground,<br /> +Which, as it rais'd me near the sky,<br /> +Was thence for vulgar eyes too high;<br /> +Or, if beheld, to them appear'd<br /> +By clouds of gloomy darkness blear'd.<br /> +Yet still that misty height I chose,<br /> +For well I knew the world had those,<br /> +Whose sight, by learning clear'd of rheum,<br /> +Could pierce with ease the thickest gloom.<br /> +Thus, perch'd sublime, 'mid clouds I wrought,<br /> +Nor heeded what the vulgar thought.<br /> +What, though with clamour coarse and rude<br /> +They jested on my colours crude;<br /> +Comparing with malicious grin,<br /> +My drapery to bronze and tin,<br /> +My flesh to brick and earthen ware,<br /> +And wire of various kinds my hair;<br /> +Or (if a landscape-bit they saw)<br /> +My trees to pitchforks crown'd with straw;<br /> +My clouds to pewter plates of thin edge,<br /> +And fields to dish of eggs and spinage;<br /> +Yet this, and many a grosser rub,<br /> +Like fam'd Diogenes in tub,<br /> +I bore with philosophic nerve,<br /> +Nay, gladly bore; for, here observe,<br /> +<i>'Twas that which gave to them offense,<br /> +Did constitute my excellence.</i><br /> +I see, my Lord, at this you stare:<br /> +Yet thus I'll prove it to a hair.--<br /> +As Mind and Body are distinct,<br /> +Though long in social union link'd,<br /> +And as the only power they boast,<br /> +Is merely at each other's cost;<br /> +If both should hold an equal station,<br /> +They'd both be kings without a nation:<br /> +If therefore, one would paint the Mind<br /> +In partnership with Body join'd,<br /> +And give to each an equal place,<br /> +With each an equal truth and grace,<br /> +'Tis clear the picture could not fail<br /> +To be without or head or tail.<br /> +And therefore as the Mind alone<br /> +I chose should fill my graphick throne,<br /> +To fix her pow'r beyond dispute,<br /> +I trampled Body under foot:<br /> +That is, in more prosaick dress,<br /> +As I the passions would express,<br /> +And as they ne'er could be portray'd<br /> +Without the subject Body's aid,<br /> +I show'd no more of that than merely<br /> +Sufficed to represent them clearly:<br /> +As thus--by simple means and pure<br /> +Of light and shadow, and contour:<br /> +But since what mortals call complexion,<br /> +Has with the mind no more connexion<br /> +Than ethicks with a country dance,<br /> +I left my col'ring all to chance;<br /> +Which oft (as I may proudly state)<br /> +With Nature war'd at such a rate,<br /> +As left no mortal hue or stain<br /> +Of base, corrupting flesh, to chain<br /> +The Soul to Earth; but, free as light,<br /> +E'en let her soar till out of sight.</p> + +<p> Thus spake the champion bold of mind;<br /> +And thus the Colourist rejoin'd:<br /> +In truth, my Lord, I apprehend,<br /> +If I by <i>words</i> with him contend,<br /> +My case is gone; far he, by gift<br /> +Of what is call'd the <i>gab</i>, can shift<br /> +The right for wrong, with such a sleight,<br /> +That right seems wrong and wrong the right;<br /> +Nay, by his twisting logick make<br /> +A square the form of circle take.<br /> +I therefore, with submission meet,<br /> +In justice do your Grace intreat<br /> +To let awhile your judgment pause,<br /> +That <i>works</i> not <i>words</i> may plead our cause.<br /> +Let Merc'ry then to Earth repair,<br /> +The works of both survey with care,<br /> +And hither bring the best of each,<br /> +And save us further waste of speech.</p> + +<p> Such fair demand, the Judge replied,<br /> +Could not with justice be denied.<br /> +Good Merc'ry, hence! I fly, my Lord,<br /> +The Courier said. And, at the word,<br /> +High-bounding, wings his airy flight<br /> +So swift his form eludes the sight;<br /> +Nor aught is seen his course to mark,<br /> +Save when athwart the region dark<br /> +His brazen helm is spied afar,<br /> +Bright-trailing like a falling star.</p> + +<p> And now for minutes ten there stole<br /> +A silence deep o'er every soul--<br /> +When, lo! again before them stands<br /> +The courier's self with empty hands.<br /> +Why, how is this? exclaim'd the twain;<br /> +Where are the <i>pictures</i>, sir? Explain!<br /> +Good sirs, replied the God of Post,<br /> +I scarce had reached the other coast,<br /> +When Charon told me, one he ferried<br /> +Inform'd him they were dead and buried:<br /> +Then bade me hither haste and say,<br /> +Their ghosts were now upon the way.<br /> +In mute amaze the Painters stood.<br /> +But soon upon the Stygian flood,<br /> +Behold! the spectre-pictures float,<br /> +Like rafts behind the towing boat:<br /> +Now reach'd the shore, in close array,<br /> +Like armies drill'd in Homer's day,<br /> +When marching on to meet the foe,<br /> +By bucklers hid from top to toe,<br /> +They move along the dusky fields,<br /> +A grizly troop of painted shields:<br /> +And now, arrived in order fair,<br /> +A gallery huge they hang in air.</p> + +<p> The ghostly croud with gay surprize<br /> +Began to rub their stony eyes:<br /> +Such pleasant lounge, they all averr'd,<br /> +None saw since he had been interr'd;<br /> +And thus, like connoisseurs on Earth,<br /> +Began to weigh the pictures' worth:<br /> +But first (as deem'd of higher kind)<br /> +Examin'd they the works of <i>Mind</i>.[<a href="#fn4">4</a>]<br /> +Pray what is this? demanded one.--<br /> +That, sir, is Phoebus, alias, Sun:<br /> +A classick work you can't deny;<br /> +The car and horses in the sky,<br /> +The clouds on which they hold their way,<br /> +Proclaim him all the God of Day.<br /> +Nay, learned sir, his dirty plight<br /> +More fit beseems the God of Night.<br /> +Besides, I cannot well divine<br /> +How mud like this can ever shine.--<br /> +Then look at that a little higher.--<br /> +I see 'tis Orpheus, by his lyre.<br /> +The beasts that listening stand around,<br /> +Do well declare the force of sound:<br /> +But why the fiction thus reverse,<br /> +And make the power of song a curse?<br /> +The ancient Orpheus soften'd rocks,<br /> +Yours changes living things to blocks.--<br /> +Well, this you'll sure acknowledge fine,<br /> +Parnassus' top with all the Nine.<br /> +Ah, <i>there</i> is beauty, soul and fire,<br /> +And all that human wit inspire!--<br /> +Good sir, you're right; for being stone,<br /> +They're each to blunted wits a hone.<br /> +And what is that? inquir'd another.--<br /> +That, sir, is Cupid and his Mother.--<br /> +What, Venus? sure it cannot be:<br /> +That skin begrim'd ne'er felt the sea;<br /> +That Cupid too ne'er knew the sky;<br /> +For lead, I'm sure, could never fly.--<br /> +I'll hear no more, the Painter said,<br /> +Your souls are, like your bodies, dead!</p> + +<p> With secret triumph now elate,<br /> +His grinning Rival 'gan to prate.<br /> +Oh, fie! my friends; upon my word,<br /> +You're too severe: he should be <i>heard</i>;<br /> +For <i>Mind</i> can ne'er to glory reach,<br /> +Without the usual aid of <i>speech</i>.<br /> +If thus howe'er, you seal his doom,<br /> +What hope have I unknown to Rome?<br /> +But since the <i>truth</i> be your dominion,<br /> +I beg to hear your just opinion.<br /> +This picture then--which some have thought<br /> +By far the best I ever wrought--<br /> +Observe it well with critick ken;<br /> +'Tis Daniel in the Lion's Den.--<br /> +'Tis flesh itself! exclaim'd a Critick.<br /> +But why make Daniel paralytick?<br /> +His limbs and features are distorted.<br /> +And then his legs are badly sorted.<br /> +'Tis true, a miracle you've hit,<br /> +But not as told in Holy Writ;<br /> +For there the miracle was braving,<br /> +With <i>bones unbroke</i>, the Lion's craving;<br /> +But yours (what ne'er could man befall)<br /> +That he should <i>live with none at all</i>.--<br /> +And pray, inquir'd another spectre,<br /> +What Mufti's that at pious lecture?<br /> +That's Socrates, condemned to die;<br /> +He next, in sable, standing by,<br /> +Is Galen[<a href="#fn5">5</a>], come to save his friend,<br /> +If possible, from such an end;<br /> +The other figures, group'd around,<br /> +His Scholars, wrapt in woe profound.--<br /> +And am I like to this portray'd?<br /> +Exclaim'd the Sage's smiling Shade.<br /> +Good Sir, I never knew before<br /> +That I a Turkish turban wore,<br /> +Or mantle hemm'd with golden stitches,<br /> +Much less a pair of satin breeches;<br /> +But as for him in sable clad,<br /> +Though wond'rous kind, 'twas rather mad<br /> +To visit one like me forlorn,<br /> +So long before himself was born.<br /> +And what's the next? inquir'd a third;<br /> +A jolly blade upon my word!--<br /> +'Tis Alexander, Philip's son,<br /> +Lamenting o'er his battles won;<br /> +That now his mighty toils are o'er,<br /> +The world has nought to conquer more.<br /> +At which, forth stalking from the host,<br /> +Before them stood the Hero's Ghost--<br /> +Was that, said he, my earthly form,<br /> +The Genius of the battle-storm?<br /> +From top to toe the figure's Dutch!<br /> +Alas, my friend, had I been such,<br /> +Had I that fat and meaty skull,<br /> +Those bloated cheeks, and eyes so dull,<br /> +That driv'ling mouth, and bottle nose,<br /> +Those shambling legs, and gouty toes;<br /> +Thus form'd to snore throughout the day,--<br /> +And eat and drink the night away;<br /> +I ne'er had felt the fev'rish flame<br /> +That caus'd my bloody thirst for fame;<br /> +Nor madly claim'd immortal birth,<br /> +Because the vilest brute on Earth:<br /> +And, oh! I'd not been doom'd to hear,<br /> +Still whizzing in my blister'd ear,<br /> +The curses deep, in damning peals,<br /> +That rose from 'neath my chariot wheels,<br /> +When I along the embattled plain<br /> +With furious triumph crush'd the slain:<br /> +I should not thus be doom'd to see,<br /> +In every shape of agony,<br /> +The victims of my cruel wrath,<br /> +For ever dying, strew my path;<br /> +The grinding teeth, the lips awry,<br /> +The inflated nose, the starting eye,<br /> +The mangled bodies writhing round,<br /> +Like serpents, on the bloody ground;<br /> +I should not thus for ever seem<br /> +A charnel house, and scent the steam<br /> +Of black, fermenting, putrid gore,<br /> +Rank oozing through each burning pore;<br /> +Behold, as on a dungeon wall,<br /> +The worms upon my body crawl,<br /> +The which, if I would brush away,<br /> +Around my clammy fingers play,<br /> +And, twining fast with many a coil,<br /> +In loathsome sport my labor foil.</p> + +<p> Enough! the frighted Painter cried,<br /> +And hung his head in fallen pride.</p> + +<p> Not so the other. He, of stuff<br /> +More stubborn, ne'er would cry enough;<br /> +But like a soundly cudgell'd oak,<br /> +More sturdy grew at every stroke,<br /> +And thus again his ready tongue<br /> +With fluent logick would have rung:<br /> +My Lord, I'll prove, or I'm a liar--<br /> +Whom interrupting then with ire,<br /> +Thus check'd the Judge: Oh, proud yet mean!<br /> +And canst thou hope from me to screen<br /> +Thy foolish heart, and o'er it spread<br /> +A veil to cheat th' omniscient dead?<br /> +And canst thou hope, as once on Earth,<br /> +Applause to gain by specious worth;<br /> +Like those that still by sneer and taunt<br /> +Would prove pernicious what they want;<br /> +And claim the mastership of Art,<br /> +Because thou only know'st a <i>part</i>?</p> + +<p> Had'st thou from Nature, not the Schools<br /> +Distorted by pedantic rules,<br /> +With patience wrought, such logic vain<br /> +Had ne'er perverted thus thy brain:<br /> +For Genius never gave delight<br /> +By means of what offends the sight:<br /> +Nor hadst thou deem'd, with folly mad,<br /> +Thou could'st to Nature's beauties <i>add</i>,<br /> +By <i>taking from her that which gives<br /> +The best assurance that she lives;<br /> +By imperfection give attraction,<br /> +And multiply them by subtraction.</i></p> + +<p> Did Raffaelle thus, whose honour'd ghost<br /> +Is now Elysium's fairest boast?<br /> +Far diff'rent He. Though weak and lame<br /> +In parts that gave to others fame,<br /> +Yet sought not <i>he</i> by such defect<br /> +To swindle praise for <i>wise neglect</i><br /> +Of <i>vulgar</i> charms, that only <i>blind</i><br /> +The dazzled eye to those of Mind.<br /> +By Heaven impressed with Genius' seal,<br /> +An eye to see, and heart to feel,<br /> +His soul through boundless Nature rov'd,<br /> +And seeing felt, and feeling lov'd.<br /> +But weak the power of mind at will<br /> +To give the hand the painter's skill;<br /> +For mortal works, maturing slow,<br /> +From patient care and labour flow:<br /> +And hence restrain'd, his youthful hand<br /> +Obey'd a master's dull command;<br /> +But soon with health his sickly style<br /> +From Leonardo learn'd to smile;<br /> +And now from Bonarroti caught<br /> +A nobler Form; and now it sought<br /> +Of colour fair the magic spell,<br /> +And trac'd her to the Friar's[<a href="#fn6">6</a>] cell.<br /> +No foolish pride, no narrow rule<br /> +Enslav'd his soul; from every School,<br /> +Whatever fair, whatever grand,<br /> +His pencil, like a potent wand,<br /> +Transfusing, bade his canvass grace.<br /> +Progressive thus, with giant pace.<br /> +And energy no toil could tame,<br /> +He climb'd the rugged mount of Fame:<br /> +And soon had reach'd the summit bold,<br /> +When Death, who there delights to hold<br /> +His fatal watch, with envious blow<br /> +Quick hurl'd him to the shades below.</p> + +<p> Thus check'd the Judge the champion vain<br /> +Of <i>Classic Form</i>; and thus in strain,<br /> +By anger half and pity mov'd,<br /> +The ghostly Colourist reprov'd.<br /> +And what didst <i>Thou</i> aspire to gain,<br /> +<i>Who</i> dar'd'st the will of Jove arraign,<br /> +That bounded thus within a span<br /> +The little life of little man;<br /> +With shallow art deriving thence<br /> +Excuses for thy indolence?<br /> +'Tis cant and hypocritic stuff!<br /> +The life of man is long enough:<br /> +For did he but the half improve<br /> +He would not quarrel thus with Jove.</p> + +<p> But most I marvel (if it be<br /> +That aught may wond'rous seem to me)<br /> +That Jove's high Gift, your noble Art,<br /> +Bestow'd to raise Man's grov'ling heart,<br /> +Refining with ethereal ray<br /> +Each gross and selfish thought away,<br /> +Should pander turn of paltry pelf,<br /> +Imprisoning each within himself;<br /> +Or like a gorgeous serpent, be<br /> +Your splendid source of misery,<br /> +And, crushing with his burnish'd folds,<br /> +Still narrower make your narrow souls.</p> + +<p> But words can ne'er reform produce,<br /> +In Ignorance and Pride obtuse.<br /> +Then know, ye rain and foolish Pair!<br /> +Your doom is fix'd a yoke to bear<br /> +Like beasts on Earth; and, thus in tether,<br /> +Five Centuries to paint together.<br /> +If, thus by mutual labours join'd,<br /> +Your jarring souls should be combin'd,<br /> +The faults of each the other mending,<br /> +The powers of both harmonious blending;<br /> +Great Jove, perhaps, in gracious vein,<br /> +May send your souls on Earth again;<br /> +Yet there One only Painter be;<br /> +For thus the eternal Fates decree:<br /> +One Leg alone shall never run,<br /> +Nor two Half-Painters make but One.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="chapter" id="p03"> +<h2>Eccentricity.</h2> + + + +<blockquote class="epi"><p>Projecere animas. <span class="smallcaps">Virg.</span></p></blockquote> + + +<p> Alas, my friend! what hope have I of fame,<br /> +Who am, as Nature made me, still the same?<br /> +And thou, poor suitor to a bankrupt muse,<br /> +How mad thy toil, how arrogant thy views!<br /> +What though endued with Genius' power to move<br /> +The magick chords of sympathy and love,<br /> +The painter's eye, the poet's fervid heart,<br /> +The tongue of eloquence, the vital art<br /> +Of bold Prometheus, kindling at command<br /> +With breathing life the labours of his hand;<br /> +Yet shall the World thy daring high pretence<br /> +With scorn deride, for thou--hast common sense.</p> + +<p> But dost thou, reckless of stern honour's laws,<br /> +Intemperate hunger for the World's applause?<br /> +Bid Nature hence; her fresh embow'ring woods,<br /> +Her lawns and fields, and rocks, and rushing floods,<br /> +And limpid lakes, and health-exhaling soil,<br /> +Elastick gales, and all the glorious toil<br /> +Of Heaven's own hand, with courtly shame discard,<br /> +And Fame shall triumph in her city bard.<br /> +Then, pent secure in some commodious lane,<br /> +Where stagnant Darkness holds her morbid reign.<br /> +Perchance snug-roosted o'er some brazier's den,<br /> +Or stall of nymphs, by courtesy <i>not</i> men,<br /> +Whose gentle trade to skin the living eel,<br /> +The while they curse it that it dares to feel[<a href="#fn7">7</a>];<br /> +Whilst ribbald jokes and repartees proclaim<br /> +Their happy triumph o'er the sense of shame:<br /> +Thy city Muse invoke, that imp of mind<br /> +By smoke engendered on an eastern wind;<br /> +Then, half-awake, thy patent-thinking pen<br /> +The paper give, and blot the souls of men.</p> + +<p> The time has been when Nature's simple face<br /> +Perennial youth possessed and winning grace;<br /> +But who shall dare, in this refining age,<br /> +With Nature's praise to soil his snowy page?<br /> +What polish'd lover, unappall'd by sneers<br /> +Dare court a beldame of six thousand years,<br /> +When every clown with microscopick eyes<br /> +The gaping furrows on her forehead spies?--<br /> +'Good sir, your pardon: In her naked state,<br /> +Her wither'd form we cannot chuse but hate;<br /> +But fashion's art the waste of time repairs,<br /> +Each wrinkle fills, and dies her silver hairs;<br /> +Thus wrought anew, our gentle bosoms low;<br /> +We cannot chuse but love what's <i>comme il faut</i>.'<br /> +Thy city Muse invoke, that imp of mind<br /> +By smoke engender'd on an eastern wind;<br /> +Then, half-awake, thy patent-thinking pen<br /> +The paper give, and blot the souls of men.</p> + +<p> The time has been when Nature's simple face<br /> +Perennial youth possessed and winning grace;<br /> +But who shall dare, in this refining age,<br /> +With Nature's praise to soil his snowy page?<br /> +What polish'd lover, unappall'd by sneers,<br /> +Dare court a beldame of six thousand years,<br /> +When every clown with microscopick eyes<br /> +The gaping furrows on her forehead spies?--<br /> +'Good sir, your pardon: In her naked state,<br /> +Her withered form we cannot chuse but hate;<br /> +But fashion's art the waste of time repairs,<br /> +Each wrinkle fills, and dies her silver hairs;<br /> +Thus wrought anew, our gentle bosoms low;<br /> +We cannot chuse but love what's <i>comme il fauts</i>.'</p> + +<p> Alas, poor Cowper! could thy chasten'd eye,<br /> +(Awhile forgetful of thy joys on high)<br /> +Revisit earth, what indignation strange<br /> +Would sting thee to behold the courtly change!<br /> +Here "velvet" lawns, there "plushy" woods that lave<br /> +Their "silken" tresses in the "glassy" wave;<br /> +Here "'broider'd" meads, there flow'ry "carpets" spread,<br /> +And "downy" banks to "pillow" Nature's head;<br /> +How wouldst thou start to find thy native soil.<br /> +Like birth-day belle, by gross mechanick toil<br /> +Trick'd out to charm with meretricious air,<br /> +As though all France and Manchester were there!<br /> +But this were luxury, were bliss refin'd,<br /> +To view the alter'd region of the mind;<br /> +Where whim and mystery, like wizards, rule,<br /> +And conjure wisdom from the seeming fool;<br /> +Where learned heads, like old cremonas, boast<br /> +Their merit soundest that are cracked the most;<br /> +While Genius' self, infected with the joke,<br /> +His person decks with Folly's motley cloak.</p> + +<p> Behold, loud-rattling like a thousand drums,<br /> +Eccentrick Hal, the child of Nature, comes!<br /> +Of Nature once--but <i>now</i> he acts a part,<br /> +And Hal is now the full grown boy of art.<br /> +In youth's pure spring his high impetuous soul<br /> +Nor custom own'd nor fashion's vile control.<br /> +By Truth impelled where beck'ning Nature led,<br /> +Through life he mov'd with firm elastic tread;<br /> +But soon the world, with wonder-teeming eyes,<br /> +His manners mark, and goggle with surprise.<br /> +"He's wond'rous strange!" exclaims each gaping clod,<br /> +"A wond'rous genius, for he's wond'rous odd!"<br /> +Where'er he goes, there goes before his fame,<br /> +And courts and taverns echo round his name;<br /> +'Till, fairly knocked by admiration down,<br /> +The petted monster cracks his wond'rous crown.<br /> +No longer now to simple Nature true,<br /> +He studies only to be oddly new;<br /> +Whate'er he does, whatever he deigns to say,<br /> +Must all be said and done the oddest way;<br /> +Nay, e'en in dress eccentrick as in thought,<br /> +His wardrobe seems by Lapland witches wrought,<br /> +Himself by goblins in a whirlwind drest<br /> +With rags of clouds from Hecla's stormy crest.</p> + +<p> 'Has Truth no charms?' When first beheld, I grant,<br /> +But, wanting novelty, has every want:<br /> +For pleasure's thrill the sickly palate flies,<br /> +Save haply pungent with a rare surprise.<br /> +The humble toad that leaps her nightly round,<br /> +The harmless tenant of the garden ground,<br /> +Is loath'd, abhor'd, nay, all the reptile race<br /> +Together join'd were never half so base;<br /> +Yet snugly find her in some quarry pent,<br /> +Through ages doom'd to one tremendous lent,<br /> +Surviving still, as if "in Nature's spite,"<br /> +Without or nourishment, or air, or light,<br /> +What raptures then th' astonish'd gazer seize!<br /> +What lovely creature like a toad can please!</p> + +<p> Hence many an oaf, by Nature doom'd to shine<br /> +The unknown father of an unknown line,<br /> +If haply shipwreck'd on some desert shore<br /> +Of Folly's seas, by man untrod before,<br /> +Which, bleak and barren, to the starving mind<br /> +Yields nought but fog, or damp, unwholesome wind,<br /> +With loud applause the wond'ring world shall hail,<br /> +And Fame embalm him in the marv'lous tale.</p> + +<p> With chest erect, and bright uplifted eye,<br /> +On tiptoe rais'd, like one prepared to fly.<br /> +Yon wight behold, whose sole aspiring hope<br /> +Eccentrick soars to catch the hangman's rope.<br /> +In order rang'd, with date of place and time,<br /> +Each owner's name, his parentage and crime,<br /> +High on his walls, inscribed to glorious shame,<br /> +Unnumber'd halters gibbet him to Fame.</p> + +<p> Who next appears thus stalking by his side?<br /> +Why that is one who'd sooner die than--ride!<br /> +No inch of ground can maps unheard of show<br /> +Untrac'd by him, unknown to every toe:<br /> +As if intent this punning age to suit,<br /> +The globe's circumf'rence meas'ring by the foot.</p> + +<p> Nor less renown'd whom stars invet'rate doom<br /> +To smiles eternal, or eternal gloom;<br /> +For what's a <i>character</i> save one confin'd<br /> +To some unchanging sameness of the mind;<br /> +To some strange, fix'd monotony of mien,<br /> +Or dress forever brown, forever green?</p> + +<p> A sample comes. Observe his sombre face,<br /> +Twin-born with Death, without his brother's grace!<br /> +No joy in mirth his soul perverted knows,<br /> +Whose only joy to tell of others' woes.<br /> +A fractur'd limb, a conflagrating fire,<br /> +A name or fortune lost his tongue inspire:<br /> +From house to house where'er misfortunes press,<br /> +Like Fate, he roams, and revels in distress;<br /> +In every ear with dismal boding moans--<br /> +walking register of sighs and groans!</p> + +<p> High tow'ring next, as he'd eclipse the moon,<br /> +With pride upblown, behold yon live balloon.<br /> +All trades above, all sciences and arts,<br /> +To fame he climbs through very scorn of parts;<br /> +With solemn emptiness distends his state,<br /> +And, great in nothing, soars above the great;<br /> +Nay stranger still, through apathy of blood,<br /> +By candour number'd with the chaste and good:<br /> +With wife, and child, domestic, stranger, friend,<br /> +Alike he lives, as though his being's end<br /> +Were o'er his house like formal guest to roam,<br /> +And walk abroad to leave himself at home.</p> + +<p> But who is <i>he</i>, that sweet obliging youth?<br /> +He looks the picture of ingenuous truth.<br /> +Oh, that's his antipode, of courteous race,<br /> +The man of bows and ever-smiling face.<br /> +Why Nature made him, or for what design'd,<br /> +Never he knew, nor ever sought to find,<br /> +'Till cunning came, blest harbinger of ease!<br /> +And kindly whisper'd, 'thou wert born to please.'<br /> +Rous'd by the news, behold him now expand,<br /> +Like beaten gold, and glitter o'er the land.<br /> +Well stored with nods and sly approving winks,<br /> +Now first with this and now with that he thinks;<br /> +Howe'er opposing, still assents to each,<br /> +And claps a dovetail to each booby's speech.<br /> +At random thus for all, for none, he lives,<br /> +Profusely lavish though he nothing gives;<br /> +The world he roves as living but to show<br /> +A friendless man without a single foe;<br /> +From bad to good, to bad from good to run,<br /> +And find a character by seeking none.</p> + +<p> Who covets fame should ne'er be over nice,<br /> +Some slight distortion pays the market price.<br /> +If haply lam'd by some propitious chance,<br /> +Instruct in attitude, or teach to dance;<br /> +Be still extravagant in deed, or word;<br /> +If new, enough, no matter how absurd.</p> + +<p> Then what is Genius? Nay, if rightly us'd,<br /> +Some gift of Nature happily abus'd.<br /> +Nor wrongly deem by this eccentrick rule<br /> +That Nature favours whom she makes a fool;<br /> +Her scorn and favour we alike despise;<br /> +Not Nature's follies but our own we prize.</p> + +<p> "Or what is wit?" a meteor bright and rare,<br /> +What comes and goes we know not whence, or where;<br /> +A brilliant nothing out of something wrought,<br /> +A mental vacuum by condensing thought.</p> + +<p> Behold Tortoso. There's a man of wit;<br /> +To all things fitted, though for nothing fit;<br /> +Scourge of the world, yet crouching for a name,<br /> +And honour bartering for the breath of fame:<br /> +Born to command, and yet an arrant slave;<br /> +Through too much honesty a seeming knave;<br /> +At all things grasping, though on nothing bent,<br /> +And ease pursuing e'en with discontent;<br /> +Through Nature, Arts, and Sciences he flies,<br /> +And gathers truth to manufacture lies.</p> + +<p> Nor only Wits, for tortur'd talents claim<br /> +Of sov'reign mobs the glorious meed of fame;<br /> +E'en Sages too, of grave and rev'rend air,<br /> +Yclepp'd <i>Philosophers</i>, must have their share;<br /> +Who deeper still in conjuration skill'd,<br /> +<i>A mighty something out of nothing build.</i></p> + +<p> 'Then wherefore read? why cram the youthful head<br /> +With all the learned lumber of the dead;<br /> +Who seeking wisdom followed Nature's laws,<br /> +Nor dar'd effects admit without a cause?'<br /> +Why?--Ask the sophist of our modern school;<br /> +To foil the workman we must know the tool;<br /> +And, that possess'd, how swiftly is defac'd<br /> +The noblest, rarest monument of taste!<br /> +So neatly too, the mutilations stand<br /> +Like native errors of the artist's hand;<br /> +Nay, what is more, the very tool betray'd<br /> +To seem the product of the work it made.</p> + +<p> 'Oh, monstrous slander on the human race!'<br /> +Then read conviction in Ortuno's case.<br /> +By Nature fashion'd in her happiest mood,<br /> +With learning, fancy, keenest wit endued;<br /> +To what high purpose, what exalted end<br /> +These lofty gifts did great Ortuno bend?<br /> +With grateful triumph did Ortuno raise<br /> +The mighty trophies to their Author's praise;<br /> +With skill deducing from th' harmonious whole<br /> +Immortal proofs of One Creative soul?<br /> +Ah, no! infatuate with the dazzling light,<br /> +In them he saw their own creative might;<br /> +Nay, madly deem'd, if <i>such</i> their wond'rous <i>skill</i>,<br /> +The phantom of a God 'twas theirs to <i>will</i>.</p> + +<p> But granting that he <i>is</i>, he bids you show<br /> +By what you prove it, or by what you know.<br /> +Oh, reas'ning worm! who questions thus of Him<br /> +That lives in all, and moves in every limb,<br /> +Must with himself in very strangeness dwell,<br /> +Has never heard the voice of Conscience tell<br /> +Of right and wrong, and speak in louder tone<br /> +Than tropick thunder of that Holy One,<br /> +Whose pure, eternal, justice shall requite<br /> +The deed of wrong, and justify the right.</p> + +<p> Can such blaspheme and breathe the vital air?<br /> +Let mad philosophy their names declare.<br /> +Yet some there are, less daring in their aim,<br /> +With humbler cunning butcher sense for fame;<br /> +Who doubting still, with many a fearful pause,<br /> +Th' existence grant of one almighty cause;<br /> +But halting there, in bolder tone deny<br /> +The life hereafter, when the man shall die,<br /> +Nor mark the monstrous folly of their gain--<br /> +That God all-wise should fashion <i>them</i> in vain.</p> + +<p> 'Twere labour lost in this material age,<br /> +When school boys trample on the Inspir'd Page,<br /> +When coblers prove by syllogistick pun<br /> +The soal they mend, and that of man are one;<br /> +'Twere waste of time to check the Muses' speed,<br /> +For all the <i>whys</i> and <i>wherefores</i> of their creed;<br /> +To show how prov'd the juices are the same<br /> +That feed the body, and the mental frame.</p> + +<p> But who, half sceptic, half afraid of wrong,<br /> +Shall walk our streets, and mark the passing throng;<br /> +The brawny oaf in mould herculean cast,<br /> +The pigmy statesman trembling in his blast,<br /> +The cumb'rous citizen of portly paunch,<br /> +Unwont to soar beyond the smoaking haunch;<br /> +The meagre bard behind the moving tun,<br /> +His shadow seeming lengthen'd by the sun;<br /> +Who forms scarce visible shall thus descry,<br /> +Like flitting clouds athwart the mental sky;<br /> +From giant bodies then bare gleams of mind,<br /> +Like mountain watch-lights blinking to the wind;<br /> +Nor blush to find his unperverted eye<br /> +Flash on his heart, and give his tongue the lie.</p> + +<p> 'Tis passing strange! yet, born as if to show<br /> +Man to himself his most malignant foe,<br /> +There are (so desperate is the madness grown)<br /> +Who'd rather live a <i>lie</i> than live unknown;<br /> +Whose very tongues, with force of holy writ,<br /> +Their doctrines damn with self-recoiling wit.<br /> + <br /> + Behold yon dwarf, of visage pale and wan;<br /> +A sketch of life, a remnant of a man!<br /> +Whose livid lips, as now he moulds a grin,<br /> +Like charnel doors disclose the waste within;<br /> +Whose stiffen'd joints within their sockets grind,<br /> +Like gibbets creaking to the passing wind;<br /> +Whose shrivell'd skin with much adhesion clings<br /> +His bones around in hard compacted rings,<br /> +If veins there were, no blood beneath could force,<br /> +Unless by miracle, its trickling course;--<br /> +Yet even <i>he</i> within that sapless frame,<br /> +A mind sustained that climb'd the steeps of fame.<br /> +Such is the form by mystic Heaven design'd,<br /> +The earthly mansion of the rarest mind.<br /> +But, mark his gratitude. This soul sublime,<br /> +This soul lord paramount o'er space and time,<br /> +This soul of fire, with impious madness sought,<br /> +Itself to prove of mortal matter wrought;<br /> +Nay, bred, engendered, on the grub-worm plan,<br /> +From that vile clay which made his outward man,<br /> +That shadowy form which dark'ning into birth,<br /> +But seem'd a sign to mark a soul on earth.</p> + +<p> But who shall cast an introverted eye<br /> +Upon himself, that will not there descry<br /> +A conscious life that shall, nor cannot die?<br /> +E'en at our birth, when first the infant mould<br /> +Gives it a mansion and an earthly hold,<br /> +Th' exulting Spirit feels the heavenly fire<br /> +That lights her tenement will ne'er expire;<br /> +And when, in after years, disease and age,<br /> +Our fellow-bodies sweeping from life's stage,<br /> +Obtrude the thought of death, e'en then we seem,<br /> +As in the revelation of a dream,<br /> +To hear a voice, more audible than speech,<br /> +Warn of a part which death can never reach.<br /> +Survey the tribes of savage men that roam<br /> +Like wand'ring herds, each wilderness their home;--<br /> +Nay, even there th' immortal spirit stands<br /> +Firm on the verge of death, and looks to brighter lands.</p> + +<p> Shall human wisdom then, with beetle sight,<br /> +Because obstructed in its blund'ring flight,<br /> +Despise the deep conviction of our birth,<br /> +And limit life to this degraded earth?</p> + +<p> Oh, far from me be that insatiate pride,<br /> +Which, turning on itself, drinks up the tide<br /> +Of natural light; 'till one eternal gloom,<br /> +Like walls of adamant enclose the tomb.<br /> +Tremendous thought! that this transcendant Power,<br /> +Fell'd with the body in one fatal hour,<br /> +With all its faculties, should pass like air<br /> +For ages without end as though it never were!</p> + +<p> Say, whence, obedient, to their destin'd end<br /> +The various tribes of living nature tend?<br /> +Why beast, and bird, and all the countless race<br /> +Of earth and waters, each his proper place<br /> +Instinctive knows, and through the endless chain<br /> +Of being moves in one harmonious strain;<br /> +While man alone, with strange perversion, draws<br /> +Rebellious fame from Nature's broken laws?<br /> +Methinks I hear, in that still voice which stole<br /> +On Horeb's mount o'er rapt Elijah's soul,<br /> +With stern reproof indignant Heaven reply:<br /> +'Tis o'erweening Pride, that blinds the eye<br /> +Of reasoning man, and o'er his darkened life<br /> +Confusion spreads and misery and strife.</p> + +<p> With wonder fill'd and self-reflecting praise,<br /> +The slave of pride his mighty powers surveys;<br /> +On Reason's sun (by bounteous Nature given,<br /> +To guide the soul upon her way to heaven)<br /> +Adoring gazes, 'till the dazzling light,<br /> +To darkness sears his rain presumptuous sight;<br /> +Then bold, though blind, through error's night he runs,<br /> +In fancy lighted by a thousand suns;<br /> +For bloody laurels now the warrior plays,<br /> +Now libels nature for the poet's bays;<br /> +Now darkness drinks from metaphysic springs,<br /> +Or follows fate on astrologick wings:<br /> +'Mid toils at length the world's loud wonder won,<br /> +With Persian piety, to Reason's sun<br /> +Profound he bows, and, idolist of fame,<br /> +Forgets the God who lighted first the flame.</p> + +<p> All potent Reason! what thy wond'rous light?<br /> +A shooting star athwart a polar night;<br /> +A bubble's gleam amid the boundless main;<br /> +A sparkling sand on waste Arabia's plain:<br /> +E'en such, vain Power, thy limited control,<br /> +E'en such thou art, to mans mysterious soul!</p> + +<p> Presumptuous man! would'st thou aspiring reach<br /> +True wisdom's height, let conscious weakness teach<br /> +Thy feeble soul her poor dependant state,<br /> +Nor madly war with Nature to be great.</p> + +<p> Come then, Humility, thou surest guide!<br /> +On earth again with frenzied men reside;<br /> +Tear the dark film of vanity and lies,<br /> +And inward turn their renovated eyes;<br /> +In aspect true let each himself behold,<br /> +By self deform'd in pride's portentous mould.<br /> +And if thy voice, on Bethl'em's holy plain<br /> +Once heard, can reach their flinty hearts again,<br /> +Teach them, as fearful of a serpent's gaze,<br /> +Teach them to shun the gloating eye of praise;<br /> +That slightest swervings from their nature's plan<br /> +Make them a lie, and poison all the man,<br /> +'Till black corruption spread the soul throughout,<br /> +Whence thick and fierce, like fabled mandrakes, sprout<br /> +The seeds of rice with more than tropick force,<br /> +Exhausting in the growth their very vital source.</p> + +<p> Nor wrongly deem the cynick muse aspires,<br /> +With monkish tears to quench our nobler fires.<br /> +Let honest pride our humble hearts inflame,<br /> +First to deserve, ere yet we look to, fame;<br /> +Not fame miscall'd, the mob's applauding stare;<br /> +This monsters have, proportion'd as they're rare;<br /> +But that sweet praise, the tribute of the good,<br /> +For wisdom gain'd, through love of truth pursued.<br /> +Coeval with our birth, this pure desire<br /> +Was given to lift our grov'ling natures higher,<br /> +Till that high praise, by genuine merit wrung<br /> +From men's slow justice, shall employ the tongue<br /> +Of yon Supernal Court, from whom may flow<br /> +Or bliss eternal or eternal wo.<br /> +And since in all this hope exalting lives,<br /> +Let virtuous toil improve what Nature gives:<br /> +Each in his sphere some glorious palm may gain,<br /> +For Heaven all-wise created nought in vain.</p> + +<p> Oh, task sublime, to till the human soil<br /> +Where fruits immortal crown the lab'ror's toil!<br /> +Where deathless flowers, in everlasting bloom,<br /> +May gales from Heaven with odorous sweets perfume;<br /> +Whose fragrance still when man's last work is done,<br /> +And hoary Time his final course has run,<br /> +Thro' ages back, with fresh'ning power shall last,<br /> +Mark his long track, and linger where he past!</p> +</div> + + +<div class="chapter" id="p04"> +<h2>The Paint-Kings.</h2> + + + +<p>Fair Ellen was long the delight of the young,<br /> + No damsel could with her compare;<br /> +Her charms were the theme of the heart and the tongue.<br /> +And bards without number in extacies sung,<br /> + The beauties of Ellen the fair.</p> + +<p>Yet cold was the maid; and tho' legions advanced,<br /> + All drill'd by Ovidean art,<br /> +And languish'd, and ogled, protested and danced,<br /> +Like shadows they came, and like shadows they glanced<br /> + From the hard polish'd ice of her heart.</p> + +<p>Yet still did the heart of fair Ellen implore<br /> + A something that could not be found;<br /> +Like a sailor she seem'd on a desolate shore,<br /> +With nor house, nor a tree, nor a sound but the roar<br /> + Of breakers high dashing around.</p> + +<p>From object to object still, still would she veer,<br /> + Though nothing, alas, could she find;<br /> +Like the moon, without atmosphere, brilliant and clear,<br /> +Yet doom'd, like the moon, with no being to cheer<br /> + The bright barren waste of her mind.</p> + +<p>But rather than sit like a statue so still<br /> + When the rain made her mansion a <i>pound</i>,<br /> +Up and down would she go, like the sails of a mill,<br /> +And pat every stair, like a woodpecker's bill,<br /> + From the tiles of the roof to the ground.</p> + +<p>One morn, as the maid from her casement inclin'd,<br /> + Pass'd a youth, with a frame in his hand.<br /> +The casement she clos'd--not the eye of her mind;<br /> +For, do all she could, no, she could not be blind;<br /> + Still before her she saw the youth stand.</p> + +<p>"Ah, what can he do," said the languishing maid,<br /> + "Ah, what with that frame can he do?"<br /> +And she knelt to the Goddess of Secrets and pray'd,<br /> +When the youth pass'd again, and again he display'd<br /> + The frame and a picture to view.</p> + +<p>"Oh, beautiful picture!" the fair Ellen cried,<br /> + "I must see thee again or I die."<br /> +Then under her white chin her bonnet she tied,<br /> +And after the youth and the picture she hied,<br /> + When the youth, looking back, met her eye.</p> + +<p>"Fair damsel," said he (and he chuckled the while)<br /> + "This picture I see you admire:<br /> +Then take it, I pray you, perhaps 'twill beguile<br /> +Some moments of sorrow; (nay, pardon my smile)<br /> + Or, at least, keep you home by the fire."</p> + +<p>Then Ellen the gift with delight and surprise<br /> + From the cunning young stripling receiv'd.<br /> +But she knew not the poison that enter'd her eyes,<br /> +When sparkling with rapture they gaz'd on her prize--<br /> + Thus, alas, are fair maidens deceiv'd!</p> + +<p>'Twas a youth o'er the form of a statue inclin'd,<br /> + And the sculptor he seem'd of the stone;<br /> +Yet he languished as tho' for its beauty he pin'd<br /> +And gaz'd as the eyes of the statue so blind<br /> + Reflected the beams of his own.</p> + +<p>Twas the tale of the sculptor Pygmalion of old;<br /> + Fair Ellen remember'd, and sigh'd;<br /> +"Ah, could'st thou but lift from that marble so cold,<br /> +Thine eyes too imploring, thy arms should enfold,<br /> + And press me this day as thy bride."</p> + +<p>She said: when, behold, from the canvass arose<br /> + The youth, and he stepp'd from the frame:<br /> +With a furious transport his arms did enclose<br /> +The love-plighted Ellen: and, clasping, he froze<br /> + The blood of the maid with his flame!</p> + +<p>She turn'd and beheld on each shoulder a wing.<br /> + "Oh, heaven! cried she, who art thou?"<br /> +From the roof to the ground did his fierce answer ring,<br /> +As frowning, he thunder'd " I am the PAINT-KING!<br /> + And mine, lovely maid, thou art now!"</p> + +<p>Then high from the ground did the grim monster lift<br /> + The loud screaming maid like a blast;<br /> +And he sped through the air like a meteor swift,<br /> +While the clouds, wand'ring by him, did fearfully drift<br /> + To the right and the left as he pass'd.</p> + +<p>Now suddenly sloping his hurricane flight,<br /> + With an eddying whirl he descends;<br /> +The air all below him becomes black as night,<br /> +And the ground where he treads, as if mov'd with affright,<br /> + Like the surge of the Caspian bends.</p> + +<p>"I am here!" said the Fiend, and he thundering knock'd<br /> + At the gates of a mountainous cave;<br /> +The gates open flew, as by magick unlocked,<br /> +While the peaks of the mount, reeling to and fro, rock'd<br /> + Like an island of ice on the wave.</p> + +<p>"Oh, mercy!" cried Ellen, and swoon'd in his arms,<br /> + But the PAINT-KING, he scoff'd at her pain.<br /> +"Prithee, love," said the monster, "what mean these alarms?"<br /> +She hears not, she sees not the terrible charms,<br /> + That work her to horrour again.</p> + +<p>She opens her lids, but no longer her eyes<br /> + Behold the fair youth she would woo;<br /> +Now appears the PAINT-KING in his natural guise;<br /> +His face, like a palette of villainous dies,<br /> + Black and white, red, and yellow, and blue.</p> + +<p>On the skull of a Titan, that Heaven defied,<br /> + Sat the fiend, like the grito Giant Gog,<br /> +While aloft to his mouth a huge pipe he applied,<br /> +Twice as big as the Eddystone Lighthouse, descried<br /> + As it looms through an easterly fog.</p> + +<p>And anon, as he puff'd the vast volumes, were seen,<br /> + In horrid festoons on the wall,<br /> +Legs and arms, heads and bodies emerging between,<br /> +Like the drawing-room grim of the Scotch Sawney Beane,<br /> + By the Devil dress'd out for a ball.</p> + +<p>"Ah me!" cried the Damsel, and fell at his feet.<br /> + "Must I hang on these walls to be dried?"<br /> +"Oh, no!" said the fiend, while he sprung from his seat,<br /> +"A far nobler fortune thy person shall meet;<br /> + Into paint will I grind thee, my bride!"</p> + +<p>Then, seizing the maid by her dark auburn hair,<br /> + An oil jug he plung'd her within.<br /> +Seven days seven nights, with the shrieks of despair,<br /> +Did Ellen in torment convulse the dun air,<br /> + All covered with oil to the chin.</p> + +<p>On the morn of the eighth on a huge sable stone<br /> + Then Ellen, all reeking, he laid;<br /> +With a rock for his muller he crush'd every bone,<br /> +But, though ground to jelly, still, still did she groan;<br /> + For life had forsook not the maid.</p> + +<p>Now reaching his palette, with masterly care<br /> + Each tint on its surface he spread;<br /> +The blue of her eyes, and the brown of her hair,<br /> +And the pearl and the white of her forehead so fair,<br /> + And her lips' and her cheeks' rosy red.</p> + +<p>Then, stamping his foot, did the monster exclaim,<br /> + "Now I brave, cruel Fairy, thy scorn!"<br /> +When lo! from a chasm wide-yawning there came<br /> +A light tiny chariot of rose-colour'd flame,<br /> + By a team of ten glow-worms upborne.</p> + +<p>Enthroned In the midst on an emerald bright,<br /> + Fair Geraldine sat without peer;<br /> +Her robe was a gleam of the first blush of light,<br /> +And her mantle the fleece of a noon-cloud white,<br /> + And a beam of the moon was her spear.</p> + +<p>In an accent that stole on the still charmed air<br /> + Like the first gentle language of Eve,<br /> +Thus spake from her chariot the Fairy so fair:<br /> +"I come at thy call, but, oh Paint-King, beware.<br /> + Beware if again you deceive."</p> + +<p>"Tis true," said the monster, "thou queen of my heart,<br /> + Thy portrait I oft have essay'd;<br /> +Yet ne'er to the canvass could I with my art<br /> +The least of thy wonderful beauties impart;<br /> + And my failure with scorn you repaid.</p> + +<p>"Now I swear by the light of the Comet-King's tail!"<br /> + And he tower'd with pride as he spoke,<br /> +"If again with these magical colours I fail,<br /> +The crater of Etna shall hence be my jail,<br /> + And my food shall be sulphur and smoke.</p> + +<p>"But if I succeed, then, oh, fair Geraldine!<br /> + Thy promise with justice I claim,<br /> +And thou, queen of Fairies, shalt ever be mine,<br /> +The bride of my bed; and thy portrait divine<br /> + Shall fill all the earth with my fame."</p> + +<p>He spake; when, behold, the fair Geraldine's form<br /> + On the canvass enchantingly glow'd;<br /> +His touches--they flew like the leaves in a storm;<br /> +And the pure pearly white and the carnation warm<br /> + Contending in harmony flow'd;</p> + +<p>And now did the portrait a twin-sister seem<br /> + To the figure of Geraldine fair:<br /> +With the same <i>sweet</i> expression did faithfully teem<br /> +Each muscle; each feature; in short not a gleam<br /> + Was lost of her beautiful hair.</p> + +<p>Twas the Fairy herself! but, alas, her blue eyes<br /> + Still a pupil did ruefully lack;<br /> +And who shall describe the terrifick surprise<br /> +That seiz'd the PAINT-KING when, behold, he descries<br /> + Not a speck on his palette of black!</p> + +<p>"I am lost!" said the Fiend, and he shook like a leaf;<br /> + When, casting his eyes to the ground,<br /> +He saw the lost pupils of Ellen with grief<br /> +In the jaws of a mouse, and the sly little thief<br /> + Whisk away from his sight with a bound.</p> + +<p>"I am lost!" said the Fiend, and he fell like a stone;<br /> + Then rising the Fairy in ire<br /> +With a touch of her finger she loosen'd her zone,<br /> +(While the limbs on the wall gave a terrible groan,)<br /> + And she swelled to a column of fire.</p> + +<p>Her spear now a thunder-bolt flash'd in the air,<br /> + And sulphur the vault fill'd around:<br /> +She smote the grim monster; and now by the hair<br /> +High-lifting, she hurl'd him in speechless despair<br /> + Down the depths of the chasm profound.</p> + +<p>Then over the picture thrice waving her spear,<br /> + "Come forth!" said the good Geraldine;<br /> +When, behold, from the canvass descending, appear<br /> +Fair Ellen, in person more lovely than e'er,<br /> + With grace more than ever divine!</p> +</div> + + +<div class="chapter" id="p05"> +<h2>Myrtilla.</h2> + +<h3> <i>Addressed to a <span class="smallcaps">Lady</span>, who lamented that she had never been in love.</i></h3> + + +<blockquote class="epi"><p> "Al nuovo giorno,<br /> +Pietosa man' mi sollevo."</p> + +<p><span class="smallcaps">Metastatsio.</span></p></blockquote> + + + +<p>"Ah me! how sad," Myrtilla cried,<br /> + "To waste alone my years!"<br /> +While o'er a streamlet's flow'ry side<br /> +She pensive hung, and watch'd the tide<br /> + That dimpled with her tears.</p> + +<p>"The world, though oft to merit blind,<br /> + Alas, I cannot blame;<br /> +For they have oft the knee inclined.<br /> +And pour'd the sigh--but, like the wind<br /> + Of winter, cold it came.</p> + +<p>"Ah no! neglect I cannot rue."<br /> + Then o'er the limpid stream<br /> +She cast her eyes of ether blue;<br /> +Her wat'ry eyes look'd up to view<br /> + Their lovelier parent's beam.</p> + +<p>And ever as the sad lament<br /> + Would thus her lips divide,<br /> +Her lips, like sister roses bent<br /> +By passing gales, elastick sent<br /> + Their blushes from the tide.</p> + +<p>While mournful o'er her pictur'd face<br /> + Did then her glances steal,<br /> +She seem'd she thought a marble Grace,<br /> +T' enslave with love the human race,<br /> + But ne'er that love to feel.</p> + +<p>"Ah, what avail those eyes replete<br /> + With charms without a name!<br /> +Alas, no kindred rays they meet,<br /> +To kindle by collision sweet<br /> + Of mutual love the flame!</p> + +<p>"Oh, 'tis the worst of cruel things,<br /> + This solitary state!<br /> +Yon bird that trims his purple wings,<br /> +As on the bending bow he swings.<br /> + Prepares to join his mate.</p> + +<p>"The little glow-worm sheds her light,<br /> + Nor sheds her light in vain--<br /> +That still her tiny lover's sight<br /> +Amid the darkness of the night<br /> + May trace her o'er the plain.</p> + +<p>"All living nature seems to move<br /> + By sympathy divine--<br /> +The sea, the earth, the air above;<br /> +As if one universal love<br /> + Did all their hearts entwine!</p> + +<p>"My heart alone of all my kind<br /> + No love can ever warm:<br /> +That only can resemblance find<br /> +With waste Arabia, where the wind<br /> + Ne'er breathes on human form;</p> + +<p>"A blank, embodied space, that knows<br /> + No changes in its reign,<br /> +Save when the fierce tornado throws<br /> +Its barren sands, like drifted snows,<br /> + In ridges o'er the plain."</p> + +<p>Thus plain'd the maid; and now her eyes<br /> + Slow-lifting from the tide,<br /> +Their liquid orbs with sweet surprise<br /> +A youth beheld in extacies,<br /> + Mute standing by her side.</p> + +<p>"Forbear, oh, lovely maid, forbear,"<br /> + The youth enamour'd cried,<br /> +"Nor with Arabia's waste compare<br /> +The heart of one so young and fair,<br /> + To every charm allied.</p> + +<p>"Or, if Arabia--rather say,<br /> + Where some delicious spring<br /> +Remurmurs to the leaves that play<br /> +Mid palm and date and flow'ret gay,<br /> + On zephyr's frolick wing.</p> + +<p>"And now, methinks, I cannot deem<br /> + The picture else but true;<br /> +For I a wand'ring trav'ller seem<br /> +O'er life's drear waste, without a gleam<br /> + Of hope--if not in <i>you</i>."</p> + +<p>Thus spake the youth; and then his tongue<br /> + Such converse sweet distill'd,<br /> +It seem'd, as on his words she hung,<br /> +As though a heavenly spirit sung,<br /> + And all her soul he fill'd.</p> + +<p>He told her of his cruel fate,<br /> + Condemn'd along to rove,<br /> +From infancy to man's estate,<br /> +Though courted by the fair and great,<br /> + Yet never once to love.</p> + +<p>And then from many a poet's page<br /> + The blest reverse he proved:<br /> +How sweet to pass life's pilgrimage,<br /> +From purple youth to sere old age,<br /> + Aye loving and beloved!</p> + +<p>Here ceased the youth; but still his words<br /> + Did o'er her fancy play;<br /> +They seem'd the matin song of birds,<br /> +Or like the distant low of herds<br /> + That welcomes in the day.</p> + +<p>The sympathetick chord she feels<br /> + Soft thrilling in her soul;<br /> +And, as the sweet vibration steals<br /> +Through every vein, in tender peals<br /> + She seems to hear it roll.</p> + +<p>Her alter'd heart, of late so drear,<br /> + Then seem'd a faery land,<br /> +Where nymphs and rosy loves appear<br /> +On margin green of fountain clear,<br /> + And frolick hand in hand.</p> + +<p>But who shall paint her crimson blush,<br /> + Nor think his hand of stone,<br /> +As now the secret with a flush<br /> +Did o'er her aching senses rush--<br /> + <i>Her heart was not her own!</i></p> + +<p>The happy Lindor, with a look<br /> + That every hope confessed,<br /> +Her glowing hand exulting took,<br /> +And press'd it, as she fearful shook,<br /> + In silence to his breast.</p> + +<p>Myrtilla felt the spreading flame,<br /> + Yet knew not how to chide;<br /> +So sweet it mantled o'er her frame,<br /> +That, with a smile of pride and shame,<br /> + She own'd herself his bride.</p> + +<p>No longer then, ye fair, complain,<br /> + And call the fates unkind;<br /> +The high, the low, the meek, the vain,<br /> +Shall each a sympathetick swain,<br /> +Another <i>self</i> shall find.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="chapter" id="p06"> +<h2>To a Lady Who Spoke Slightingly of Poets.</h2> + + + +<p>Oh, censure not the Poet's art,<br /> +Nor think it chills the feeling heart<br /> + To love the gentle Muses.<br /> +Can that which in a stone or flower,<br /> +As if by transmigrating power,<br /> + His gen'rous soul infuses;</p> + +<p>Can that for social joys impair<br /> +The heart that like the lib'ral air<br /> + All Nature's self embraces;<br /> +That in the cold Norwegian main,<br /> +Or mid the tropic hurricane<br /> + Her varied beauty traces;</p> + +<p>That in her meanest work can find<br /> +A fitness and a grace combin'd<br /> + In blest harmonious union,<br /> +That even with the cricket holds,<br /> +As if by sympathy of souls,<br /> + Mysterious communion;</p> + +<p>Can that with sordid selfishness<br /> +His wide-expanded heart impress,<br /> + Whose consciousness is loving;<br /> +Who, giving life to all he spies,<br /> +His joyous being multiplies,<br /> + In youthfulness improving?</p> + +<p>Oh, Lady, then, fair queen of Earth,<br /> +Thou loveliest of mortal birth,<br /> + Spurn not thy truest lover;<br /> +Nor censure <i>him</i> whose keener sense<br /> +Can feel thy magic influence<br /> + Where nought the world discover;</p> + +<p>Whose eye on that bewitching face<br /> +Can every source unnumber'd trace<br /> + Of germinating blisses;<br /> +See Sylphids o'er thy forehead weave<br /> +The lily-fibred film, and leave<br /> + It fix'd with honied kisses;</p> + +<p>While some within thy liquid eyes,<br /> +Like minnows of a thousand dies<br /> + Through lucid waters glancing,<br /> +In busy motion to and fro,<br /> +The gems of diamond-beetles sow,<br /> + Their lustre thus enhancing;</p> + +<p>Here some, their little vases fill'd<br /> +With blushes for thy cheek distill'd<br /> + From roses newly blowing,<br /> +Each tiny thirsting pore supply;<br /> +And some in quick succession by<br /> + The down of peaches strewing;</p> + +<p>There others who from hanging bell<br /> +Of cowslip caught the dew that fell<br /> + While yet the day was breaking,<br /> +And o'er thy pouting lips diffuse<br /> +The tincture--still its glowing hues<br /> + Of purple morn partaking:</p> + +<p>Here some, that in the petals prest<br /> +Of humid honeysuckles, rest<br /> + From nightly fog defended,<br /> +Flutter their fragrant wings between,<br /> +Like humming-birds that scarce are seen,<br /> + They seem with air so blended!</p> + +<p>While some, in equal clusters knit.<br /> +On either side in circles flit,<br /> + Like bees in April swarming,<br /> +Their tiny weight each other lend,<br /> +And force the yielding cheek to bend,<br /> + Thy laughing dimples forming.</p> + +<p>Nor, Lady, think the Poet's eye<br /> +Can only outward charms espy,<br /> + Thy form alone adoring--<br /> +Ah, Lady, no: though fair they be.<br /> +Yet he a fairer sight may see,<br /> + Thy lovely <i>soul</i> exploring:</p> + +<p>And while from part to part it flies<br /> +The gentle Spirit he descries,<br /> + Through every line pursuing;<br /> +And feels upon his nature shower<br /> +That pure, that humanizing power,<br /> + Which raises by subduing.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="chapter" id="p07"> +<h2>Sonnet</h2> + +<h3><i>On a Falling Group in the Last Judgement of <span class="smallcaps">Michael Angelo</span>, in the +Cappella Sistina.</i></h3> + + + +<p>How vast, how dread, overwhelming is the thought<br /> +Of Space interminable! to the soul<br /> +A circling weight that crushes into nought<br /> +Her mighty faculties! a wond'rous whole,<br /> +Without or parts, beginning, or an end!<br /> +How fearful then on desp'rate wings to send<br /> +The fancy e'en amid the waste profound!<br /> +Yet, born as if all daring to astound,<br /> +Thy giant hand, oh Angelo, hath hurl'd<br /> +E'en human forms, with all their mortal weight,<br /> +Down the dread void--fall endless as their fate!<br /> +Already now they seem from world to world<br /> +For ages thrown; yet doom'd, another past,<br /> +Another still to reach, nor e'er to reach the last!</p> +</div> + + +<div class="chapter" id="p08"> +<h2>Sonnet</h2> + +<h3><i>On the Group of the Three Angels before the Tent of Abraham, by +<span class="smallcaps">Raffaelle</span>, in the Vatican.</i></h3> + + + +<p>Oh, now I feel as though another sense<br /> +From Heaven descending had informed my soul;<br /> +I feel the pleasurable, full control<br /> +Of Grace, harmonious, boundless, and intense.<br /> +In thee, celestial Group, embodied lives<br /> +The subtle mystery; that speaking gives<br /> +Itself resolv'd: the essences combin'd<br /> +Of Motion ceaseless, Unity complete.<br /> +Borne like a leaf by some soft eddying wind,<br /> +Mine eyes, impelled as by enchantment sweet,<br /> +From part to part with circling motion rove,<br /> +Yet seem unconscious of the power to move;<br /> +From line to line through endless changes run,<br /> +O'er countless shapes, yet seem to gaze on One.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="chapter" id="p09"> +<h2>Sonnet</h2> + +<h3><i>On seeing the Picture of Æolus by <span class="smallcaps">Peligrino Tibaldi</span>, in the Institute at +Bologna.</i></h3> + + + +<p>Full well, Tibaldi, did thy kindred mind<br /> +The mighty spell of Bonarroti own.<br /> +Like one who, reading magick words, receives<br /> +The gift of intercourse with worlds uknnown,<br /> +'Twas thine, decyph'ring Nature's mystick leaves,<br /> +To hold strange converse with the viewless wind;<br /> +To see the Spirits, in embodied forms,<br /> +Of gales and whirlwinds, hurricanes and storms.<br /> +For, lo! obedient to thy bidding, teems<br /> +Fierce into shape their stern relentless Lord:<br /> +His form of motion ever-restless seems;<br /> +Or, if to rest inclin'd his turbid soul,<br /> +On Hecla's top to stretch, and give the word<br /> +To subject Winds that sweep the desert pole.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="chapter" id="p10"> +<h2>Sonnet</h2> + +<h3><i>On <span class="smallcaps">Rembrant</span>; occasioned by his Picture of Jacob's Dream.</i></h3> + + + +<p>As in that twilight, superstitious age<br /> +When all beyond the narrow grasp of mind<br /> +Seem'd fraught with meanings of supernal kind,<br /> +When e'en the learned philosophic sage,<br /> +Wont with the stars thro' boundless space to range.<br /> +Listen'd with rev'rence to the changeling's tale;<br /> +E'en so, thou strangest of all beings strange!<br /> +E'en so thy visionary scenes I hail;<br /> +That like the ramblings of an idiot's speech,<br /> +No image giving of a thing on earth.<br /> +Nor thought significant in Reason's reach,<br /> +Yet in their random shadowings give birth<br /> +To thoughts and things from other worlds that come,<br /> +And fill the soul, and strike the reason dumb.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="chapter" id="p11"> +<h2>Sonnet</h2> + +<h3><i>On the Luxembourg Gallery.</i></h3> + + + +<p>There is a Charm no vulgar mind can reach.<br /> +No critick thwart, no mighty master teach;<br /> +A Charm how mingled of the good and ill!<br /> +Yet still so mingled that the mystick whole<br /> +Shall captive hold the struggling Gazer's will,<br /> +'Till vanquish'd reason own its full control.<br /> +And such, oh Rubens, thy mysterious art,<br /> +The charm that vexes, yet enslaves the heart!<br /> +Thy lawless style, from timid systems free,<br /> +Impetuous rolling like a troubled sea,<br /> +High o'er the rocks of reason's lofty verge<br /> +Impending hangs; yet, ere the foaming surge<br /> +Breaks o'er the bound, the refluent ebb of taste<br /> +Back from the shore impels the wat'ry waste.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="chapter" id="p12"> +<h2>Sonnet</h2> + +<h3><i>To my venerable Friend, the President of the Royal Academy.</i></h3> + + + +<p>From one unus'd in pomp of words to raise<br /> +A courtly monument of empty praise,<br /> +Where self, transpiring through the flimsy pile,<br /> +Betrays the builder's ostentatious guile,<br /> +Accept, oh West, these unaffected lays,<br /> +Which genius claims and grateful justice pays.<br /> +Still green in age, thy vig'rous powers impart<br /> +The youthful freshness of a blameless heart;<br /> +For thine, unaided by another's pain,<br /> +The wiles of envy, or the sordid train<br /> +Of selfishness, has been the manly race<br /> +Of one who felt the purifying grace<br /> +Of honest fame; nor found the effort vain<br /> +E'en far itself to love thy soul-ennobling art.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="chapter" id="p13"> +<h2>The Mad Lover</h2> + +<h3><i>At the Grave of his Mistress.</i></h3> + + + +<p>Stay, gentle Stranger, softly tread!<br /> + Oh, trouble not this hallow'd heap.<br /> +Vile Envy says my Julia's dead;<br /> + But Envy thus Will never sleep.</p> + +<p>Ye creeping Zephyrs, hist you, pray,<br /> + Nor press so hard yon wither'd leaves;<br /> +For Julia sleeps beneath this clay--<br /> + Nay, feel it, how her bosom heaves!</p> + +<p>Oh, she was purer than the stream<br /> + That saw the first created morn;<br /> +Her words were like a sick man's dream<br /> + That nerves with health a heart forlorn.</p> + +<p>And who their lot would hapless deem<br /> + Those lovely, speaking lips to view;<br /> +That light between like rays that beam<br /> + Through sister clouds of rosy hue?</p> + +<p>Yet these were to her fairer soul<br /> + But, as yon op'ning clouds on high<br /> +To glorious worlds that o'er them roll,<br /> + The portals to a brighter sky.</p> + +<p>And shall the glutton worm defile<br /> + This spotless tenement of love,<br /> +That like a playful infant's smile<br /> + Seem'd born of purest light above?</p> + +<p>And yet I saw the sable pall<br /> + Dark-trailing o'er the broken ground--<br /> +The earth did on her coffin fall--<br /> + I heard the heavy, hollow sound</p> + +<p>Avaunt, thou Fiend! nor tempt my brain<br /> + With thoughts of madness brought from Hell!<br /> +No wo like this of all her train<br /> + Has Mem'ry in her blackest cell.</p> + +<p>'Tis all a tale of fiendish art--<br /> + Thou com'st, my love, to prove it so!<br /> +I'll press thy hand upon my heart--<br /> + It chills me like a hand of snow!</p> + +<p>Thine eyes are glaz'd, thy cheeks are pale,<br /> + Thy lips are livid, and thy breath<br /> +Too truly tells the dreadful tale---<br /> + Thou comest from the house of death!</p> + +<p>Oh, speak, Beloved! lest I rave;<br /> + The fatal truth I'll bravely meet,<br /> +And I will follow to the grave,<br /> + And wrap me in thy winding sheet.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="chapter" id="p14"> +<h2>First Love.</h2> + +<h3><i>A Ballad</i>[<a href="#fn8">8</a>].</h3> + + + +<p>Ah me! how hard the task to bear<br /> + The weight of ills we know!<br /> +But harder still to dry the tear,<br /> + That mourns a nameless we.</p> + +<p>If by the side of Lucy's wheel<br /> + I sit to see her spin,<br /> +My head around begins to reel,<br /> + My heart to beat within.</p> + +<p>Or when on harvest holliday<br /> + I lead the dance along,<br /> +If Lucy chance to cross my way,<br /> + So sure she leads me wrong,</p> + +<p>If I attempt the pipe to play,<br /> + And catch my Lucy's eye,<br /> +The trembling musick dies away,<br /> + And melts into a sigh.</p> + +<p>Where'er I go, where'er I turn,<br /> + If Lucy there be found,<br /> +I seem to shiver, yet I burn,<br /> + My head goes swimming round.</p> + +<p>I cannot bear to see her smile,<br /> + Unless she smile on me;<br /> +And if she frown, I sigh the while,<br /> + But know not whence it be.</p> + +<p>Ah, what have I to Lucy done<br /> + To cause me so much stir?<br /> +From rising to the setting sun<br /> + I sigh, and think of her.</p> + +<p>In vain I strive to join the throng<br /> + In social mirth and ease;<br /> +Now lonely woods I stray among,<br /> + For only woods can please.</p> + +<p>Ah, me! this restless heart I fear<br /> + Will never be at rest,<br /> +'Till Lucy cease to live, or tear<br /> + Her image from my breast.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="chapter" id="p15"> +<h2>The Complaint.</h2> + + + +<p>"Oh, had I Colin's winning ease,"<br /> + Said Lindor with a sigh,<br /> +"So carelessly ordained to please,<br /> + I'd every care defy.</p> + +<p>"If Colin but for Daphne's hair<br /> + A simple garland weave,<br /> +He gives it with so sweet an air<br /> + He seems a crown to give.</p> + +<p>"But, though I cull the fairest flower<br /> + That decks the breast of spring,<br /> +And posies from the woodland bower<br /> + For Daphne's bosom bring,</p> + +<p>"When I attempt to give the fair,<br /> + With many a speech in store,<br /> +My half-form'd words dissolve in air,<br /> + I blush and dare no more.</p> + +<p>"And shall I then expect a smile<br /> + From Daphne on my love,<br /> +When every word and look the while<br /> + My clownish weakness prove?</p> + +<p>"Oft at the close of summer day,<br /> + When Daphne wander'd by,<br /> +I've left my little flock astray,<br /> + And follow'd with a sigh.</p> + +<p>"Yet, fearing to approach too near,<br /> + I lingered far behind:<br /> +And, lest my step should reach her ear,<br /> + I shook at every wind.</p> + +<p>"How happy then must Colin be<br /> + Who never knew this fear,<br /> +Whose sweet address at liberty<br /> + Commands the fair-one's ear!</p> + +<p>"A smile, a tear, a word, a sigh,<br /> + Stand ready at his call;<br /> +In me unknown they live and die,<br /> + Who have and feel them all."</p> + +<p>Ah, simple swain, how little knows<br /> + The love-sick mind to scan<br /> +Those gifts which real love bestows<br /> + To mark the favoured man.</p> + +<p>Secure, let fluent parrots feign<br /> + The musick of the dove;<br /> +'Tis only in the eye may reign<br /> + The eloquence of love.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="chapter" id="p16"> +<h2>Will, the Maniac.</h2> + +<h3><i>A Ballad.</i></h3> + + + +<p><span class="smallcaps">Hark!</span> what wild sound is on the breeze?<br /> + 'Tis Will, at evening fall<br /> +Who sings to yonder waving trees<br /> + That shade his prison wall.</p> + +<p>Poor Will was once the gayest swain<br /> + At village dance was seen;<br /> +No freer heart of wicked stain<br /> + E'er tripp'd the moonlight green.</p> + +<p>His flock was all his humble pride,<br /> + A finer ne'er was shorn;<br /> +And only when a lambkin died<br /> + Had Will a cause to mourn.</p> + +<p>But now poor William's brain is turn'd,<br /> + He knows no more his flock;<br /> +For when I ask'd "if them he mourn'd,"<br /> + He mock'd the village clock.</p> + +<p>No, William does not mourn his fold,<br /> + Though tenantless and drear;<br /> +Some say, a love he never told<br /> + Did crush his heart with fear.</p> + +<p>And she, 'tis said, for whom he pin'd<br /> + Was heiress of the land,<br /> +A lovely lady, pure of mind<br /> + Of open heart and hand.</p> + +<p>And others tell, as <i>how</i> he strove<br /> + To win the noble fair.<br /> +Who, scornful, jeer'd his simple love.<br /> + And left him to despair.</p> + +<p>Will wander'd then amid the rocks<br /> + Through all the live long day,<br /> +And oft would creep where bursting shocks<br /> + Had rent the earth away.</p> + +<p>He lov'd to delve the darksome dell<br /> + Where never pierc'd a ray,<br /> +There to the wailing night-bird tell,<br /> +'How love was turn'd to clay.'</p> + +<p>And oft upon yon craggy mount,<br /> + Where threatening cliffs hang high,<br /> +Have I observ'd him stop to count<br /> + With fixless stare the sky.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="chapter" id="footnotes"> +<h2>Footnotes</h2> + + + +<p id="fn1">1. In a late beautiful poem by Mr. Montgomery is the following lines +"<i>The spirits of departed hours</i>." 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.</p> + +<p id="fn2">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 <i>supposed</i>, 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.</p> + +<p id="fn3">3. "Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?" Pope.</p> + +<p id="fn4">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.</p> + +<p id="fn5">5. To those who are conversant with the Works of the Old Masters this +piece of anachronism will hardly appear exaggerated.</p> + +<p id="fn6">6. Fra. Bartolomeo.</p> + +<p id="fn7">7. See Boswell's Life of Johnson.</p> + +<p id="fn8">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.</p> +</div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +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 *** + +***** This file should be named 11059-h.htm or 11059-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/1/0/5/11059/ + +Produced by Distributed Proofreaders + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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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: ASCII + +*** 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 AEolus, 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 AEolus 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 *** + +***** This file should be named 11059.txt or 11059.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/1/0/5/11059/ + +Produced by Distributed Proofreaders + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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