Unrais'd, unrounded, were the rude delight
Of Brutal Nations, only born to Fight.
Long time the Sifter Arts, in Iron fleep,
A heavy Sabbath did fupinely keep :
At length, in Raphael's Age, at once they rife,
Stretch all their Limbs, and open all their Eyes.
Thence rose the Roman, and the Lombard Line :
One colour'd beft, and one did best design.
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 Design,
Postures unforc'd, and lively Colours join.
Likeness is ever there; but ftill the beft,
Like proper Thoughts in lofty Language dreft:
Where Light, to Shades 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 Sight;
With awe, I ask his Bleffing ere I write ;
With Rev'rence look on his Majestick Face;
Proud to be less, but of his Godlike Race.
His Soul 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 best.
Like his, thy Criticks in th' Attempt are loft:
When most they rail, know then, they envy moft.
In vain they fnarl aloof; a noify Croud,
Like Womens Anger, impotent and loud.
While they their barren Industry deplore,
Pafs on fecure, and mind the Goal before.
+ Shakespear's Picture drawn by Sir Godfrey Kneller, and given to the Author.
Old as fhe is, my Muse shall march behind,
Bear off the Blast, and intercept the Wind.
Our Arts are Sifters, though not Twins in Birth
For Hymns were fung in Eden's happy Earth:
But oh, the Painter Mufe, tho' laft in place,
Has feiz'd the Bleffing first, 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 so had I;
But pafs we that unpleafing Image by.
Rich in thy felf, and of thy felf Divine ;
All Pilgrims come and offer at thy Shrine.
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 lefs living in the lovely Dame.
Thou paint'ft as we describe, improving still,
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 ftretches his Command;
Thy Pencil fpeaks 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
To make you, theirs, where'er you please to live;
And not fev'n Cities, but the World wou'd-ftrive.
Sure fome propitious Planet then did smile,
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 fame.
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 wondrous Art.
Thofe Mafters then, but feen, 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.
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 Song, or fenfelefs Opera
Is to the living Labour of a Play;
Or what a Play to Virgil's Work wou'd be,
Such is a fingle Piece to Hiftory.
But we, who Life bestow, our felves must 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 laft to think.
Good Heav'n! that Sots and Knaves fhou'd be fo vain, To wish their vile Refemblance may remain !
And stand recorded, at their own Request,
To future Days, a Libel or a Jest!
*He travell'd very young into Italy.
Elfe fhou'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 ;
Lefs, and at distance, an ignobler Crew.
While all the Figures in one Action join,
As tending to compleat the main Design.
More cannot be by mortal Art exprest ;
But venerable Age fhall add the rest.
For time fhall with his ready Pencil ftand;
Retouch your Figures with his ripening Hand;
Mellow your Colours, and imbrown the Teint ;
Add ev'ry Grace, which Time alone can grant ;
To future Ages fhall your Fame convey,
And give more Beauties than he takes away.
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