Ere canvass yet was ftrain'd, before the grace
Of blended colors found their use and place,
Or cypress tablets first receiv'd a face.
By flow degrees the godlike art advanc'd;
As man grew polifh'd, picture was inhanc'd:
Greece added pofture, fhade, and perfpective;
And then the mimic piece began to live.
Yet perfpective was lame, no diftance true,
But all came forward in one common view:
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 infenfibly decay'd.
Rome rais'd not art, but barely kept alive,
And with old Greece unequally did ftrive:
Till Goths, and Vandals, a rude northern race,
Did all the matchlefs monuments deface.
Then all the Mufes in one ruin lie,,
And rhime began t'enervate poetry.
Thus, in a ftupid military ftate,
The pen and pencil find an equal fate.
Flat faces, fuch as would difgrace a skreen,
Such as in Bantam's embaffy were seen,
Unrais'd, unrounded, were, the rude delight
Of brutal nations, only born to fight.
Long time the fifter arts, in iron fleep, A heavy fabbath did fupinely keep :
At length, in Raphael's age, at once they rise,
Stretch all their limbs, and open all their eyes.
Thence rofe the Roman, and the Lombard line:
One color'd beft, and one did beft defign.
Raphael's, like Homer's, was the nobler part,
But Titian's painting look'd like Virgil's art.
Thy genius gives thee both; where true defign,
Poftures unforc'd, and lively colors join.
Likeness is ever there; but ftill the beft,
Like proper thoughts in lofty language dreft: Where light, to fhades defcending, plays, not ftrives,
Dies by degrees, and by degrees revives.
Of various parts a perfect whole is wrought:
Thy pictures think, and we divine their thought.
Shakespear, thy gift, I place before my fight;
With awe, I ask his bleffing ere I write ;
With rev'rence look on his majestic face;
Proud to be lefs, but of his godlike race.
His foul infpires me, while thy praise I write,
And I, like Teucer, under Ajax fight:
Bids thee, thro me, be bold; with dauntless breaft
Contemn the bad, and emulate the beft.'
Like his, thy critics in th' attempt are loft:
When most they rail, know then, they envy
In vain they fnarl aloof; a noify croud,
Like womens anger, impotent and loud,
While they their barren industry deplore,
Pass on fecure, and mind the goal before.
Old as she is, my muse shall march behind,
Bear off the blaft, and intercept the wind.
Our arts are fifters, tho not twins in birth;
For hymns were fung in Eden's happy earth :
But oh, the painter muse, the last in place,
Has feiz'd the bleffing firft, like Jacob's race.
Apelles' art an Alexander found;
And Raphael did with Leo's gold abound;
But Homer was with barren laurel crown'd.
Thou hadst thy Charles a while, and fo had I;
But pafs we that unpleafing image by.
Rich in thyself, and of thyfelf divine;
All pilgrims come and offer at thy fhrine.
A graceful truth thy pencil can command;
The fair themselves go mended from thy hand.
Likeness appears in every lineament;
But likeness in thy work is eloquent.
Tho nature there her true refemblance bears,
A nobler beauty in thy piece appears.
So warm thy work, fo glows the gen'rous frame,
Flesh looks less living in the lovely dame.
Thou paint'ft as we defcribe, improving ftill,
When on wild nature we ingraft our skill;
But not creating beauties at our will.
But poets are confin'd in narrower space,
To speak the language of their native place :
The painter widely stretches his command;
Thy pencil speaks the tongue of every land.
From hence, my friend, all climates are your own,
Nor can you forfeit, for hold of none.
you
All nations all immunities will give
To make you theirs, where'er you please to live; And not feven cities, but the world would ftrive.
Sure fome propitious planet then did fmile,
When first
you were conducted to this ifle :
Our genius brought you here, t'inlarge our fame;
For your good stars are ev'ry where the same.
Thy matchlefs hand, of ev'ry region free,
Adopts our climate, not our climate thee.
Great Rome and Venice early did impart
To thee th'examples of their wond'rous art.
Those masters then, but feen, not understood,
With generous emulation fir'd thy blood :
For what in nature's dawn the child admir'd,
The youth endeavor'd, and the man acquir'd.
If yet thou haft not reach'd their high degree, 'Tis only wanting to this age, not thee,
Thy genius, bounded by the times, like mine,
Drudges on petty draughts, nor dare defign
A more exalted work, and more divine.
For what a fong, or fenfeless opera
Is to the living labor of a play;
Or what a play to Virgil's work would be,
Such is a fingle piece to history.
But we, who life bestow, ourselves muft live: Kings cannot reign, unless their subjects give; And they, who pay the taxes, bear the rule: Thus thou, fometimes, art forc'd to draw a fool: But fo his follies in thy pofture fink,
The fenfelefs idiot feems at last to think.
Good heaven! that fots and knaves should be fo
To wish their vile refemblance may remain!
And ftand recorded, at their own request,
To future days, a libel or a jeft!
Elfe fhould we fee your noble pencil trace
Our unities of action, time, and place:
A whole compos'd of parts, and those the best, various character exprest:
With every
Heroes at large, and at a nearer view;
Lefs, and at diftance, an ignobler crew.
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