| |
| ONCE 1 I beheld the fairest of her Kind, | |
| (And still the sweet Idea charms my Mind:) | |
| True, she was dumb; for Nature gaz’d so long, | |
| Pleas’d with her Work, that she forgot her Tongue, | |
| But, smiling, said, She still shall gain the Prize; | 5 |
| I only have transferr’d it to her Eyes. | |
| Such are thy Pictures, Kneller, Such thy Skill, | |
| That Nature seems obedient to thy Will; | |
| Comes out, and meets thy Pencil in the Draught, | |
| Lives there, and wants but words to speak her thought. | 10 |
| At least thy Pictures look a Voice; and we | |
| Imagine Sounds, deceiv’d to that degree, | |
| We think ’tis somewhat more than just to see. | |
| Shadows are but Privations of the Light; | |
| Yet, when we walk, they shoot before the Sight, | 15 |
| With us approach, retire, arise, and fall, | |
| Nothing themselves, and yet expressing all. | |
| Such are thy Pieces, imitating Life | |
| So near, they almost conquer’d in the strife; | |
| And from their animated Canvass came, | 20 |
| Demanding Souls; and loosened from the Frame. | |
| Prometheus, were he here, wou’d cast away | |
| His Adam, and refuse a Soul to Clay, | |
| And either wou’d thy Noble Work Inspire | |
| Or think it warm enough without his Fire. | 25 |
| But vulgar Hands may vulgar Likeness raise; | |
| This is the least Attendant on thy Praise: | |
| From hence the Rudiments of Art began; | |
| A Coal, or Chalk, first imitated Man: | |
| Perhaps, the Shadow, taken on a Wall, | 30 |
| Gave out-lines to the rude Original; | |
| Ere Canvass yet was strain’d: before the Grace | |
| Of blended Colours found their use and place: | |
| Or Cypress Tablets first receiv’d a Face. | |
| By slow degrees the Godlike Art advanc’d; | 35 |
| As man grew polish’d, Picture was inhanc’d: | |
| Greece added Posture, Shade, and Perspective, | |
| And then the Mimick Piece began to Live. | |
| Yet Perspective was lame, no distance true, | |
| But all came forward in one common View: | 40 |
| No point of Light was known, no bounds of Art; | |
| When Light was there, it knew not to depart, | |
| But glaring on remoter Objects play’d; | |
| Not languish’d and insensibly decay’d. | |
| Rome rais’d not Art, but barely kept alive, | 45 |
| And with Old Greece unequally did strive: | |
| Till Goths, and Vandals, a rude Northern race, | |
| Did all the matchless Monuments deface. | |
| Then all the Muses in one ruine lye, | |
| And Rhyme began t’ enervate Poetry. | 50 |
| Thus, in a stupid Military State, | |
| The Pen and Pencil find an equal Fate. | |
| Flat Faces, such as wou’d disgrace a Skreen, | |
| Such as in Bantam’s Embassy were seen, | |
| Unrais’d, unrounded, were the rude delight | 55 |
| Of Brutal Nations only born to Fight. | |
| Long time the Sister Arts, in Iron Sleep, | |
| A heavy Sabbath did supinely keep; | |
| At length, in Raphael’s Age, at once they rise, | |
| Stretch all their Limbs and open all their Eyes. | 60 |
| Thence rose the Roman and the Lombard Line; | |
| One colour’d best, and one did best design. | |
| Raphael’s, like Homer’s, was the Nobler part, | |
| But Titian’s Painting looked like Virgil’s Art. | |
| Thy Genius gives thee both; where true Design, | 65 |
| Postures unforc’d, and lively Colours joyn, | |
| Likeness is ever there; but still the best, | |
| Like proper Thoughts in lofty Language drest, | |
| Where Light, to Shades descending, plays, not strives, | |
| Dyes by degrees, and by degrees revives. | 70 |
| Of various Parts a perfect whole is wrought; | |
| Thy Pictures think, and we Divine their Thought. | |
| Shakespear, 2 thy Gift, I place before my Sight; | |
| With awe I ask his Blessing e’re I write; | |
| With Rev’rence look on his Majestick Face; | 75 |
| Proud to be less, but of his Godlike Race. | |
| His Soul Inspires me, while thy Praise I write, | |
| And I like Teucer, under Ajax Fight; | |
| Bids thee thro’ me, be bold; with dauntless breast | |
| Contemn the bad and Emulate the best. | 80 |
| Like his, thy Criticks in th’ attempt are lost: | |
| When most they rail, know then they envy most. | |
| In vain they snarl a-loof; a noisie Crowd, | |
| Like Womens Anger, impotent and loud. | |
| While they their barren Industry deplore, | 85 |
| Pass on secure, and mind the Goal before. | |
| Old as she is, my Muse shall march behind, | |
| Bear off the Blast, and intercept the Wind. | |
| Our Arts are Sisters, though not Twins in Birth, | |
| For Hymns were sung in Edens happy Earth | 90 |
| By the first Pair; while Eve was yet a Saint; | |
| Before she fell with Pride and learn’d to paint. | |
| Forgive th’ Allusion; ’twas not meant to bite; | |
| But Satire will have Room, where e’re I write. 3 | |
| For 4 oh, the Painter Muse, though last in place, | 95 |
| Has seiz’d the Blessing first, like Jacob’s Race. | |
| Apelles Art an Alexander found, | |
| And Raphael did with Leo’s Gold abound, | |
| But Homer was with barren Lawrel crown’d. | |
| Thou hadst thy Charles a while, and so had I, | 100 |
| But pass we that unpleasing Image by. | |
| Rich in thy self, and of thy self Divine, | |
| All Pilgrims come and offer at thy Shrine. | |
| A graceful Truth thy Pencil can Command; | |
| The Fair themselves go mended from thy Hand. | 105 |
| Likeness appears in every Lineament; | |
| But Likeness in thy Work is Eloquent. | |
| Though Nature there her true Resemblance bears, | |
| A nobler Beauty in thy Piece appears. | |
| So warm thy Work, so glows the gen’rous Frame, | 110 |
| Flesh looks less living in the Lovely Dame. | |
| Thou paint’st as we describe, improving still, | |
| When on wild Nature we ingraft our Skill, | |
| But not creating Beauties at our Will. | |
| Some other Hand perhaps may reach a Face; | 115 |
| But none like thee a finish’d Figure place: | |
| None of this Age, for that’s enough for thee, | |
| The first of these Inferiour Times to be; | |
| Not to contend with Heroes Memory. | |
| Due Honours to those mighty Names we grant, | 120 |
| But Shrubs may live beneath the lofty Plant; | |
| Sons may succeed their greater Parents gone; | |
| Such is thy Lott; and such I wish my own. 5 | |
| But Poets are confin’d in Narr’wer space, | |
| To speak the Language of their Native Place; | 125 |
| The Painter widely stretches his Command; | |
| Thy Pencil speaks the Tongue of ev’ry Land. | |
| From hence, my Friend, all Climates are your own, | |
| Nor can you forfeit, for you hold of none. | |
| All Nations all Immunities will give | 130 |
| To make you theirs, where e’re you please to live; | |
| And not sev’n Cities, but the World, wou’d strive. | |
| Sure some propitious Planet then did smile | |
| When first you were conducted to this Isle; | |
| (Our Genius brought you here, t’ inlarge our Fame) | 135 |
| (For your good Stars are ev’ry where the same.) | |
| Thy matchless Hand, of ev’ry Region free, | |
| Adopts our Climate, not our Climate thee. | |
| Great Rome and Venice early did impart 6 | |
| To thee th’ Examples of their wondrous Art. | 140 |
| Those Masters, then but seen, not understood, | |
| With generous Emulation fir’d thy Blood; | |
| For what in Nature’s Dawn the Child admir’d, | |
| The Youth endeavour’d, and the Man acquir’d. | |
| That yet thou hast not reach’d their high Degree, | 145 |
| Seems only wanting to this Age, not thee. | |
| Thy Genius, bounded by the Times, like mine, | |
| Drudges on petty Draughts, nor dare design | |
| A more exalted Work, and more Divine. | |
| For what a Song or senceless Opera | 150 |
| Is to the living Labour of a Play, | |
| Or what a Play to Virgil’s Work wou’d be, | |
| Such is a single Piece to History. | |
| But we, who Life bestow, our selves must live: | |
| Kings cannot Reign unless their Subjects give; | 155 |
| And they who pay the Taxes bear the Rule: | |
| Thus thou, sometimes, art forc’d to draw a Fool: | |
| But so his Follies in thy Posture sink, | |
| The senceless Ideot seems at last to think. | |
| Good Heav’n! that Sots and Knaves shou’d be so vain, | 160 |
| To wish their vile Resemblance may remain! | |
| And stand recorded at their own Request, | |
| To future Days, a Libel or a Jeast. | |
| Mean time while just Incouragement you want, | |
| You only Paint to Live, not Live to Paint. | 165 |
| Else shou’d we see your noble Pencil trace | |
| Our Unities of Action, Time, and Place; | |
| A Whole compos’d of Parts, and those the best, | |
| With ev’ry various Character exprest; | |
| Heroes at large, and at a nearer View; | 170 |
| Less, and at distance, an Ignobler Crew; | |
| While all the Figures in one Action joyn, | |
| As tending to Compleat the main Design. | |
| More cannot be by Mortal Art exprest; | |
| But venerable Age shall add the rest. | 175 |
| For Time shall with his ready Pencil stand; | |
| Retouch your Figures with his ripening Hand, | |
| Mellow your Colours, and imbrown the Teint, | |
| Add every Grace, which Time alone can grant; | |
| To future Ages shall your Fame convey; | 180 |
| And give more Beauties, than he takes away. | |
