We pity Genius, when by intereft led,
His toils but reach the semblance of a head;
Yet are thofe cenfures too fevere and vain,
That fcorn 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 steep in his meridian course.
While Nature fees her living models share
The rifing artift's unremitting care,
She on his mind her every charm imprints,
Her easy postures, and her perfect tints,
Till his quick pencil, in maturer hour,
Becomes her rival in creative power.
Yet in these paths difdain a long delay,
While eager Genius points a
Genius points a nobler way:
For fee! expanding to thy raptur'd gaze,
The epic field a brighter scene displays!
Here ftands the temple, where, to merit true,
Fame gives her laurel to the favour'd few:
Whofe minds, illumin'd with cœleftial fire,
Direct the pencil, or awake the lyre ;
Who trace the springs of nature to their source,
And by her guidance, with resistless force,
The tides of terror and of transport roll,
Thro' every channel of the human foul!
How few, my friend, tho' millions boast the aim,
Leave in this temple an unclouded name!
Vain the attempt, in every age and clime,
Without the flow conductors toil and time;
Without that fecret, foul-impelling power,
Infus'd by genius in the natal hour;
And vain with these, if bright occafion's ray
Fail to illuminate the doubtful way.
The elders of thy art, ordain'd to stand
In the first circle of this honour'd band,
(Whose pencil, striving for the noblest praise,
The heart to foften and the mind to raise,
Gave life and manners to the finish'd piece)
These fons of glory were the fons of GREECE!
Hail! throne of genius, hail! what mighty hand
Form'd the bright offspring of this famous land?
C 2
Firft in the annals of the world they shine:
Such gifts, O LIBERTY, are only thine;
Thy vital fires thro' kindling spirits run,
Thou foul of life, thou intellectual fun;
Thy rays call forth, profuse and unconfin'd,
The richest produce of the human mind.
First taught by thee, the Grecian pencil wrought
The forceful leffons of exalted thought,
And generously gave, at glory's call,
The patriot picture to the public hall.
'Twas then PANEUS drew, with freedom's train,*
The chief of Marathon's immortal plain.
In glorious triumph o'er the mighty host
That Perfia pour'd in torrents on their coast.
There POLYGNOTUS, fcorning fervile hire, †
Display'd the embattled scene from HOMER'S lyre.
His country view'd the gift with fond regard,
And rank'd the painter with their nobleft bard.
Thy tragic pencil, ARISTIDES, caught ‡
Each varied feeling, and each tender thought,,
While moral virtue fanctified thy art,
And passion gave it empire o'er the heart.
Correct Parrhafius firft to rich defign
Gave nice proportion, and the melting line,
Whose soft extremes from obfervation fly,
And with ideal distance cheat the eye.
The gay, the warm, licentious ZEUXIS drew, +210 Voluptuous Beauty in her richest hue ::
Bade in one form her scatter'd rays unite,.
And charm'd the view with their collected light.
But Grace confign'd, while her fair works he plann'd;
Her fofteft pencil to APELLES' hand:
215.
Yet oft to gain fublimer heights he strove, ‡
Such strong expreffion mark'd his mimic Jove,,
Inimitably great he seem'd to tower,
And pass the limits of the pencil's power.
Ye fons of art, tho' on the gulph of years,
No floating relic of your toil appears,.
Yet glory fhews, in every cultur'd clime,.
Your names ftill radiant thro' the clouds of time..
* Ver. 206. See NOTE VIII.
+ Ver. 210. See NOTE IX.
Ver. 216. See NOTE X..
Thy pride, O ROME, inclin'd thee to abhor
Each work that call'd thee from thy sphere of war:
By Freedom train'd, and favour'd by the Nine,
The powers of eloquence and verse were thine,
While chilling damps upon the pencil hung,*
Where TULLY thunder'd, and where VIRGIL fung,
Yet Grecian artifts had the fplendid fate,
To triumph o'er the Romans' fcornful hate.
Their matchlefs works Profufion toil'd to buy,
Their wonders glitter'd in the public eye,
Till ROME's terrific pomp, and letter'd pride,
Were funk in Defolation's whelming tide.
Oh! lovely Painting! long thy cheering light Was loft and buried in barbaric night;
The furious rage of Anarchy effac'd
Each hallow'd character thy hand had trac’d,
And Ign'rance, mutt'ring in her monkish cell,
Bound thy free foul in her lethargic spell.
At length from this long trance thy spirit rose,
In that sweet vale where filver Arno flows;
* Ver. 228. See NOTE XI.
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