Nor is Pride, or Folly's vain command,
That only tetters his creative hand;
At Fal hinon's nod he copies as they pafs
Each quaint reflection from her crowded glass.
The formal coat, with interfecting line,
Mars the free graces of his fair design;
The towering cap he marks with like distress,
And all the motley mafs of female drefs.
The hoop extended with enormous fize,
The corks that like a promontory rife;
The ftays of deadly fteel, in whofe embrace
The tyrant Fashion tortures injur'd Grace.
But Art, despairing over shapes like these
To caft an air of elegance and eafe,
Invokes kind Fancy's aid he comes to spread
Her magic spells the Gothic forms are fled;
And fee, to crown the painter's juft defire,
Her free pofitions, and her light attire!
Th' ambitious artist wishes to pursue
This brilliant plan with more extenfive view,
And with adopted character to give
A lafting charm to make the portrait live;
All points of art by one nice effort gain,
Delight the learned, and content the vain;
Make hiftory to life new value lend,
And in the comprehenfive picture blend
The ancient hero with the living friend.
Moft faire device! „, but, ah! what foes to fenfe,
What broods of motley monsters rife from hen-
ce!"
The ftrange pretenfions of each age and fex
These plans of fancy and of taste perplex;
For male and female, to themselves unknown,
Demand a character unlike their own,
Till oft the painter to this quaint diftrefs
Prefers the awkward chapes of common drefs.
Sweet girls, of mild and penfive foftnefs, choofe
The sportive emblems ofthe comic Mufe;
And fprightly damfels are inclind to borrow
The garb of penitence, and tears of forrow:
hayley. While awkward pride, tho' fafe from war's
Round his plump body buckles ancient arms,
And, from an honeft juftice of the peace,
Starts up at once a demi-god of Greece;
Too firm of heart by ridicule to fall,
The finifh'd hero crowns his country hall,
Ordain'd to fill, if fire his glory spare,
The lumber garret of his wifer heir.
Not lefs abfurd to flatter NERO's eyes
Arofe the portrait of coloffal fize:
Twice fifty feer th' enormous fheet was spreat,
To lift o'er gazing flaves the monster's head,
When impious Folly fway'd Oppreffion's rod,
And fervile Rome ador'd the mimic God.
Think not, my friend, with fupercilious air,
I rank the portrait as beneath thy care,
Bleft be the pencil! which from death can fave
The femblance of the virtuous, wife, and brave;
That youth and emulation ftill may gaze
On thofe infpiring forms of ancient days,
And, from the force of bright example bold,
Rival their worth,,, and be what they behold."
Bleft be the pencil! whofe confoling pow'r,
Soothing foft Friendf hip in her penfive hour,
Dispels the cloud, with melancholy fraught,
That abfence throws upon her tender thought.
Bleft be the pencil! whofe enchantment gives
To wounded Love the food on which he lives.
Rich in this gift, tho' cruel ocean bear
The youth to exile from his faithful fair,
He in fond dreams hangs o'er her glowing cheek,
Still owns her prefent, and ftill hears her speak:
Oh! LOVE, it was thy glory to impart
Its infant being to this magic art!
Infpir'd by thee, the foft Corinthian maid
Her graceful lover's fleeping form portray'd:
Her boding heart his near departure knew,
Yet long'd to keep his image in her view:
Pleas'd fhe beheld the fteady fhadow fall
By the clear lamp upon the even wall:
The line fhe trac'd with fond precision true,
And, drawing, doated on the form fhe drew;
Nor, as fhe glow'd with no forbidden fire,
Conceal'd the fimpel picture from her fire:
His kindred fancy, ftill to nature just,
Copied her line, and form'd the mimic buft.
Thus from thy power, inspiring LOVE, we trace
The modell'd image, and the pencil'd face!
We pity Genius, when, by interest led,
His toils but reach the femblance of a head;
Yet are thofe cenfures too fevere and vain,
That scorn the Portrait as the Painter's bane.
Tho' up the mountain winds the arduous road
That leads to pure Perfection's bright abode,
In humbler walks fome tempting laurels grow,
Some flowers are gather'd in the vale below:
Youth on the plain collects increasing force,
To climb the fleep in his meridian course.
While Nature fees her living models fhare
The rifing artist's unremitting care,
She on his mind her every charm imprints,
Her eafy postures, and her perfect tints
Till his quick pencil, in maturer hour,
Becomes her rival in creative power.
ESSAY ON HISTORY;
Ep. III. v. 191—254.
Far other views the liberal Genius fire
Whofe toils to pure Hiftoric praife, aspire,
Nor Moderation's dupe, nor Faction's brave,
Nor Guilt's apologist, nor Flattery's flave:
Wife, but not cunning; temperate, not cold;
Servant of Truth, and in that just controul
By which mild Nature fways the manly foul,
And Reafon's philantropic fpirit draws
To Virtue's intereft, and Freedom's cause;
Those great ennoblers of the human name,
Pure fprings of Power, of Happiness, and Fame!
To teach their influence, and fpread their fway,
The juft Hiftorian winds his toillome way;
From filent darknefs, creeping o'er the earth,
Redeems the finking trace of useful worth;
In Vice's bofom marks the latent thorn,
And brands that public peft with public fcorn.
A lively teacher in a moral fchool!
In that great office fteady, clear, and cool!
Pleas'd to promote the welfare of mankind,
And by informing meliorate the mind!
Such the bright tafk committed to his care!
Boundless its ufe; but its completion rare.
Critics have faid. Tho' high th' Hiftorian's charge
His Laws are fimple tho' his Province large;
Two obvious rules enfure his full fuccefs
To speak no Fallehood; and no Truth fupprefs:
Art muft to other works a luftre lend,
But History pleases, howfoe'er it's penn'd."
Perchance in ruder periods; but in thofe,
Where all the luxury of Learning flows,
To Truth's plain fare no palate will submit,
Each reader grows an Epicure in Wit;
And Knowdlege muft his nicer tafte beguile
With all the poignant charms of Attic style.
The curious Scholar, in his judgment choice,
Expects no common Notes from Hiftory's voice;
But all the tones, that all the paffions fuit,
From the bold Trumpet to the tender Lute:
Yet if thro' Mufic's fcale her voice fhould range
Now high, now low, with many a pleafing change,
Grace must thro' every variation glide,
In every movement Majefty prefide:
With ease not careless, tho' correct not cold;
Soft without languor, without harfhnefs bold.
Tho' Affectation can all works debase,
In Language, as in life, the bane of Grace!
Regarded ever with a scornful fmile,
She most is cenfur'd in th' Historic style:
Yet her infinuating power is fuch,
Not ev❜n the Greeks efkap'd her baleful touch;
Hence the fictious Speech, and long Harangue,
Too oft, like weights, on ancient Story hang.
Lefs fond of labour, modern pens devife
Affected beauties of inferior fize:
They in a narrower compafs boldly strike
The fancied Portrait, with no feature like;
And Nature's fimple colouring vainly quit,
To boaft the brilliant glare of fading Wit.
Those works alone may that bleft fate expect
To live thro' time, unconscious of neglect,
That catch, in fpringing from no fordid fource,
The ease of Nature, and of Truth the force..
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