Yet still thy smiles in breathing paint inspire,
Stil thy kind glances set my soul on fire.
Thither each hour I lift my thoughtful eye,
Now drop a tear, now softly breathe a sigh;
Sacred 'till death my gentlest vows shall be,
And the last gasp of life be breath'd for thee!
You too, O Sculpture, shall exalt my lays,
Pictura's sister-candidate for praise!
Soft Raphael's air divine, Antonio "shows;
And all Le Brun in mimic Picart" glows.
Hither ye nations, now direct your eyes,
Rise crown'd with lustre, gentle Albion rise!
Now thy soft Hollar, now thy Smith appears,
A faultless pattern to succeeding years;
There sacred domes in length'ning vistas
charm,

And British beauties here for ever warm.

Most painters, of less judgment than caprice,
Are like old maidens infamously nice:
It matters nought if rules be false or true,
All shou'd be modish, whimsical and new;
Fond of each change, the present still they praise,
So women love-and actors purchase plays.
As if self-love, or popular offence,
Receiv'd a sanction to mislead our sense;
Or party-notions, vapours, faith, and zeal
Were all, at proper times, infallible.
True wit, and true religion are but one,
Tho' some pervert 'em, and ev'n most have none.
Who thinks what others never thought before,
Acts but just that his sons will act no more.
Yet on a time, when vig'rous thoughts demand,
Indulge a warmth, and prompt the daring hand:
On purpose deviate from the laws of art,
And boldly dare to captivate the heart;
Breasts warm'd to rapture shall applaud your fire,
May disapprove you, but shall still admire.
The Grecian artist at one dash supply'd
What patient touches, and slow art deny'd.
So when pale Florio in the gloomy grove
Sits sadly musing on the plagues of love,
When hopes and fears distract his tim'rous mind,
And fancy only makes the uymph unkind:
Desp❜rate at last he rushes from the shade,
By force and warm address to win the maid:
His brisk attack the melting nymph receives
With equal warmth, he presses, she forgives;
One moment crowns whole tedious years of pain,
And endless griefs, and health consum'd in vain.
Of ev'ry beauty that conspires to charm
Man's nicer judgment, and his genius warm,
To just invention be the glory giv'n,
A particle of light deriv'd from Heav'n.
Unnumber'd rules t' improve the gift are shown
By ev'ry critic, to procure it, none.

Some colours often to the rest impart
New graces, more thro' happiness, than art.
This, nicely study'd, will your fame advance,
The greatest beauties seldom come by chance.
Some gaze at ornament alone, and then
So value paint, as women value men.
It matters nought to talk of truth, or grace,
Religion, genius, customs, time, and place.
So judge the vain, and young; nor envy we:
They cannot think indeed—but they may see.

11 Two engravers, famous for their prints copied from Raphael and Le Brun.

12 Alluding to Hollar's Etchings in the Monasticon.

Excessive beauty, like a flash of light,
Seems more to weaken, than to please the sight.
In one gay thought luxuriant Ovid writ,
And Voiture tires us, but with too much wit.

Some all their value for grotesque express,]
Beauty they prize, but beauty in excess:
Where each gay figure seems to glare apart,
Without due grace, proportion, shades, or art,
(The sad remains of Goths in ancient times,
And rev'rend dulness, and religious rhymes)
So youthful poets ring their music round
On one eternal harmony of sound.
"The lines are gay," and whosoe'er pretends
To search for more, mistakes the writer's ends.

Colours, like words, with equal care are sought, These please the sight, and those express the thought,

But most of all, the landscape seems to please
With calm repose, and rural images.
See, in due lights th' obedient objects stand,
As happy ease exalts the master's hand.
See, absent rocks hang trembling in the sky,
See, distant mountains vanish from the eye;
A darker verdure stains the dusky woods;
Floats the green shadow in the silver floods;
Fair visionary worlds surprise the view,
And fancy forms the golden age a-new.

True just designs will merit honour still;
Who begins well, can scarcely finish ill.
Unerring truth must guide your hand aright,
Art without this is violence to sight.-

The first due postures of each figure trace
In swelling ont-lines with an easy grace.
But the prime person mostly will demand
Th' unweary'd touches of thy patient hand:
There thought, and boldness, strength, and art
conspire,

The critic's judgment, and the painter's fire;
It lives, it moves, it swells to meet the eve:
Behind, the mingling groupes in softer shadows
die.

Never with self-design your merits raise,
Nor let your tongue be echo to your praise.
To wiser heads commit such points as these,
A modest blush will tell how much they please.
In days of yore, a prating lad, they say,
Met glorious Reubens journeying on the way:
Sneering, and arch he shakes his empty head,
(For half-learn'd boys will talk a Solon dead)
"Your servant, good sir Paul, why, what, the devil,
The world to you is more than fairly civil;
No life, no gusto in your pieces shine,
Without decorum, as without design❞—

Sedate to this the Heav'n-born artist smil'd,
"Nor thine, nor mine to speak our praise, my
child!

Each shall expose his best to curious eyes,
And let th' impartial world adjust the prize."
Let the soft colours sweeten and unite
To one just form, as all were shade, or light.

Nothing so frequent charms th' admiring eyes
As well tim'd fancy, and a sweet surprise.
So when the Grecian 13 labour'd to disclose
His nicest art, a mimic lark arose:
The fellow-birds in circles round it play'd,
Knew their own kind, and warbled to a shade.

10.

18 See Pliny's Natural History, lib. 35. cap.

So Vandervaart in later times excell'd,

And nature liv'd in what our eyes beheld.

He too can oft (in optics deeply read)

Yet ah, how soon the casual bliss decays,
How great the pains, how transient is the praise!
Language, frail flow'r, is in a moment lost,

A noon-day darkness o'er his chamber spread: '4 | (That only pruduct human wit can boast)

The transient objects sudden as they pass
O'er the small convex of the visual glass,
Transferr'd from thence by magic's pow'rful call,
Shine in quick glories on the gloomy wall;
Groves, mountains, rivers, men surprise the
sight,
[wavy light.
Trembles the dancing world, and swims the
Each varying figure in due place dispose "5,
These boldly heighten, touch but faintly those.
Contious objects place with judgment nigh,
Each due proportion swelling on the eye.
Remoter views insensibly decay,

And lights, and shadows sweetly drop away.
In bluish white the farthest mounts arise,
Steal from the eye, and melt into the skies.
Hence sacred domes in length'ning ailes extend,
Round columns swell, and rising arches bend:
Obliquer views in side-long vistas glance,
And bending groves in fancy seem to dance.

Two equal lights descending from the sky,
O'erpow'r each other, and confuse the eye.
The greatest pleasures tire the most, and such
Still end in vices if enjoy'd too much.
Tho' painters often to the shades retire,
Yet too long ease but serves to quench the fire.
Wing'd with new praise, methinks they boldly
O'er airy Alps, and seem to touch the sky. [Ay
Still true to fame, here well-wrought busts de-
High turrets nod, and arches sink away. [cay,
Ev'n the bare walls, whose breathing figures
glow'd

With each warm stroke that living art bestow'd,
Or slow decay, or hostile time invades,
And all in silence the fair fresco fades.
Each image yet in fancy'd thoughts we view,
And strong idea forms the scene a-new:
Delusive, she, Paulo's free stroke supplies, [eyes.
Revives the face, and points th' enlight'ning
'Tis thought each science, but in part, can
A length of toils for human life at most: [boast
(So vast is art!) if this remark prove true,
'Tis dang'rous sure to think at once of two,
And hard to judge if greater praise there be
To please in painting, or in poetry;
Yet Painting lives less injur'd, or confin'd,
True to th' idea of the master's mind:
In ev'ry nation are her beauties known,
In ev'ry age the language is her own:
Nor time, nor change diminish from her fame;
Her charms are universal, and the same.

O, could such blessings wait the poet's lays,
New beauties still, and still eternal praise!
Ev'n though the Muses ev'ry strain inspire,
Exalt his voice, and animate his lyre:
Ev'n tho' their art each image shou'd combine
In one clear light, one harmony divine;

Now gay in youth, its early honours rise,
Now hated, curst, it fades away, and dies.

Yet verse first rose to soften human kind,
To mend their manners, and exalt their mind.
See, savage beasts stand list'ning to the lay,
And men more furious, and more wild than theys
Ev'n shapeless trees a second birth receive,
Rocks move to form, and statues seem to live.
Immortal Homer felt the sacred rage,
And pious Orpheus taught a barb'rous age;
Succeeding painters thence deriv'd their light,
And durst no more than those vouchsaf'd to write.
At last t' adorn the gentler arts, appears
Illustrious Zeuxis from a length of years.
Parrhasius' hand with soft'ning strokes exprest
The nervous motions, and the folded vest:
Pregnant of life his rounded figures rise,
With strong relievo swelling on the eyes.
Evenor bold, with fair Apelles came,
And happy Nicias crown'd with deathless fame.

At length from Greece, of impious arms afraid,
Painting withdrew, and sought th' Italian shade;
What time each science met its due regard,
And patrons took a pleasure to reward.
But ah, how soon must glorious times decay,
One transient joy, just known, and snatch'd
away!

By the same foes, which Painting shunn'd before,
Ev'n here she bleeds, and arts expire once more.
Ease, lust, and pleasures shake a feeble state,
Gothic invasions, and domestic hate; [sume,
Time's slow decays, what these ev'n spare, con-
And Rome lies bury'd in the depths of Rome !

Long slumber'd Painting in a stupid trance
Of heavy zeal, and monkish ignorance:
(When faith itself for mere dispute was giv'n,
Subtile was wise, and wranglers went to Heav'n.)
Till glorious Cimabue 16 restor'd her crown,
And dipp'd the pencil, studious of renown.
Masaccio taught the finish'd piece to live,
And added ev'ry grace of perspective.
Exact correctness Titian's hand bestow'd,
And Vinci's stroke with living labour glow'd.
Next Julio rose, who ev'ry language knew,
Liv'd o'er each age, and look'd all nature

through.

In happy Paulo strength and art conspire,
The Graces please us, and the Muses fire.

Each nobler secret others boast alone,
By curious toil Caracci made his own :
Raphael's nice judgment, Angelo's design,
Correggio's warmth, and Gu do's pleasing line.
Thrice g'orions times, when ev'ry science charms,
When rapture lifts us, and religion warms!
Vocal to Heav'n the swelling organs blow,
A shriller consort aids the notes below;
Above, around the pictur'd saints appear,
And list'ning seraphs smile and bend to hear.

Thence Painting, by some happy genius led,
O'er the cold North in slow approaches spread.
Ev'n Britain's isie, that blush'd with hostile gore,
Receiv'd her laws, unknown to yield before;

16 Giovanni Cimabue, born at Florence in the year 1240. He was the person who revived painting after its unfortunate extirpation.

Let envy rage, and int'rest disapprove,
Envy and int'rest must submit to love.
By pray'rs and vows Hesione was won
To share the joys of hostile Telamon.
Soft gen'rous pity touch'd the captive dame
Who arm'd Achilles with a lover's flame.
To bless the wretched, shows a soul divine-
Be ever angry-but be ever mine.

Yet can no pray'rs thy firm resentment move?
Wretch that I was so ill to fix my love!
See, at thy feet despairing, wild I roll,
Grief swells my heart, and anguish racks my soul:
There fix my doom; relentless to my sighs,
And lifted hands, and supplicating eyes.
Then wilt thou say (for pity sure must move
A virgin's breast) "How patient is his love!
Ev'n my heart trembles, as his tears I see;
The youth who serves so well, is worthy me."
Still must I then in sad destruction moan?
My cause unheeded, and my grief unknown,
Ah, no-Acontius cannot write in vain:
Sure ev'ry wretch has licence to complain!
But if you triumph in a lover's woe,
Remember still Diana is your foe:
Diana listen'd to the vows you made,
And trembled at the change her eyes survey'd.
Ah, think, repent, while yet the time is giv'n,
Fierce is the vengeance of neglected Heav'n!
By Dian's hand the Phrygian matron fell,
Sent with her race,an early shade to Hell.
Chang'd to a stag, Acteon pour'd away,
In the same morn the chaser and the prey.
Althea rag'd with more than female hate,
And hurl'd into the flames the brand of fate.
Like these offensive, punish'd too like these,
Heav'n blasts thy joys, and heightens the disease.
Nor think Cydippe, (as my fears foresee)
A thought unworthy of thyself, or me!
Think not I frame this seeming truth, to prové
Thy stern disdain, a pious fraud in love;
Rather than so, I yet abjure thy charms,
And yield thee, scornful, to another's arms!
Alas, for this pale sickness haunts thy bed,
And shooting aches seem to tear thy head;
A sudden vengeance waits thy guilty loves;
Absentis Hymen, Dian disapproves.
Think then, repent-recal the parting breath
O'er thy lips hov'ring in the hour of death.
See, on thy cheeks the fading purple dies,
And shades of darkness settle on thy eyes.
But whence, ye pow'rs, or wherefore rose that
pray'r?

Still must I mourn in absence, or despair;
Fore'd, if she dies, the promise to resign-
Ev'n if she lives, I must not call her mine!
Like some pale ghost around thy house I rove,
Now burn in rage, and now relent with love:
A thousand needless messages I make,
A thousand mournful speeches give, and take.
O that my skill the sov'reign virtues knew
Of ev'ry herb that drinks the early dew,
Then might I hear thy moans, thy sickness see,
Nor were it sure a crime to gaze on thee.
Perhaps ev'n now, (as fear foresees too well)
The wretch I curse,detest, avoid like Hell,
Beside thee breathes a love-dejected sigh,
And marks the silent glances of thy eye.

1 Briseis

Some faint excuse he raises, to detain
Thy swelling arm, and press the beating vein:
Now o'er thy neck his glowing fingers rove,
Too great a pleasure for so mean a love!
Villain beware! the sacred nymph resign,-
Avoid, detest her, dread whate'er is mine;
Elsewhere a lover's preference I give,
But cease to rival here, or cease to live.
The vows you claim by right of human laws,
At best but serve to vindicate my cause.
To thee alone by duty is she kind;
Can parents alienate a daughter's mind?
First weigh the crime, the vengeance next explore,
The father promis'd, but the daughter swore:
That merely vain on human faith relies
But this obtests the sanction of the skies.

Here cease my woes-ah, whither am I born,
A woman's triumph, and a rival's scorn?
Vain are my vows, unheeded is my pray'r,
The scatt'ring winds have lost 'em all in air;
Yet think Cydippe, e'er thy lover dies!
Banish that wretch for ever from thy eyes; ·
Scorn, envy, censures are conferr'd on me,
And pain, and death is all he brings to thee.
Gods! may some vengeance crimes like these atone,
And snatch his life, to mediate for thy own!

Nor think to please avenging Cynthia's eyes
With streams of blood in holy sacrifice:
Heav'n clains the real, not the formal part,
A troubled spirit, and repenting heart.
For ease, and health, the patient oft requires
The piercing steel, and burns alive in fires;
Not so with you-ah, but confirm the vow!
One look, one promise can restore thee now;
Again thy smiles eternal joys bestow,
And thy eyes sparkle, and thy blushes glow.
Suppose from me for ever you remove,
Once must you fall a sacrifice to love;
And then, ah, then will angry Cynthia close
Thy wakeful eyes, or ease a matron's throes?
Yet wilt thou ever find a cause for shame?
No sure a mother cannot, must not blame.
Tell her the Vow, the place, the sacred day
I gaz'd on thee, and gaz'd my heart away:
Then will she surely say (if e'er she knew
But half that tender love I feel for you)
"Ah, think Cydippe, and his consort be;
The youth who pleas'd Diana, pleases me!"
Yet if she asks (as women oft inquire)
Tell her my life, my nation, and my sire:
Not void of youthful vanities I came,
Nor yet inglorions in the world of fame;
From ancient race I drew my gen'rous blood,
Where Cea's isle o'erlooks the watry flood:
Add, that I study ev'ry art to please,
Blest in my genius, born to live at ease.
Wit, merit, learning cannot fail to move,
And all those dearer blessings lost in love!
Ah! had you never sworn, 'twere hard to chuse
A love like mine and will you now refuse?

In midnight dreams when wakeful fancy keeps
Its dearest thoughts, and ev'n in slumber weeps,
Diana's self these mournful strains inspir'd,
And Cupid when I wak'd, my genius fir'd.
Methinks, ev'n now, his piercing arrows move
My tender breast, and spread the pains of love,
Like me beware, unhappy as thou art!

Direct at thee Diana aims her dart

To drink the blood that feeds thy faithless heart

The loves thou never can'st enjoy, resign;
Nor rashly lose another life with thine.
Then will we, eager as our joys, remove
To Dian's shrine, the patroness of love!
High o'er her head in triumph shall be plac'd
The golden fruit, with this inscription grac'd;
"Ye hapless lovers, hence, for ever know
Acontius gain'd the nymph who caus'd his woe!"
Here cease my hand-I tremble, lest each line
Should wound a soul so griev'd, so touch'd as thine.
No more my thoughts th' ungrateful toil pursue;
Pleasure farewell, and thou, my dear, adieu !

PART OF PINDAR'S FIRST PYTHIAN
ODE PARAPHRASED.

Χρυσέα φόρμιτζ Απολλω

ARGUMENT.

This ode is address'd to Hieron king of Sicily, as is also the first of the Olympics. Pindar takes occasion to begin with an encomium on music, finely describing its effects upon the passions. We must suppose this art to be one of his hero's more distinguishable excellencies; as it appears from several passages in the ode above. From thence he expatiates in the praise of poetry; and inveighs very severely upon those who either contemn, or have no taste for that divine science. Their misfortunes and punishments are instanc'd by those of Typhoeus: whom the poets imagine to be imprisoned by Jupiter under mount Etna. The digressions in this ode are the most inartificial and surprising of any in the whole author. We are once more in the hero's native country; every thing opens agreeably to the eye, and the poem proceeds after Pindar's usual man

ner.

STROPHE 1.

GENTLE lyre, begin the strain;
Wake the string to voice again.
Music rules the world above;
Music is the food of love.
Soft'ned by the pow'r of sound,
Human passions melt away:
Melancholy feels no wound,

Envy sleeps, and fears decay.

Entranc'd in pleasure Jove's dread eagle lies,
Nor grasps the bolt, nor darts his fiery eyes.
ANTISTROPHE I.

See, Mars awak'd by loud alarms
Rolls o'er the field his sanguine eyes,
His heart tumultuous beats to arms,
And terrours glare, and furies rise!
Hark the pleasing lutes complain,
In a softly-breathing strain;
Love and slumber seal his eye
By the gentle charms opprest:
From his rage he steals a sigh,
Sinking on Dione's breast.
EPODE I.

Verse, gentle Verse from Heav'n descending came,
Curst by the wicked, hateful to the vain:
Tyrants and slaves profane his sacred name,
Deaf to the tender lay, or vocal strain...

In fires of Hell Typhens glows,
Imprison'd by the wrath of Jove;
No ease his restless fury knows,
Nor sounds of joy, nor pleasing love.
Where, glitt'ring faintly on the eye,
Sicilian Etna props the sky

With mountains of eternal snow;
He darts his fiery eyes in vain,
And heaves, and roars, and bites his chain
In impotence of woe.

STROPHE II.

Angry flames like scarlet glowing.
Fiery torrents ever flowing,
Smoke along the with'ring plain
Ere they rush into the main.
When the sable veil of night
Stretches o'er the shaded sky,
Fires of sulphur gleam with light,
Burning rocks disparted fly.
Sudden, by turns the flashing flames arise,
Four down the winds, or tremble up the skies.
ANTISTROPHE II.

In fair Sicilia's rich domain,

Where flow'rs and fruits eternal blow,
Where Plenty spreads her peaceful reign,
And seas surround, and fountains flow,
Bright Religion lifts her eye,
Wand'ring through the kindred-sky.
Hail thou, everlasting Jove,
Parent of th' Aonian quire;
Touch my raptur'd soul with love,
Warm me with celestial fire!
EPODE II.

The pious mariner when first he sweeps
The foaming billows, and exalts his sails,
Propitiates ev'ry pow'r that rules the deeps,
Led by new hopes, and borne by gentle gales.
So ere the Muse, disus'd to sing,
Emblazons her fair hero's praise:
(What time she wakes the trembling string,
Attemper'd to the vocal lays)
Prostrate in humble guise she bends,
While some celestial pow'r descends

To guide her airy flights along:"
God of the silver bow, give ear;
(Whom Tenedos, and Chrysa fear)
Observant of the song!

STROPHE III.

Gentle wishes, chaste desires,
Holy Hymen's purer fires:
Lives of innocence and pleasure,
Moral virtue's mystic treasure;
Wisdom, eloquence, and love,
All are blessings from above.
Hence regret, distaste, dispraise,
Guilty nights, uneasy days:
Repining jealousies, calm friendly wrongs,
And fiercer envy, and the strife of tongues.

ANTISTROPHE III.

When Virtue bleeds beneath the laws,
Or ardent nations rise in arms,
Thy mercies judge the doubtful cause,
Thy courage ev'ry breast alarms.
Kindling with heroic fire
Once again I sweep the lyre.