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eiad of Pope, whose opinions he followed as far as they respected the merits of the dunces whom Pope belled.

For his Essay on Painting, he pleads that it was written at intervals, upon such remarks as casually occurred in his reading, and is therefore deficient in connection. He adds that he had finished the whole before he saw Du Fresnoy, which may readily be believed. He discovers, however, a very correct notion of an art which was not at that time much studied in this country, and has laid down many precepts which, if insufficient to form a good painter, will at least prevent his falling into gross improprieties. So much knowledge of the art, and acquaintance with the works of the most eminent painters, argues a taste surprising at his early age. He had some turn for drawing, and made several sketches when abroad, which were afterwards engraved as head pieces for the poems in the Amaranth. In this Essay, he delights in images, which although in general pleasing and just, are perhaps too frequently, and as it were periodically introduced. With all his admiration of Pope, he was not less attached to Dryden as a model, and if he has less harmony than Pope, has at the same time less monotony.

His translations are faithful and not inelegant. His acquaintance with the classics was very intimate, and he has decorated his Essays on Husbandry with a profusion of apt illustrations.

The Soliloquy occasioned by the chirping of a Grasshopper is tender and playful, but his other small pieces are not entitled to particular notice.

The Amaranth was written, as he informs us "for his private consolation under a lingering and dangerous state of health." There is something so amiable, and we may add so heroic in this, that it is impossible not to make every allowance for defects; but this collection of poems does not upon the whole stand so much in need of indulgence as may be expected. Some of them were sketched when he was abroad, and now were revised and prepared, but others may perhaps be the effusions of a man in sickness and pain. Yet there are more animated passages of genuine poetry scattered over this volume than we find in his former works.

The whole of the Amaranth is of the serious cast, such as became the situation of the author. We have, indeed, heard of authors who have sported with unusual glee in their moments of debility and decay, and seemed resolved to meet death with an air of good humour and levity. Such a state of mind, where it does really occur, and is not affectation, is rather to be wondered at, than envied. It is not the feeling of a rational, and an immortal creature.

In these poems he adopts various measures, according to his subject. The transition from the ode to the heroic, in the Ascetic, he justifies by the example of Cowley, and from the nature of the precepts, which are most suitable to the solemnity of heroic verse. The Ode to Contentment has many splendid passages and the recurrence of "All, all from Thee, &c." is particularly graceful. The exclamation of "Bless me," is, however, a puerility unworthy of the general strain of this poem.

In the Vision of Death, he professes to imitate Dryden by the introduction of more triplets and alexandrines than " he might otherwise have done." But if by this he avoids the perpetual restraint of the couplet, there is too much of visible artifice in the method he takes to relieve himself. This, however, is one of the most

ingenious fables of which immortality is the subject; the figure and habitation of Death, are poetically conceived and expressed, and the address of Death is energe tic and striking.

The Courtier and Prince is one of the most instructive and interesting fables in our language. Its length will perhaps be objected, but not by those who attend to the many scattered beauties of sentiment and imagination, and whatever opinion may be entertained on the merit of this and his other poems, it ought not to be forgot that in all he prefers no higher claims thaa

"The sounds of verse, and voice of Truth."

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It will be necessary to inform the reader, that the author was under nineteen when all these poems were written.

I ought here to say a word or two of my Essay on Painting. This performance is by no means correct in all its parts; I had neither health, leisure, nor abilities equal to my design. 'Twas written at intervals, upon such remarks as casually occurred in my reading. Of course no exact connexion must be expected: though I might allege, that Horace uses as little in his Art of Poetry. I had finished the whole, before ever I saw Du Fresnoy; as will appear by comparison,

AN ESSAY ON PAINTING.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THOMAS EARL OF PEMBROKE.

θίτροφος τη ζωγραφία ζωγραφίαν μὲν λέγεσιν ειναι Μιμητικὴ [Ποιήσεως] τέχνη καὶ δύναμίς ἑσιν ἀνα ΦΘΕΓΓΟΜΕΝΗΝ τὴν Ποίησιν, Ποίησιν δέ ΣΙΓΩΣΑΝ τὴν ζωγραφίαν.

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Plutarch. de audiend. Poet,

-Poema

Est pictura loquens, mutum pictura poema.

WHATEVER yet in poetry held true,
If duly weigh'd holds just in painting too :
Alike to profit, and delight they tend;

The means may vary, but the same their end.
Alike from Heav'n, congenial first they came,
The same their labours, and their praise the

same:

Alike by turns they touch the conscious heart, And each on each reflects the lights of art.

You nobler youths who listen to my lays, And scorn by vulgar arts to merit praise : Look cautious round, your genius nicely know, Aud mark how far its utmost stretch will go; Pride, envy, hatred, labour to conceal, And sullen prejudice, and party-zeal; Approve, examine, and then last believeFor friends mislead, and critics still deceive. Who takes his censure, or his praise on trust, Is kind, 'tis true, but never can be just.

But where's the man with gen'rous zeal in

spir'd,

Dear in each age, in ev'ry art admir'd?

Blest with a genius strong, but unconfin'd,
A spritely wit, with sober judgment join'd,
A love of learning, and a patient mind;
A vig'rous fancy, such as youth requires,
And health, and ease, and undisturb'd desires.
Who spares no pains his own defects to know,
Who not forgives, but ev'n admires a foe;
By manners sway'd, which stealing on the heart,
Charm more through ease, and happiness, than

art.

Such Titian was, by nature form'd to please,
Blest in his fortunes, born to live at ease:
Who felt the poet's, or the painter's fire,
Now dipp'd the pencil, and now tun'd the lyre:
Of gentlest manners in a court refin'd,
A friend to all, belov'd of all mankind;
The Muse's glory, as a monarch's care,
Dear to the gay, the witty, and the fair!

2

But ah! how long will nature ask to give
A soul like his, and bid a wonder live?
Rarely a Titian, or a Pope appears,
The forming glory of a thousand years!

A proper taste we all derive from Heav'n,
Wou'd all but bless, and manage what is giv'n.
Some secret impulse moves in ev'ry heart,
And nature's pleas'd with gentle strokes of art;
Most souls, 'tis true, this blessing faintly charms;
A distant flame, that rather shines, than warms :
Like rays, through wintry streams reflected,
falis

Its dubious light, in glimm'ring intervals.

Like Maro first with trembling hand design
Some humble work, and study line by line:
A Roman urn, a grove encircled bow'r,
The blushing cherry, or the bending flow'r.
Painful, and slow to noble arts we rise,
And long long labours wait the glorious prize;
Yet by degrees your steadier hand shall give
A bolder grace, and bid each object live.
So in the depths of some sequester'd vale,
The weary peasant's heart begins to fail:
Slowly he mounts the huge high cliff with pain,
And prays in thought he might return again:
'Till opening all at once beneath his eyes,
The verdant trees, and glittering turrets rise:
He springs, he triumphs, and like light'ning flies.
Ev'n Raphael's self from rude essays began,
And shadow'd with a coal his shapeless man.
Tine was, when Pope for rhymes would knit his
brow,

And write as tasteless lines as I do now.
'Tis hard a sprightly fancy to command,
And give a respite to the lab'ring hand;
Hard as our eager passions to restrain,
When priests, and self-denial plead in vain:
When pleasures tempt, and inclinations draw,
When vice is nature, and our will the law.
As vain we strive each trivial fault to hide,
That shows but little judgment, and more pride.
Like some nice prude, offensive to the sight,
Exactness gives at best a cold delight;

3

1 Sit vir talis, qualis verè sapiens appellari possit, nec moribus modo perfectus, sed etiam scientia, & omni facultate dicendi, qualis fortasse adhuc nemo fuerit. Quintilian.

2 Titian was created count Palatine by Charles V. and most intimately acquainted with Ariosto, Aretine, &c.

* Odiosa cura est-Optima enim sunt minimè

Each painful stroke disgusts the lively mind;
For art is lost, when overmuch refin'd.
So nice reformers their own faith betray,
And school-divines distinguish sense away.
To err is mortal, do whate'er we can,
Some faulty trifles will confess the man.
Dim spots suffuse the lamp that gilds the sky,
If nicely trac'd through Galileo's eye.
Wisest are they, who each mad whim repress,
And shur gross errours, by committing less.

Still let due decencies preserve your fame,
Nor must the pencil speak the master's shame.
Each nobler soul in ev'ry age was giv'n
To bless mankind, for arts descend from Heav'n.
Gods! shall we then their pious use profane,
'T" oblige the young, the noble, or the vain!
Whoever meditates some great design,
Where strength and nature dawn at ev'ry line,
Where art and fancy full perfection give,
And each bold figure glows, and seems to live:
Where lights and shades in sweet disunion play,
Rise by degrees, or by degrees decay;
Far let him shun the busy noise of life,
Untouch'd by cares, uncumber'd with a wife.
Bear him, ye Muses! to sequester'd woods,
To bow'ry grottoes, and to silver floods! [reign,
Where Peace, and Friendship hold their gentle
And Love unarm'd sits smiling on the plain.
Where Nature's beauties variously unite,
And in a landscape open on the sight.
Where Contemplation lifts her silent eye,
And lost in vision travels o'er the sky.
Soft as his ease the whisp'ring Zephyrs blow,
Calm as his thoughts the gentle waters flow:
Hush'd are his cares, extinct are Cupid's fires,
And restless hopes, and impotent desires.

But Nature first must be your darling care; Unerring Nature, without labour fair. Art from this source derives her true designs, And sober judgment cautiously refines. No look, no posture must mishap'd appear: Bold be the work, but boldly regular. When mercy pleads, let softness melt the eyes; When anger storms, the swelling muscles rise. A soft emotion breathes in simple love, The heart just seems to beat, the eye to move. Gently, ah! gently, Languor seems to die, Now drops a tear, and now steals out a sigh. Let awful Jove his lifted thunders wield, Place azure Neptune in the watry field. Round smiling Venus draw the faithless boy, Surmise, vain hopes, and short-enduring joy. But should you dress a nymph in monstrous ruff, Or saintly nun profane with modish snuff: Each fool will cry, O horridly amiss! The painters mad, mend that, and alter this. From Heav'n descending, beauteous Nature came,

One clear perfection, one eternal flame, accersita, & simplicihus ab ipsâ veritate profectis similia. Quintil. Lib. 8. Cap. 3. in Proem.

Aptissima sunt in hoc nemora, sylvæque; quòd illa cœli libertas, locorumque; amænitas sublimem animum, & beatiorem spiritum parent. Quintilian.

5 Videantur omnia ex Naturâ rerum hominumque fluere-Hoc opus, hic labor est; sine quo, cætera nuda, jejunga, infirma, ingrata, Quintil. Lib. 6. cap. 2.

Whose lovely lights on ev'ry object fall
By due degrees, yet still distinguish all.
Yet as the best of mortals are sometimes
Not quite exempt from folly or from crimes;
There are, who think that nature is not free
From some few symptoms of deformity.
Hence springs a doubt, if painters may be
To err, who copy nature in a fault, [thought
Led by some servile rule, whose pow'r prevails
On imitation, when th' example fails.
Poets, and painters here employ your skill;
Be this the doctrine of your good and ill,
Enough to pose the critics of a nation,
Nice as the rules of Puritan- salvation.

Yet if the seeds of art we nicely trace ;
There dawns a heav'nly, all-inspiring grace,
No tongue expresses it, no rule contains;
(The glorious cause unseen) th' effect remains:
Fram'd in the brain, it flows with easy art,"
Steals on the sense, and wins the yielding heart,
A pleasing vigour mixt with boldness charms,
And happiness completes what passion warms.

Nor is it thought a trifle, to express
The various shapes, and foldings of the dress 7,
With graceful ease the pencil to command,
And copy nature with a hasty hand.
Through the clear robe the swelling muscles rise,
Or heaving breasts, that decently surprise;
As some coy virgin with dejected mien [seen,
Conceals her charms, yet hopes they may be
Be ev'ry person's proper habit known,
Peculiar to his age, or sex alone.

In flowing robes the monarch sweeps along,
Large are the foldings, natural, and strong:
Wide ample lights in spreading glories play,
And here contrasted, deeper shades decay.
The virgin-pow'rs who haunt the silver floods,
And hoary hills, and consecrated woods,
Soft strokes, and graceful negligence demand,
The nice resultance of an easy hand;
Loose to the winds their airy garments fly
Like filmy dews, too tender for the eye.
But e'er these charms are to perfection wrought,
Adapted manuals must be nicely sought.
Gay vivid colours must the draught inspire,
Now melt with sweetness and now burn with fire.
A northern sky must aid the steady sight,
Else the shades alter with the transient light.
Methinks the loaded table stands display'd,
Each nicer vase "in mystic order laid."
Here ocean's mistress heaps around her shells
Beauteous, and recent from the sea-green cells;
The taper pencils here are rang'd apart,
There chalk, lead, vials, and loose schemes of
art.

So when bold Churchill with a gen'ral's care
Eyes his brave Britons crowding to the war;

• Tradi omnia, quæ ars efficit, non possunt. Quintil. Lib. 8. cap. 10. Vide etiam quæ sequuntur de Pictore. 7 Non refert quid facias, sed quo loco. Nam ornatus omnis non tam suâ, quam rei cui adhibetur, conditione constat.

Quintil. Lib. 11. cap. 1. Reddere persona scit convenientia cuique; Respicere exemplar vitæ morumque, jubebo Doctum imitatorem.

Horat. de Art. Poet.

Watchful, and silent move the duteous bands, One look excites them, and one breath commands,

Hail happy Painting! to confirm thy sway, Ocean, and air their various tributes pay. The purple insect 9 spreads her wings to thee, Wafts o'er the breeze, or glitters on the tree. Earth's winding veins unnumber'd treasures hold, And the warm champian ripens into gold. A clearer blue the lazuli bestows, Here umber deepens, there vermillion glows. For thee, her tender greens, and flourets rise, Whose colours change in ever-mingling dyes; Ev'n those fair groves (for Eden first design'd) Weep in soft fragrance through their balmy rind: Transparent tears! that glitter as they run, Warm'd with the blushes of the rising Sun.

Here cease my song-a gentler theme inspires

Each tender thought, and wakes the lover's fires. Once more your aid celestial Muses bring; Sacred the lays! nor to the deaf we sing.

In ancient Greece 10 there liv'd, unknown to A nymph, and Mimicina was her name. [fame, Smit by a neighb'ring youth betimes she fell Victim to love, and bade the world farewell. Thoughtful and duil she pin'd her bloom away In lonely groves, nor saw the cheerful day. This might be borne-but lo! her lovely swain Must part, ah, never to return again! One mutual kiss must mutual passion sever, One look divide 'em, and divide for ever! See, now she lies abandon'd to despair, And to rude winds unbinds her flowing hair: Beauteous neglect! when melting to her woes, A Sylvan maid from her dark grotto rose: (Long had she view'd the solitary fair, Her bleeding bosom heav'd with equal care) A heav'nly picture in her hand she bore, She smil'd, she gave it, and was seen no more Pleas'd Mimicina, speechless with surprise, Ey'd the fair form, and lightning of the eyes: She knew-and sighing gave a tender kiss; Her noble passion was content with this: No more his absence, or her woes deplor'd, And as the living, she the dead ador'd.

Thus Painting rose, to nourish soft desires, And gentle hopes, and friendship's purer fires: Thus still the lover must his nymph adore, And sigh to charms, that ought to chaim no

more.

Thus when these eyes, with kind illusions blest,
Survey each grace Parthenia once possest:
Her winning sweetness, and attractive ease,
And gentle smiles that never fail'd to please;
Heav'ns! how my fancy kindles at the view,
And my fond heart relents, and bleeds anew!
Fair faithless virgin! with constraint unkind,
Misled by duty, and through custom blind:
Perhaps ev'n now, from pride and int'rest free,
Thou shar'st each pang of all I felt for thee;
Ah, no-my pray'rs, my tears, my vows resign,
Alas, 'tis now a crime to call me thine,
To act the tender, or the friendly part;
No-hate, forget me, tear me from my heart.

9 The cochineel.

10 This story, with several others, is mentioned by most ancient writers. 1 have chosen it as the most poetical.

VOL. XVI.

Y

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