The heedlefs Lover does not know Whofe Eyes they are that wound him so : But confounded with thy Art,
Inquires her Name that has his Heart.
Once I beheld the fairest of her Kind, (And ftill the fweet Idea charms my Mind.)
True, fhe was dumb, for Nature gaz'd fo long, Pleas'd with her Work, that fhe forgot her Tongue; But fmiling faid, the ftill fhall gain the Prize,
I only have transferr'd it to her Eyes:
Such are thy Pictures, Kneller! fuch thy Skill, That Nature feems 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 Imagine Sounds, deceiv'd to that Degree, We think 'tis fomewhat more than just to see. Shadows are but Privations of the Light, Yet when we walk they fhoot before the Sight; With us approach, retire, arife, and fall, Nothing themfelves, and yet expreffing all: Such are thy Pieces! imitating Life
So near, they almost conquer'd in the Strife; And from their animated Canvas came Demanding Souls, and loofen'd from the Frame. Prometheus, were he here, would caft away His Adam, and refuse a Soul to Clay;
And either would thy noble Work infpire, Or think it warm enough without his Fire.
But vulgar Hands may vulgar Likeness raife; This is the leaft Attendant on thy Praise : From hence the Rudiments of Art began, A Coal, or Chalk first imitated Man : Perhaps the Shadow taken on a Wall, Gave Out-Lines to the rude Original; E'er Canvas yet was ftrain'd; before the Grace Of blended Colours found their Use and Place; Or Cypress Tablets firft receiv'd a Face. By flow Degrees the God-like Art advanc'd, As Man grew polifh'd, Picture was inhanc'd: Greece added Pofture, Shade, and Perspective, And then the Mimick-Piece began to live. Yet Perspective was lame ; no Distance true, But all came forward in one common View: 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 languifh'd, and infenfibly decay'd, Long time the Sifter Arts, in iron Sleep, 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 rofe the Roman and the Lombard Line, One Colour'd beft, and one did beft Defign. 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 Defign, Poftures unforc'd, and lively Colours join. Likeness is ever there, but ftill the best ; Like proper Thoughts in lofty Language drefs'd: 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. Our Arts are Sifters, tho' not Twins in Birth; For Hymns were fung in Eden's happy Earth By the first Pair.
But oh the Painter Mufe, tho' laft in Place, Has fiez'd the Bleffing firft, like Jacob's Race. Apelles Art an Alexander found;
And Raphael did with Leo's Gold abound: But Homer was with barren Lawrel crown'd. Thou hadst thy Charles awhile, and fo had I; But pafs we that unpleafing Image by. Thou paint'ft as we defcribe; improving ftill, When on wild Nature we engraft our Skill: But not creating Beauties at our Will. But Poets are confin'd in narr'wer Space, To fpeak the Language of their native Place: The Painter widely ftretches his Command; Thy Pencil fpeaks the Tongue of ev'ry Land. But we who Life beftow, our felves muft 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; Fut to his Follies in thy Poftures fink, The fenfelefs Ideot feems at least to think. 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 themfelves go mended from thy Hand: Likeness appears in ev'ry 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 less living in the lovely Dame. More cannot be by mortal Art exprefs'd; But venerable Age fhall add the reft. For Time fhall with his ready Pencil ftand, Re-touch your Fingers with his rip'ning 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. Dr. to Sir G. Kneller.
Men thought fo much a Flame by Art was shown,
The Picture's felf would fall in Afhes down. The Painter who fo long had vex'd his Cloth, Of his Hound's Mouth to feign the raging Froth, His defp'rate Pencil at the Work did dart; His Anger reach'd that Rage which pafs'd his Art. Chance finish'd that which Art could not begin; And he fate smiling how his Dog did grin.
PROMETHEUS ill painted.
How wretched doth Prometheus State appear, While he his fecond Mifery fuffers here. Draw him no more, left as he tortur'd stands,
He blame great Jove's lefs than the Painter's Hands. It would the Vulture's Cruelty out-go,
If once again his Liver thus fhould grow.
Pity him, Fove, and his bold Theft allow,
The Flames he once ftole from thee, grant him now.
Such Hellen was, and who can blame the Boy That in fo bright a Flame confum'd his Troy? But had like Virtue fhin'd in that fair Greek, The amorous Shephard had not dar'd to seek, Or hope for Pity; but with filent Moan, And better Fate, had perifhed alone.
WOMEN's Painting.
As Pyrates all false Colours wear, T'intrap th'unwary Mariner; So Women, to furprize us, fpread The borrow'd Flags of White and Red. Lay Trains of amorous Intrigues In Tow'rs, and Curls, and Periwigs; With greater Art and Cunning rear'd, Than Philip Nye's thanksgiving Beard. Prepoft'roufly t'entice and gain Those to adore them they difdain.
Quoth fhe, if you're impos'd upon, 'Tis by your own Temptation done;
That with your Ignorance invite And teach us how to use the Slight: For when we find you're ftill more taken With falfe Attracs of your own making; Swear that's a Rose and that's a Stone, Like Sots, to us that laid it on ; And what we did but flightly prime, Moft ignorantly dawb in Rhyme: You force us, in our own Defences, To copy Beams and Influences; To lay Perfections on the Graces, And draw Attracts upon our Faces: And in Compliance to your Wit, Your own falfe Jewels counterfeit ; Which when they're nobly done and well, The fimple natural excel.
How fair and fweet the planted Rofe, Beyond the wild in Hedges, grows! For without Art the nobleft Seeds Of Flow'rs degenerate to Weeds. How dull and rugged, e'er 'tis ground And polish'd, looks a Diamond! Tho' Paradife was e'er fo fair,
It was not kept fo without Care.
The whole World, without Art and Drefs, Would be but one great Wilderness; And Mankind but a favage Herd, For all that Nature has confer'd: This does but rough-hew and defign, Leaves Art to polish and refine.
So on he fares, and to the Border comes Of Eden, where delicious Paradise,
Now nearer, crowns with her Enclosure green, As with a rural Mound, the Champain Head Of a fleep Wilderness; whole hairy Sides, With Thicket over-grown, Grotefque and wild, Access deny'd: And over-head up-grew Infuperable Height of Joftieft Shade;
Cedar, and Pine, and Fir, and branching Palm; A fylvan Scene; And as the Ranks afcend Shade above Shade, a woody Theatre,
Of ftatelieft View; and higher than their Tops The verd'rous Wall of Paradife up-fprung; And higher than that Wall a circling Row Of goodlieft Trees, loaden with faireft Fruit, Bloffoms and Fruits at once of golden Hue,
Appear'd with gay enamel'd Colours mix'd: On which the Sun more glad imprefs'd his Beams, Than on fair Ev'ning Cloud, or humid Bow, When God has fhow'r'd the Earth: So lovely feem'd That Landscape. And of pure, now purer Air Meets his Approach, and to the Heart infpires Vernal Delight and Joy, able to drive
All Sadnefs, but Defpair: Now gentle Gales, Fanning their odoriferous Wings, difpenfe Native Perfumes, and whifper whence they stole Those balmy Spoils. As when to them who fail Beyond the Cape of Hope, and now are paft Mozambick; Off at Sea North-Eaft Winds blow Sabean Odours from the fpicy Shore
Of Arabie the Bleft, with fuch Delay
Well-pleas'd, they flack their Courfe; and many a. League Chear'd with the grateful Smell old Ocean fmiles. So entertain'd thofe od'rous Sweets the Fiend.
A blissful Field, circled with Groves of Myrrh, And flowing Odours, Caffia, Nard, and Balm; A Wilderness of Sweets! for Nature here, Wanton'd as in her Prime; and play'd at Will Her Virgin Fancies; pouring forth more Sweet, Wild, above Rule or Art, enormous Bliss!
Out of this fertile Ground God caus'd to grow
All Trees of nobleft Kind for Sight, Smell, Tafte; And all amidst them ftood the Tree of Life, High eminent, blooming Ambrofial Fruit Of vegetable Gold; and next to Life,
Our Death, the Tree of Knowledge grew faft by. Southward thro' Eden went a River large,
Nor chang'd his Courfe, but thro' the fhaggy Hill Pafs'd underneath ingulf'd; and thence thro' Veins Of porous Earth, with kindly Thirft up-drawn, Rofe a fresh Fountain, and with many a Rill Water'd the Garden: Thence united fell Down the steep Glade, and met the nether Flood. But oh! what Art can tell
How from that Saphir Fount, the crifped Brook, Rolling on Orient Pearls, and Sands of Gold, With many Errour, under pendant Shades, Ran Nectar; vifiting each Plant, and fed Flow'rs worthy of Paradife: Which not nice Art In Beds, and curious Knots, but Nature boon Pour'd forth profufe, on Hill, and Dale, and Plain Both where the Morning Sun first warmly fmote
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