Praise-worthy actions are by thee embrac'd;
And 'tis my praise, to make thy praises last :
For e'en, when death dissolves our human frame,
The soul returns to Heav'n, from whence it came;
Earth keeps the body; Verse preserves the fame.
To Sir GODFREY KNELLER, Principal Painter to His Majesty.
ONCE 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;
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.
At least thy pictures look a voice; and we 11
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;
With us, approach, retire, arise, and fall;
Nothing themselves, and yet expressing all.
Such are thy pieces; imitating life
So near, they almost conquer in the strife,
And, from the animated canvas, came
Demanding souls, and loosen'd from the frame.
Prometheus, were he here, would cast away
His Adam, and refuse a soul to clay;
And either would thy noble work inspire,
Or think it warm enough without his fire.
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 the wall,
Gave outlines to the rude original,
Ere canvas yet was stain'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;
As man grew polish'd, picture was enhanc'd.
Greece added posture, shade, and perspective;
And, then, the mimic-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 ; And with old Greece, unequally, did strive: Till Goths and Vandals, a rude northern race, Did all the matchless monuments deface.
The Editor would read, point of sight.
Then all the Muses in one ruin lie,
And rhyme began t' enervate poetry.
Thus, in a stupid military state,
The pen, and pencil, find an equal fate.
Flat faces, such as would disgrace a screen,
Such as in Bantam's embassy were seen;
Unrais'd, unrounded; were the rude delight
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 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, still, the best; Like proper thoughts in lofty language drest: Where light, to shades descending, plays, not strives,
Dies by degrees, and by degrees revives,
Of various parts, a perfect whole is wrought.
Thy pictures think, and we divine their thought.
Shakspeare, thy gift, I place before,my sight:
With awe I ask his blessing ere I write ;
With rev'rence look on his majestic face;
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.
Like his, thy critics in th' attempt are lost:
When most they rail-know, then they envy most.
In vain they snarl aloof; a noisy crowd,
Like women's anger, impotent and loud.
While they their barren industry deplore,
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, tho' not twins in birth;
For hymns were sung in Eden's happy earth: 90
But, oh! the painter-muse, tho' last in place,
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 laurel crown'd.
Thou hadst thy Charles awhile, and so had I;
But pass we that unpleasing image by.
Rich in thyself, and of thyself divine,
All pilgrims come and offer at thy shrine.
A graceful truth thy pencil can command; 100
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 resemblance bears,
A nobler beauty in thy piece appears,
So warm thy work, so glows the gen'rous frame,
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.
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 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 sev'n cities, but the world, would strive.
Sure some propitious planet then did smile, 120
When first you were conducted to this isle :
Our Genius brought you here, t' enlarge our fame,
For your good stars are ev'ry where the same.
The matchless 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.
Those masters then, but seen, not understood,
With gen'rous emulation fir'd thy blood;
For what, in Nature's dawn, the child admir'd, 130
The youth endeavour'd, and the man acquir'd.
If yet you have 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 design A more exalted work, and more divine,
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