Thy juft, thy graceful Portraits charm the view,
With every tender tint that TITIAN knew.
Round Fancy's circle when thy Pencil flies,
With what terrific pomp thy Spectres rife !
What luft of mischief marks thy Witch's form,
While on the LAPLAND Rock fhe fwells the ftorm!
Tho' led by Fancy thro' her boundless reign,
Well doft thou know to quit her wild domain,
When Hiftory bids thee paint, feverely chafte,
Her fimpler scene, with uncorrupted taste.
While in these fields thy judging eyes explore,
What spot untried may yield its fecret ore,
Thy happy Genius springs a virgin Mine
Of copious, pure, original Design;
Truth gives it value, and, distinctly bold,
The stamp of Character compleats thy Gold,
Thy Figures rife in Beauty's noblest scale,
Sublimely telling their heroic Tale.
Still may thy Powers in full exertion blaze,
And Time revere them with unrivall'd praise !
May Art, in honour of a Son like thee,
So justly daring, with a foul fo free,
I
Each feparate Province to thy care commend,
And all her Glories in thy Pencil blend !
May tender TITIAN'S mellow Softness join,
With mighty ANGELO's fublimer Line;
CORREGIO's Grace with RAPHAEL'S Tafte unite,
And in thy perfect Works inchant the ravish'd Sight!
How oft we find that when, with nobleft aim,
The glowing Artift gains the heights of Fame,
To the well-chofen Theme he chiefly owes,
That praise which Judgment with delight bestows.
The Lyre and Pencil both this Truth confess,
The happy Subject forms their full fuccefs.
Hard is the Painter's fate, when, wifely taught
To trace with ease the deepest lines of thought,
By hapless Fortune he is doom'd to rove
Thro' all the frolicks of licentious Jove,
That some dark PHILIP, phlegmatic, and cold,*
(Whofe needy TITIAN calls for ill-paid gold)
May with voluptuous Images enflame
The fated Paffions of his languid frame.
Abuse like this awakens generous Pain,
And just Derifion mingles with Disdain,
When fuch a Pencil, in a Roman hand,
While the rich Abbefs iffues her command,
Makes wild St. FRANCIS on the canvass sprawl,
That fome warm Nun in mimic Trance may fall,
Or, fondly gazing on the pious whim,
Feel faintly Love o'erload each lazy limb,
Mistaking, in the Cloister's dull embrace,
The Cry of Nature for the Call of Grace.
But fee th' hiftoric Mufe before thee ftand,
Her nobler fubjects court thy happier Hand!
Her Forms of reverend Age, of graceful Youth,
Of public Virtue, and of private Truth:
The facred power of injur'd Beauty's charms,
And Freedom, fierce in adamantine Arms ;-
Whence Sympathy, thro' thy affifting art,
With floods of Joy may fill the human heart.
But while the bounds of Hift'ry you explore,
And bring new Treasures from her fartheft fhore,
Thro' all her various fields, tho' large and wide,
Still make Simplicity thy conftant guide:
And moft, my Friend, a Syren's wiles beware,
Ah! shun infidious Allegory's fnare 1
Her Flattery offers an alluring wreath,
Fair to the eye, but poisons lurk beneath,
By which, too lightly tempted from his guard,
Full many a Painter dies, and many a Bard.
How fweet her voice, how dang'rous her spell,
Let SPENSER'S Knights, and RUBENS' Tritons tell;
Judgment at colour'd riddles fhakes his head,
And fairy Songs are prais'd, but little read;
Where, in the Maze of her unbounded Sphere,
Unbridled Fancy runs her wild Career.
In Realms where Superstition's tyrant sway
"Takes half the vigor of the foul away,"
Let Art for fubjects the dark Legend search,
Where Saints unnumber'd people every Church;
Let Painters run the wilds of OVID o'er,
To hunt for monfters which we heed no more.
But here, my ROMNEY, where, on Freedom's wings,
The towering Spirit to Perfection springs ;
Where Genius, proud to act as Heav'n inspires,
On Tafte's pure Altars lights his facred fires;
Oh! here let Painting, as of old in GREECE,
With patriot paffions warm the finish'd piece;
Let BRITAIN, happy in a gen'rous race,
But fome there are, who, with pedantic scorn,
To the fair Annals of our Ifle we trust,
|