The Sylphs of the Season with Other Poems Part 2

Nor longer did their courteous guile, Like serpent, twisting through a smile, Each other sting in civil phrase, And poison with envenom'd praise; For now the fiend of anger rose, Distending each death-withered nose, And, rolling fierce each gla.s.sy eye, Like owlets' at the noonday sky, Such flaming vollies pour'd of ire As set old Charon's phlegm on fire.

Peace! peace! the grizly boatman cried, You drown the roar of Styx's tide; Unmanner'd ghosts! if such your strife, 'Twere better you were still in life!

If pa.s.sions such as these you show You'll make another Earth below; Which, sure, would be a viler birth, Than if we made a h.e.l.l on Earth.

At which in loud defensive strain 'Gan speak the angry Shades again.

I'll hear no more, cried he; 'no more'

In echoes hoa.r.s.e return'd the sh.o.r.e.

To Minos' court you soon shall hie, (Chief Justice here) 'tis he will try Your jealous cause, and prove at once That only dunce can hate a dunce.

Thus check'd, in sullen mood they sped, Nor more on either side was said; Nor aught the dismal silence broke, Save only when the boatman's stroke, Deep-whizzing through the wave was heard, And now and then a spectre-bird, Low-cow'ring, with a hungry scream.

For spectre-fishes in the stream.

Now midway pa.s.s'd, the creaking oar Is heard upon the fronting sh.o.r.e; Where thronging round in many a band, The curious ghosts beset the strand.

Now suddenly the boat they 'spy, Like gull diminish'd in the sky; And now, like cloud of dusky white, Slow sailing o'er the deep of night, The sheeted group within the bark Is seen amid the billows dark.

Anon the keel with grating sound They hear upon the pebbly ground.

And now with kind, officious hand, They help the ghostly crew to land.

What news? they cried with one accord I pray you, said a n.o.ble lord, Tell me if in the world above I still retain the people's love: Or whether they, like us below, The motives of a Patriot know?

And me inform, another said, What think they of a Buck that's dead?

Have they discerned that, being dull, I knock'd my wit from watchmen's skull?

And me, cried one, of knotty front, With many a scar of pride upon't Resolve me if the world opine Philosophers are still divine; That having hearts for friends too small, Or rather having none at all, Profess'd to love, with saving grace, The _abstract_ of the human race?

And I, exclaim'd a fourth, would ask What think they of the Critick's task?

Perceive they now our shallow arts; That merely from the want of parts To write ourselves, we gravely taught How books by others should be wrought?

Whom interrupting, then inquir'd A fifth, in squalid garb attir'd, Do now the world with much regard In mem'ry hold the dirty Bard, Who credit gain'd for genius rare By shabby coat and uncomb'd hair?

Or do they, said a Shade of prose, With many a pimple's ghost on nose, Th' eccentric author still admire, Who wanting that same genius' fire, Diving in cellars underground, In pipe the spark ethereal found: Which, fann'd by many a ribbald joke, From brother tipplers puff'd in smoke, Such blaze diffused with crackling loud, As blinded all the staring croud?

And last, with jealous glancing eye, That seem'd in all around to pry, A Painter's ghost in voice suppres'd, Thus questioning, the group address'd;

Sweet strangers, may I too demand, How thrive the offspring of my hand?

Whether, as when in life I flourish'd, They still by puffs of fame are nourish'd?

Or whether have the world discern'd The tricks by which my fame was earn'd; That, lacking in my pencil skill, I made my tongue its office fill: That, marking (as for love of truth) In others' works a limb uncouth, Or face too young, or face too old, Or colour hot, or colour cold; Or hinting, (if to praise betray'd) 'Though coloured well, it yet might _fade_;'

And 'though its grace I can't deny, Yet pity 'tis so hard and dry.'-- I thus by implication show'd That mine were wrought in better mode; And talking thus superiors down, Obliquely raise my own renown?

In short, I simply this would ask,-- If Truth has stript me of the mask; And, chasing Fashion's mist away, Expos'd me to the eye of day--[2]

A Painter false, without a heart, Who lov'd himself, and not his art?

At which, with fix'd and fishy The Strangers both express'd amaze.

Good Sir, said they, 'tis strange you dare Such meanness of yourself declare.

Were I on earth, replied the Shade, I never had the truth betray'd; For there (and I suspect like you) I ne'er had time myself to view.

Yet, knowing that 'bove all creation I held myself in estimation, I deem'd that what I _lov'd_ the _best_ Of every virtue was possess'd.

But _here_ in colours black and true, Men see themselves, who never knew Their motives in the worldly strife, Or real characters through life.

And here, alas! I scarce had been A little day, when every sin That slumber'd in my living breast, By Minos rous'd from torpid rest, Like thousand adders, rushing out, Entwin'd my shuddering limbs about.-- Oh, strangers, hear!--the truth I tell-- That fearful sight I saw was h.e.l.l.

And, oh I with what unmeasur'd wo Did bitterness upon me flow, When thund'ring through the hissing air, I heard the sentence of Despair-- 'Now never hope from h.e.l.l to flee; Yourself is all the h.e.l.l you see!'--

He ceas'd. But still with stubborn pride The Rival Shades each other eyed; When, bursting with terrifick sound, The voice of Minos shook the ground, The startled ghosts on either side, Like clouds before the wind, divide; And leaving far a pa.s.sage free, Each, conning his defensive plea, With many a crafty lure for grace.

The Painters onward hold their pace.

Anon before the Judgement Seat, With sneer confronting sneer they meet: And now in deep and awful strain, Piercing like fiery darts the brain, Thus Minos spake. Though I am he, From whom no secret thought may flee; Who sees it ere the birth be known To him, that claims it for his own; Yet would I still with patience hear What each may for himself declare, That all in your defence may see The justice pure of my decree.-- But, hold!--It ill beseems my place To hear debate in such a case: Be therefore thou, Da Vinci's shade, Who when on earth to men display'd The scattered powers of human kind In thy capacious soul combin'd; Be thou the umpire of the strife, And judge as thou wert still in life.

Thus bid, with grave becoming air, Th' appointed judge a.s.sum'd the chair.

And now with modest-seeming air, The rivals straight for speech prepare: And thus, with hand upon his breast, The Senior Ghost the Judge address'd: The world, (if ought the world I durst In this believe) did call me first Of those, who by the magick play Of harmonizing colours, sway The gazer's sense with such surprise, As make him disbelieve his eyes.

'Tis true that some of vision dim, Or squeamish taste, or pedant whim, My works a.s.sail'd with narrow spite; And, pa.s.sing o'er my colour bright, Reproach'd me for my want of grace, And silks and velvets out of place; And vulgar form, and lame design, And want of character; in fine, For lack of worth of every kind To charm or to enlarge the mind.

Now this, my Lord, as will appear, Was nothing less than malice sheer, To stab me, like a.s.sa.s.sins dark, Because I did not hit a mark, At which (as I have hope of fame) I never once design'd to aim.

For seeing that the life of man Was scarcely longer than a span; And, knowing that the Graphic Art Ne'er mortal master'd but _in part_; I wisely deem'd 'twere labour vain, Should I attempt the _whole_ to gain; And therefore, with ambition high, Aspir'd to reach what pleas'd the eye; Which, truly, sir, must be confess'd, A part that far excels the rest: For if, as all the world agree, 'Twixt Painting and fair Poesy The diff'rence in the mode be found, Of colour this, and that of sound, 'Tis plain, o'er every other grace, That colour holds the highest place; As being that distinctive part, Which bounds it from another art.

If therefore, with reproof severe I've galled my pigmy Rival here, 'Twas only, as your Lordship knows, Because his foolish envy chose To rank his cla.s.sic forms of mud Above my wholesome flesh and blood.

Thus ended parle the Senior Shade.

And now, as scorning to upbraid, With curving, _parabolick_ smile, Contemptuous, eying him the while, His Rival thus: 'Twere vain, my Lord, To wound a gnat by spear or sword[3]; If therefore _I_, of greater might, Would meet this _thing_ in equal fight, 'Twere fit that I in size should be As mean, diminutive, as he; Of course, disdaining to reply, I pa.s.s the wretch unheeded by.

But since your Lordship deigns to know What I in my behalf may show, With due submission, I proclaim, That few on earth have borne a name More envied or esteem'd than mine, For grace, expression, and design, For manners true of every clime, And composition's art sublime.

In academick lore profound, I boldly took that lofty ground, Which, as it rais'd me near the sky, Was thence for vulgar eyes too high; Or, if beheld, to them appear'd By clouds of gloomy darkness blear'd.

Yet still that misty height I chose, For well I knew the world had those, Whose sight, by learning clear'd of rheum, Could pierce with ease the thickest gloom.

Thus, perch'd sublime, 'mid clouds I wrought, Nor heeded what the vulgar thought.

What, though with clamour coa.r.s.e and rude They jested on my colours crude; Comparing with malicious grin, My drapery to bronze and tin, My flesh to brick and earthen ware, And wire of various kinds my hair; Or (if a landscape-bit they saw) My trees to pitchforks crown'd with straw; My clouds to pewter plates of thin edge, And fields to dish of eggs and spinage; Yet this, and many a grosser rub, Like fam'd Diogenes in tub, I bore with philosophic nerve, Nay, gladly bore; for, here observe, _'Twas that which gave to them offense, Did const.i.tute my excellence._ I see, my Lord, at this you stare: Yet thus I'll prove it to a hair.-- As Mind and Body are distinct, Though long in social union link'd, And as the only power they boast, Is merely at each other's cost; If both should hold an equal station, They'd both be kings without a nation: If therefore, one would paint the Mind In partnership with Body join'd, And give to each an equal place, With each an equal truth and grace, 'Tis clear the picture could not fail To be without or head or tail.

And therefore as the Mind alone I chose should fill my graphick throne, To fix her pow'r beyond dispute, I trampled Body under foot: That is, in more prosaick dress, As I the pa.s.sions would express, And as they ne'er could be portray'd Without the subject Body's aid, I show'd no more of that than merely Sufficed to represent them clearly: As thus--by simple means and pure Of light and shadow, and contour: But since what mortals call complexion, Has with the mind no more connexion Than ethicks with a country dance, I left my col'ring all to chance; Which oft (as I may proudly state) With Nature war'd at such a rate, As left no mortal hue or stain Of base, corrupting flesh, to chain The Soul to Earth; but, free as light, E'en let her soar till out of sight.

Thus spake the champion bold of mind; And thus the Colourist rejoin'd: In truth, my Lord, I apprehend, If I by _words_ with him contend, My case is gone; far he, by gift Of what is call'd the _gab_, can shift The right for wrong, with such a sleight, That right seems wrong and wrong the right; Nay, by his twisting logick make A square the form of circle take.

I therefore, with submission meet, In justice do your Grace intreat To let awhile your judgment pause, That _works_ not _words_ may plead our cause.

Let Merc'ry then to Earth repair, The works of both survey with care, And hither bring the best of each, And save us further waste of speech.

Such fair demand, the Judge replied, Could not with justice be denied.

Good Merc'ry, hence! I fly, my Lord, The Courier said. And, at the word, High-bounding, wings his airy flight So swift his form eludes the sight; Nor aught is seen his course to mark, Save when athwart the region dark His brazen helm is spied afar, Bright-trailing like a falling star.

And now for minutes ten there stole A silence deep o'er every soul-- When, lo! again before them stands The courier's self with empty hands.

Why, how is this? exclaim'd the twain; Where are the _pictures_, sir? Explain!

Good sirs, replied the G.o.d of Post, I scarce had reached the other coast, When Charon told me, one he ferried Inform'd him they were dead and buried: Then bade me hither haste and say, Their ghosts were now upon the way.

In mute amaze the Painters stood.

But soon upon the Stygian flood, Behold! the spectre-pictures float, Like rafts behind the towing boat: Now reach'd the sh.o.r.e, in close array, Like armies drill'd in Homer's day, When marching on to meet the foe, By bucklers hid from top to toe, They move along the dusky fields, A grizly troop of painted shields: And now, arrived in order fair, A gallery huge they hang in air.

The ghostly croud with gay surprize Began to rub their stony eyes: Such pleasant lounge, they all averr'd, None saw since he had been interr'd; And thus, like connoisseurs on Earth, Began to weigh the pictures' worth: But first (as deem'd of higher kind) Examin'd they the works of _Mind_.[4]

Pray what is this? demanded one.-- That, sir, is Phoebus, alias, Sun: A cla.s.sick work you can't deny; The car and horses in the sky, The clouds on which they hold their way, Proclaim him all the G.o.d of Day.

Nay, learned sir, his dirty plight More fit beseems the G.o.d of Night.

Besides, I cannot well divine How mud like this can ever shine.-- Then look at that a little higher.-- I see 'tis Orpheus, by his lyre.

The beasts that listening stand around, Do well declare the force of sound: But why the fiction thus reverse, And make the power of song a curse?

The ancient Orpheus soften'd rocks, Yours changes living things to blocks.-- Well, this you'll sure acknowledge fine, Parna.s.sus' top with all the Nine.

Ah, _there_ is beauty, soul and fire, And all that human wit inspire!-- Good sir, you're right; for being stone, They're each to blunted wits a hone.

And what is that? inquir'd another.-- That, sir, is Cupid and his Mother.-- What, Venus? sure it cannot be: That skin begrim'd ne'er felt the sea; That Cupid too ne'er knew the sky; For lead, I'm sure, could never fly.-- I'll hear no more, the Painter said, Your souls are, like your bodies, dead!

With secret triumph now elate, His grinning Rival 'gan to prate.

Oh, fie! my friends; upon my word, You're too severe: he should be _heard_; For _Mind_ can ne'er to glory reach, Without the usual aid of _speech_.

If thus howe'er, you seal his doom, What hope have I unknown to Rome?

But since the _truth_ be your dominion, I beg to hear your just opinion.

This picture then--which some have thought By far the best I ever wrought-- Observe it well with critick ken; 'Tis Daniel in the Lion's Den.-- 'Tis flesh itself! exclaim'd a Critick.

But why make Daniel paralytick?

His limbs and features are distorted.

And then his legs are badly sorted.

'Tis true, a miracle you've hit, But not as told in Holy Writ; For there the miracle was braving, With _bones unbroke_, the Lion's craving; But yours (what ne'er could man befall) That he should _live with none at all_.-- And pray, inquir'd another spectre, What Mufti's that at pious lecture?

That's Socrates, condemned to die; He next, in sable, standing by, Is Galen[5], come to save his friend, If possible, from such an end; The other figures, group'd around, His Scholars, wrapt in woe profound.-- And am I like to this portray'd?

Exclaim'd the Sage's smiling Shade.

Good Sir, I never knew before That I a Turkish turban wore, Or mantle hemm'd with golden st.i.tches, Much less a pair of satin breeches; But as for him in sable clad, Though wond'rous kind, 'twas rather mad To visit one like me forlorn, So long before himself was born.

And what's the next? inquir'd a third; A jolly blade upon my word!-- 'Tis Alexander, Philip's son, Lamenting o'er his battles won; That now his mighty toils are o'er, The world has nought to conquer more.

At which, forth stalking from the host, Before them stood the Hero's Ghost-- Was that, said he, my earthly form, The Genius of the battle-storm?

From top to toe the figure's Dutch!