'Tis true-the Bard's harmonious tongue
May draw the landscape bright and strong;
Describe the dreadful scenes of war,
The crested helm, the rattling car;
The generous thirst of praise inspire,
And kindle Virtue's sacred fire:
Yet still may Painting's glowing hand
An equal share of praise command;
In every province claim her mingled part,
The wondering sense to charm, or moralize the heart.
Majestic, nervous, bold, and strong,
Let Angelo with Milton vie ;
Oppos'd to Waller's amorous song,
His art let wanton Titian try;
Let great Romano's free design
Contend with Dryden's pompous line;
And chaste Correggio's graceful air
With Pope's unblemish'd page compare;
Loraine may rival Thomson's name;
And Hogarth's equal Butler's fame:
For still where-e'er th' aspiring Muse
Her wide, unbounded flight pursues,
Her Sister soars on kindred wings sublime,
And gives her favorite names to grace the rolls of time.
When just degrees of shade and light
Contend in sweetest harmony,
Then bursts upon the raptur'd sight
The silent Music of the eye.
Bold, as the Base's deeper sound,
We trace the well imagin'd ground;
Next in the varying scenes behind,
The sweet melodious Tenor find;
And as the soft'ning notes decay,
The distant prospect fades away:
Their aid if mingling colors give,
To bid the mimic landscape live;
The visual concert breaks upon the eyes,
With every different charm which Music's hand supplies.
If, torn from all we hold most dear,
The tedious moments slowly roll,
Can Music's tenderest accents cheer
The silent grief that melts the soul?
Or can the Poet's boasted art
The healing balm of peace impart ?
-Ah, no!-'Tis only Painting's pow'r
Can sooth the sad, the painful hour;
Can bring the much lov'd form to view,
In features exquisitely true;
The sparkling eye, the blooming face,
The shape adorn'd with every grace,
To Nature's self scarce yield the doubtful strife,
Swell from the deep'ning shade, and ask the gift of life.
By slow degrees, the Muse's skill
A just conception must impart;
Bend by degrees the stubborn will;
Touch by degrees the harden'd heart:
To aid the task whilst Memory joins,
And every wand'ring thought combines ;
Collecting then the beauteous whole,
She gives th' idea to the soul:
But when with happiest nature warm,
The Artist spreads his pictur'd charm,
At once we feel th' accomplish'd thought,
At once the great effect is wrought:
Nor only to the judging few confin'd,
It strikes each artless eye, and speaks to every mind.
In all the force of language drest, But faintly moves the feeble strain; But to the faithful sight exprest, The story thrills thro' every vein. Friend of the Arts, when Caesar bled, Soon as the murd'rous tidings spread, Each Roman heav'd a sigh sincere, Each hardy veteran dropp'd a tear: But when to public view confest, High wav'd the hero's blood-stain'd vest, A generous phrensy seiz'd the throng, Revenge was heard from every tongue; Thence every nervous arm fresh vigour drew, Bright gleam'd the vengeful steel, and dreadful firebrands flew.
O Queen of Heaven's unnumber'd dyes!
Whose skill, with various pow'r replete,
Can bid the swift ideas rise,
Of tender, beauteous, strong, and great!
For thee in mutual bands we join ;—
Nor thou the fond attempt decline;
But to our longing sight display
Some sparks of thy celestial ray:
And if beneath a rough disguise
The latent gem of Genius lies,
Do thou impart thy friendly aid,
Thy loveliest polish o'er it spread;
So shall its beams, with genuine lustre bright,
Pour radiance on thine head, who call'd it first to light.
And ye, with wealth profusely blest,
The substitutes of Pow'r supreme,
To cheer the heart by grief deprest,
And cherish Virtue's sacred flame;
To us your generous cares extend;
The suppliant train of Arts befriend:
Nor think, to Misery's claims unjust,
You misapply your sacred trust;
Or, whilst you bid the Genius rise,
Your noble task neglected lies:
For still the breast where Genius glows,
A sense of moral beauty knows;
Endu'd with gifts above the crowd to shine, [divine. The judge of Nature's works, and Virtue's charms Vol. XVIII.
OF THE ANNUNCIATION, AT WINCHESTER CHAPEL.
THE pencil's magic force I sing,
Be present all ye tuneful powers;
Let every Muse assistance bring,
And open her poetic stores :
Come, all ye charms of verse, and let my lays
Be perfect, as the subject of my praise.
Let every grace my speech combine,
Let elegance with strength unite,
To furnish out the great design,
And place it in the fairest light.
Then like the beauteous piece shall be my song, Bright without blaze, and with correctness strong.
But, oh! Le Moine, what powerful skill
Thy pencil's lively strokes can trace!
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