And lo! where Philip's mightier son
Bade the proud city's rising walls proclaim
To distant times their founder's name,
Fresh trophies by Britannia's legions won;
When from the veteran bands of Gallia's shore
Their dauntless arms the blood-stain'd banner tore,
Which, like a baleful meteor, spread,
To fields of death th' infuriate warriors led.
Yet, 'mid the deeds of endless fame,
Shall not a tear the dying victor claim?
No!-o'er his tomb with guardian wings
Hov'ring, the eternal Paan Glory sings ;
Chaunting with note triumphant to the skies,
His name thro' ages lives who for his country dies.
Enough of war!-While Britain sees,
Before Hygeia's healing hand,
The pallid Dæmon of disease
Lead far away her sickly band;
While to a nation's fervent pray'r
The arm omnipotent to spare
Gives her ador'd, her patriot lord,
Again to life, to health restor'd;
To hail that day to Britain dear,
Selected from the circling year,
Which Fame shall ever mark the birth
Of regal duty and of private worth;
Strains that Affection forms, that Transport breathes,
The fragrant offerings join that June ambrosial wreathes,
LL has been said-the world has nought to yield;
Alas! there's nothing new beneath the sun:
The ancients with their hooks have reap'd the field;
All that can be imagin'd has been done.
The ancients for the moderns were too stout;
Yes! the deep mine of knowledge is work'd out!"
So cries the world. But who are these that speak
Men of no nous, most wonderfully weak!!
If things are so, why, what a fate is mine!
Lord help the Muse! she never penn'd a line.
Reap the whole field!.... Not half on't, I'll be sworn:
They've only taken a few sheaves of corn.
The mine exhausted!.... Poh! I'll hear no more-
They've only gather'd a few grains of ore.
Appear but Genius, Genius soon will find
New matter to improve and charm mankind;
Teach on the wildest heath the rose to blow:
Genius, the rod of Moses at the rock,
Shall, by a magical and happy stroke,
Bid the rich stream of wit and wisdom flow.
The brains of men, in general, are a pool,
Wrapp'd in death-stillness, comfortably dull;
Like motionless poor Lethe, void of spirit:
But now and then (like Milton, for example,
Or Shakspeare, each indeed a beauteous sample,)
Into existence pops a wight of merit :
An ocean, lo, his brave ideas rise,
That mounts, and with its thunders shakes the skies!
CHARACTERS of the PRINCIPAL ENGLISH PAINTERS.
[From SOTHEBY'S POETICAL EPISTLE to SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT, BART.
F Art, through blended groups, can aptly join
Part link'd with part, and mould in one design,
If keen-eyed Humour catch in brilliant hues
The changeful colours of the comic muse,
Where Nature pours her spirit o'er the whole,
And every stroke is truth that paints the soul,
Mark'd by distinctive touches, finely wrought,
In every form of life, and cast of thought:
If Wit, enforcing Wisdom's moral plan,
Lash vice and weakness to amend the man:
Satire and Sense, on Hogarth's tomb reclin'd,
Shall point the ethic painter of mankind,
In Wilson view the spirit of the storm,
That rolls the thunder round his shapeless form,
Whose floating limbs on Snowdon's brow expand,
Swell on the sight, and awe th' o'ershadow'd land,
While midnight clouds beneath the dæmon rise,
And meteors streak with trailing flame the skies,
Lanch'd from his hand, prone lightnings fire the wood,
The tempest smites the far-resounding flood,
Shivers the crags, and down their rifted side
Whirls the rooted oaks along the tide,
Onward he sails, and o'er the corse beneath
Spreads all his plumes, and rocks the blasted heath.
Let others Wright's resplendent pencil praise,
And lustrous hues, that like the lightning blaze,
Catch from the sparkling steel the furnace-glow,
And trace the melted mountains as they flow:
I, to yon lonely tent by pity led,
View where the widow mourns her soldier dead;
Turns from her babe, whose careless smiles impart
Strange woe, that harrows up the mother's heart,
Hangs o'er the body bleeding on the ground,
Clasps his cold hand, and faints upon the wound.
Not such the scene that lonely Gainsborough led
To the wild wood, dark dell, and mouldering shed.
Lo! bending o'er the lake, the village child,
That on her smiling image sweetly smil'd;
The boy that worshipp'd, with uplifted eye,
The broad arch beaming on the stormy sky;
Each quivering gleam, when tenderest colours play
On the light foliage, fresh'ning all the May;
Bright summer's noontide glare, th' autumnal hue,
That melts, in golden glow, the mellow'd view;
The solemn darkness stealing o'er the year,
When glimmers on the branch the brown leaf sear;
Each varied tint, by Time's soft pencil thrown,
The dew-stain'd bark, grey moss, and mouldering stone;
His bold rough touch to these existence gives,
And, in his faithful mirror, nature lives.
Beaumont! while fond remembrance wakes thy tear,
That streams o'er these frail flow'rs on Reynolds' bier,
Low droops the Muse, unequal to her aim:
Genius, like thine, should raise thy friend to fame.
Hail! guide and glory of the British school,
Whose magic line gave life to every rule.
Reynolds! thy portraits, true to nature, glow'd,
Yet o'er the whole ideal graces flow'd;
While forth to sight the living likeness came,
Souls touch'd by genius, felt thy higher aim:
Here, where the public gaze a Siddons views,
See fear and pity crown the tragic Muse:
There, girt with flames, where Calpe gleams afar,
In dauntless Heathfield hail the god of war.
Painter of grace! Love gave to thee alone
Corregio's melting line, with Titian's tone,
Bade beauty wear all forms that breathe delight,
And a new charm in each enchant the sight:
Here, a wild Thaïs, wave the blazing brand,
There yield her zone to Cupid's treacherous hand,
An empress, melt the pearl in Egypt's bowl,
Or, a sly gipsy, read the tell-tale soul.
Painter of passion! Horror on thy view
Pour'd the wild scenes that daring Shakspeare drew,
When the fiend scowl'd on Beaufort's bed of death,
And each weird hag 'mid lightnings hail'd Macheth.
Thee Dante led to Famine's murky cave: "Round yon mute father hear his children rave; "Behold them stretch'd beneath his stony eye, "Drop one by one, and gaze on him, and die; "So strain each starting ball in sightless stare, "And each grim feature fix in stern despair."
No earth-born giant struggling into size,
Stretch'd in thy canvas, sprawls before our eyes,
The mind applies its standard to the scene,
Notes, with mute awe, the more than mortal mien,
Where boundless genius, brooding o'er the whole,
Stamps e'en on babes sublimity of soul.
Whether, where terror crowns Jove's infant brow,
Before the Godhead aw'd Olympus bow;
Or, in yon babe, the Herculean strength upholds
Th' enormous snakes, and slacks their length'ning folds;
Or while, from heav'n celestial Grace descends,
Meck on his knees the infant Samuel bends,
Lifts his clasp'd hands, and, as he glows in pray'r,
Fixes, in awful trance, his eye on air.
Yet not fair forms, by Reynolds' hand design'd, No, nor his magic pen, that paints the mind; That pen, which erst on charm'd Ilyssus' shore Th' exulting Graces to their Plato bore, When Fancy wove, for Truth, her fairest flow'rs, And Wisdom commun'd in the Muses' bow'rs; Not West's heroic chiefs, the heirs of fame, Martyrs and saints that holy zeal inflame; Chaste Barry's moral scenes, from age to age, That trace mankind through culture's gradual stage; Not Westall's graceful touch and brilliant hue, Ham's flame-wing'd plague, that Turner greatly drew, Not Beauty's self, by Hoppner's pencil wrought, Northcote's bold stroke, nor Opie's, big with thought,
Poetic Fuseli by Genius fired,
Nor Lawrence, second Reynolds, self-inspir'd;
Not these suffice-if Art, to Britain led,
Shall far and wide her gathering glories spread,
Tow'r like the oak, that now adorns her plain,
Then spreads her empire o'er the boundless main,
Beaumont bid Albion's chief support her claim,
Bid wealth supply what yet is left of fame,
Each hallow'd model to her school resign,
And Raffael's grace with Titian's hue combine.
From daring Angelo's Promethean fire,
With ray of heav'n Britannia's sons inspire;
Fix every charm that glides divinely fair
O'er Parma's forms, and Guido's angel air;
All that from art the learn'd Caracci drew,
All that wild nature pour'd on Rosa's view,
Paulo's free pencil, Rembrandt's forceful blaze,
And tints that melt in Claude's aërial haze.
The FUNERAL of the gallant MARTEL.
[From BURGES'S RICHARD the FIRST.]
S thus he spake, I saw a mournful band,
With hair dishevell'd, and with arms revers'd,
In solemn rank advancing from the strand.
As on they came in sorrow deep immers'd,
An exclamation loud of anguish burst:
For brave Martel's departed soul they pray'd;
And, as his fam'd achievements were rehears'd,
The wound which grac'd his bosom they display'd,
And steep'd with tears the bier on which the chief was laid.
We gaz'd in silence on the sable train,
Which in lugubrious pomp it's progress kept,
And slowly wound along the sea-girt plain.
Thro' the still air the trumpet's full note swept;
Now swell'd the strain, in death-like pause now slept,
As sadly rose the melancholy dirge:
The awful chorus o'er our senses crept,
While, from the shore, the still responsive surge
With hollow murm'rings seem'd its sympathy to urge.
With measur'd cadence and impressive state
They march'd, till underneath a pine's green shade
They stopp'd, as if our presence to await.
As we approach'd, we saw a grave new made,
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