A FLOWER PAINTED BY SIMON VARELST.
WHEN fam'd Varelst this little wonder drew,
Flora vouchsaf'd the growing work to view:
Finding the painter's science at a stand,
The goddess snatch'd the pencil from his hand;
And, finishing the piece, she smiling said,
Behold one work of mine that ne'er shall fade.
WHEN poets wrote, and painters drew,
As nature pointed out the view:
Ere Gothic forms were known in Greece,
To spoil the well-proportion'd piece:
And, in our verse, ere monkish rhymes
Had jangled their fantastic chimes:
Ere on the flow'ry lands of Rhodes
Those knights had fix'd their dull abodes,
Who knew not much to paint or write,
Nor car'd to pray, nor dar'd to fight:
Protogenes, historians note,
Liv'd there a burgess, scot and lot;
And, as old Pliny's writings show,
Apelles did the same at Co.
Agreed these points of time and place,
Proceed we in the present case.
Piqued by Protogenes's fame,
From Co to Rhodes Apelles came;
To see a rival and a friend,
Prepar'd to censure or commend,
Here to absolve, and there object,
As art with candour might direct.
He sails, he lands, he comes, he rings;
His servants follow with the things:
Appears the governante of th' house;
For such in Greece were much in use:
If young or handsome, yea or no,
Concerns not me or thee to know.
Does Squire Protogenes live here?
Yes, sir, says she, with gracious air,
And curtsy low, but just call'd out
By lords peculiarly devout,
Who came on purpose, sir, to borrow
Our Venus for the feast to-morrow,
Το grace the church: 'tis Venus' day:
I hope, sir, you intend to stay
To see our Venus: 'tis the piece
The most renown'd throughout all Greece;
So like th' original they say;
But I have no great skill that way.
But, sir, at six ('tis now past three)
Dromo must make my master's tea :
At six, sir, if you please to come,
You'll find my master, sir, at home.
Tea, says a critic, big with laughter,
Was found some twenty ages after.
Authors, before they write, should read.
"Tis very true; but we'll proceed.
And, sir, at present would you please To leave your name? Fair maiden, yes. Reach me that board. No sooner spoke But done. With one judicious stroke On the plain ground Apelles drew
A circle regularly true;
And will you please, sweet-heart, said he,
To show your master this from me?
By it he presently will know,
How painters write their names at Co.
He gave the pannel to the maid. Smiling and curtsying, sir, she said,
I shall not fail to tell my master;
And, sir, for fear of all disaster,
I'll keep it my own self: safe bind,
Says the old proverb, and safe find.
So, sir, as sure as key or lock-
Your servant, sir- -at six o'clock.
Again at six Apelles came;
Found the same prating civil dame.
Sir, that my master has been here,
Will by the board itself appear.
If from the perfect line he found,
He has presum'd to swell the round,
Or colours on the draught to lay,
'Tis thus (he order'd me to say)
Thus write the painters of this isle;
Let those of Co remark the style.
She said; and to his hand restor'd
The rival pledge, the missive board.
Upon the happy line were laid
Such obvious light, and easy shade,
That Paris' apple stood confess'd,
Or Leda's egg, or Chloe's breast.
Apelles view'd the finish'd piece,
And live, said he, the arts of Greece!
Howe'er Protogenes and I
May in our rival talents vie;
Howe'er our works may
have express'd
Who truest drew, or colour'd best;
When he beheld my flowing line,
He found at least I could design;
And from his artful round, I grant,
That he with perfect skill can paint.
The dullest genius cannot fail
To find the moral of my tale;
That the distinguish'd part of men,
With compass, pencil, sword, or pen,
Should in life's visit leave their name
In characters which may proclaim
That they with ardour strove to raise
At once their art's, and country's, praise;
And in their working took great care,
That all was full, and round, and fair.
DEMOCRITUS AND HERACLITUS.*
DEMOCRITUS, dear droll, revisit earth,
And with our follies glut thy heighten'd mirth;
Sad Heraclitus, serious wretch, return,
In louder grief our greater crimes to mourn.
Between you both I unconcern'd stand by;
Hurt, can I laugh? and honest, need I cry?
DID sweeter sounds adorn my flowing tongue,
Than ever man pronounc'd, or angels sung;
Had I all knowledge, human and divine,
That thought can reach, or science can define;
And had I pow'r to give that knowledge birth,
In all the speeches of the babbling earth;
Did Shadrach's zeal my glowing breast inspire,
To weary tortures, and rejoice in fire;
Or had I faith like that which Israel saw,
When Moses gave them miracles and law;
Yet, gracious Charity, indulgent guest,
Were not thy pow'r exerted in my breast,
Those speeches would send up unheeded pray'r:
That scorn of life would be but wild despair;
A cymbal's sound were better than my voice;
My faith were form, my eloquence were noise.
Charity, decent, modest, easy, kind,
Softens the high, and rears the abject mind;
Knows with just reins, and gentle hand, to guide,
Betwixt vile shame, and arbitrary pride.
Not soon provok'd, she easily forgives,
And much she suffers, as she much believes.
Soft peace she brings wherever she arrives;
She builds our quiet, as she forms our lives;
Lays the rough paths of peevish nature ev'n,
And opens in each heart a little heav'n.
Each other gift, which God on man bestows,
Its proper bound, and due restriction, knows;
To one fix'd purpose dedicates its power,
And, finishing its act, exists no more.
Thus, in obedience to what Heaven decrees,
Knowledge shall fail, and prophecy shall cease;
But lasting Charity's more ample sway,
Nor bound by time, or subject to decay,
In happy triumph shall for ever live,
And endless good diffuse, and endless praise receive. As through the artist's intervening glass,
eye observes the distant planets pass;
A little we discover, but allow
That more remains unseen, than art can show; So whilst our mind its knowledge would improve, (Its feeble eye intent on things above,)
High as we may, we lift our reason up,
By Faith directed, and confirm'd by Hope:
|