Classic Poem

THE PAINTER .

Such , Aikman, once I was: but, ah! how chang'd
Since those blest days, when o'er the hills I rang'd;
When through the mazes of the' entangled wood
The busy puzzling spaniel I pursued;
The game he sprung soon felt the fatal lead,
Flutter'd in air, and at my feet fell dead.
This faithful record by thy pencil drawn,
Shows what I was in manhood's early dawn:
Just the design, and elegant the draught,
The colouring bold, and all without a fault.
But, Aikman, be advis'd, and hear a friend:
On rural 'squires no more thy time mis-spend;
On nobler subjects all thy cares employ,
Paint the bright Hebe, or the Phrygian boy,
Or, rising from the waves, the Cyprian dame
May vindicate her own Apelles' fame.
But if thy nicer pencil shall disdain
Shadows, and creatures of the poet's brain;
The real wonders of the Brunswick race
May, with superior charms, thy canvass grace.
The lovely form that would too soon decay,
Admir'd, and lost, the pageant of the day,
Preserv'd by thee, through ages yet to come,
Shall reign triumphant in immortal bloom.
Time, the great master's friend, shall but refine
With his improving hand, thy works divine.
This (if the muse can judge) shall be thy lot,
When I'm no more, forgetting, and forgot.
Now from my zenith I decline apace,
And pungent pains my trembling nerves unbrace;
Nor love can charm, nor wine nor music please;
Lost all to joy, I am content with ease:
All the poor comfort that I now can share.
Is the soft blessing of an elbow chair.
Here undisturb'd I reign, and with a smile
Behold the civil broils that shake our isle:
Bard against bard fierce tilting on the plain,
And floods of ink profusely spilt in vain.
Pope, like Almanzor, a whole host defies,
The' exploded chain-shot from his Dunciad flies,
And pil'd on heaps the mangled carnage lies.
Poets and critics, a promiscuous crowd,
Bellow like wounded Mars, and roar aloud;
The routed host precipitate retires
With weaker shouts, and with unequal fires.
The quibbling advertisement and pert joke
But blaze awhile, and vanish into smoke;
And weak remarks drop short upon the ground:
Or, if they reach the foe, but slightly wound.
Thus have I seen, amid the shouting throng,
Bruin, with step majestic, stride along;
The curs at distance bark, or slily bite;
But if he stands erect and dares the fight,
Pouring they snarl, yet dread the gripe severe,
And all their dropping tails confess their fear.
Pardon me, Aikman, that my rambling lays
Desert my theme, and thy unfinish'd praise:
'Twas Nature call'd; unknowing, I obey'd;
Painting's my text, but poetry's my trade;
Both sister-arts; and sure my devious Muse
Kind-hearted Dennis will for once excuse.
A short digression to condemn were hard,
Or Heav'n have mercy on each modern bard.