He met a dustman ringing a bell, He saw a sailor mixing his grog, And he marked him out for slaughter; Death saw two players playing at cards, THE PROGRESS OF ART. O HAPPY time! Art's early days! When great Rembrandt but little seemed, Some scratchy strokes abrupt and few, Sufficed for my design; My sketchy, superficial hand, Drew solids at a dash and spanned A surface with a line. Not long my eye was thus content, But grew more critical my bent Essayed a higher walk; I copied leaden eyes in lead— Anon my studious art for days Accomplished in the details then, Old gods and heroes-Trojan-Greek, A Bacchus, leering on a bowl, A Dian stuck about with stars, With my right hand I murdered Mars(One Williams did the same.) But tired of this dry work at last, Crayon and chalk aside I cast, And gave my brush a drink? Dipping" as when a painter dips In gloom of earthquake and eclipse,' -- O then, what black Mont Blancs arose, In spite of what the bard has penned, Enchantment to the view." Not Radclyffe's brush did e'er design. Or lakes so like a pall; The Chinese cake dispersed a ray Yet urchin pride sustained me still; But colors came!-like morning light, And, washed by my cosmetic brush, (Not Goldsmith's Auburn)-nut-brown hair, Her lips were of vermilion hue; Love in her eyes, and Prussian blue, A young Pygmalion, I adored The maids I made but time was stored Perspective dawned- and soon I saw My houses stand against its law; My beauties were no longer things Ah! why did knowledge ope my eyes? What grave defects and wants are mine; Thrice happy time! - Art's early days! When great Rembrandt but little seemed, A FAIRY TALE. ON Hounslow heath- and close beside the road, And built like Mr. Birkbeck's, all of wood; The walls of white, the window-shutters green; Four wheels it had at North, South, East, and West, (Though now at rest,) On which it used to wander to and fro, Because its master ne'er maintained a rider, But made his business travel for itself, And then retired if one may call it so, Perchance, the very race and constant riot and quiet Of his now sedentary caravan; Perchance, he loved the ground because 't was common, And so he might impale a strip of soil, That furnished, by his toil, Some dusty greens, for him and his old woman; But, tired of always looking at the coaches, The same to come,- when they had seen them one day! And, used to brisker life, both man and wife Began to suffer N U E's approaches, And feel retirement like a long wet Sunday,- And being ripened in the seventh stage, The childhood of old age, Began, as other children have begun,- Or Paley ethical, or learned Porson,- But chiefly fairy tales they loved to con, Slobbered, and kept Reading, and wept Over the White Cat, in their wooden cottage. |