Oh happy time!— Art's early days! When o'er each deed, with sweet self-praise, Narcissus-like I hung! When great Rembrandt but little seemed,
And such Old Masters all were deemed As nothing to the young! Some scratchy strokes — abrupt and few, So easily and swift I drew,
Sufficed for my design; My sketchy, superficial hand Drew solids at a dash — and spanned A surface with a line.
Not long my eye was thus content, But grew more critical — my bent Essayed a higher walk; I copied leaden eyes in lead —
Rheumatic hands in white and red, And gouty feet — in chalk. Anon my studious art for days Kept making faces — happy phrase,
For faces such as mine! Accomplished in the details then, I left the minor parts of men, And drew the form divine.
Old Gods and Heroes — Trojan — Greek, Figures — long after the antique, Great Ajax justly feared; Hectors, of whom at night I dreamt,
And Nestor, fringed enough to tempt Bird-nesters to his beard. A Bacchus, leering on a bowl, A Pallas that out-stared her owl,
A Vulcan — very lame; A Dian stuck about with stars, With my right hand I murdered Mars — ( One Williams did the same ).
But tired of this dry work at last, Crayon and chalk aside I cast, And gave my brush a drink! Dipping — “as when a painter dips
In gloom of earthquake and eclipse,” — That is — in Indian ink. Oh then, what black Mont Blancs arose, Crested with soot, and not with snows:
What clouds of dingy hue! In spite of what the bard has penned, I fear the distance did not “lend Enchantment to the view.”
Not Radcliffe's brush did e'er design Black Forests half so black as mine, Or lakes so like a pall; The Chinese cake dispersed a ray
Of darkness, like the light of Day And Martin over all. Yet urchin pride sustained me still, I gazed on all with right good will,
And spread the dingy tint; “No holy Luke helped me to paint, The devil surely, not a Saint, Had any finger i n't!”
But colors came!— like morning light, With gorgeous hues, displacing night, Or Spring's enlivened scene: At once the sable shades withdrew;
My skies got very, very blue; My trees extremely green. And washed by my cosmetic brush, How Beauty's cheek began to blush;
With lock of auburn stain — ( Not Goldsmith's Auburn ) — nut-brown hair, That made her loveliest of the fair; Not “loveliest of the plain!”
Her lips were of vermilion hue: Love in her eyes, and Prussian blue, Set all my heart in flame! A young Pygmalion, I adored
The maids I made — but time was stored With evil — and it came! Perspective dawned — and soon I saw My houses stand against its law;
And “keeping” all unkept! My beauties were no longer things For love and fond imaginings; But horrors to be wept!
Ah! why did knowledge ope my eyes? Why did I get more artist wise? It only serves to hint, What grave defects and wants are mine;
That I'm no Hilton in design — In nature no De Wint! Thrice happy time!— Art's early days! When o'er each deed, with sweet self-praise,
Narcissus-like I hung! When great Rembrandt but little seemed, And such Old Masters all were deemed As nothing to the young!
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