Chapter II: Part 2

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 ├ćolus 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.