صور الصفحة
PDF
النشر الإلكتروني

No trophies of her Pencil's power remain,
To prove in picture her coequal reign;
Else might the Muse her graphic triumphs own,
And vanquish'd Raphael abdicate the throne;
But now no more Compaspe's graces prove
Apelles' skill, and justify his love;
No more display'd in Helen's form divine,
By Zeuxis hand assembled beauties shine;
Nor longer his protective genius glows,
Who turn'd the fury of his country's foes,
When Rhodes, rejoicing in her rescued towers,
Beheld her best palladium in his powers.
Old Time, still partial to Ausonia's claim,
Suppress'd those ancient rivals of her Fame,
Fame on her brows the wreath of painting placed,
And what she lost in empire gave in Taste.

"Behold, sublimed to those high spheres of Art, Where Fancy sways, and Passion strikes the heart; Where Taste and Truth according functions fill, And moral dignifies mimetic skill,

Rome's graphic sons superior palms demand,
And climes consenting crown the immortal band. .

"Swift as the comet cleaves th' etherial way, As bright his lustre, and as brief his day, Urbino rising to the raptured eye,

Appear'd, and blaz'd, and vanish'd from the sky.
Monarch of Art! in whose august domains,
Colleagued with Genius, soundest Judgment reigns;
Simplicity prevails without pretence,

And Fancy sports within the bounds of Sense.
By Nature's hand with liberal bounty graced,
And proudly fashion'd for the throne of Taste,
Before his age he sprang to painting's prime,
And forced his tardy fruits from ripening Time.
'Twas his to choose the nobler end of Art,
And charm the eye subservient to the heart;
To strike the chords of sentiment-to trace
The form of dignity-the flow of grace;
The Passions protean empire to control,
And wield expression's sceptre o'er the soul.
Whate'er of life he touch'd, of youth or age,
The pious Saint, or philosophic Sage,
Whether, impressive in the bold design,
The rapt Apostle pour the word divine;
Or bright, on Tabor's summit, to the skies,
The God, in full transfigured glory, rise;
Whate'er the cast of character, his hand
Has all the moulds of Genius at command,
To Nature true, can each strong trait impart,
And stamp with Taste the sterling ore of Art.

"Next Buonaroti, rich in rival fame,

To crown whose brows, three Arts contending claim;
Majestic Genius! from whose daring hand
Springs all that's great in thought, or action grand,
Whate'er can awe the soul on sacred plan,
Or strike stupendous in the powers of man:
In forms emaciate cramp'd, before his day,
The meagre muscle scarce appear'd to play,
The story's strength, the enervate action marr'd,
Man seem'd a sapless statue, stiff, and hard,

But torpid while the plastic lumber lay,
Prometheus like, he fired the lifeless clay,
Bade every limb enlarge-each breast expand,
And pour'd a race of giants from his hand.
Behold him, still as Genius prompts, impart
A bolder grace to each subservient Art,
While now the powers of Phidias he displays,
Now leaves Palladio but the second praise,
Whether he rears the Prophet's form on high,
Or hangs the dome enormous in the sky,
On painting's proudest pinion soars sublime,
Scales heav'n itself, and scorns the bounds of Time;
Through all his toils, triumphant vigour swells,
And grandeur in impressive glory dwells.
His fiery soul beyond this sphere of things,
To man's more awful scene hereafter springs;
With fearless hand unfolds the final state,
That closes the catastrophe of Fate;

Displays the pangs of guilt to vengeance hurl'd,
While heav'n's just sentence shakes the shudd'ring world.

But lo! from climes less genial, where the Muse,
With pride her Belgic trophies still reviews ;
Rubens with spoils enrich'd-with honours graced,
Completes the great triumvirate of Taste;

High waves the proud Competition's flag unfurl'd,
And claims to share the homage of the world,
The powers of painting in his praise combine,
And wreaths unfading round his temples twine;
For him, Invention opens all her springs,
And Fancy wafts him on her wildest wings;
Her magic hand light Execution lends,
And Colouring her rich, tissued robe extends.
Whether, to heav'n devote, his skill divine,
Adorns, with sacred themes, the hallow'd shrine;
Or learn'd in Allegory's mystic maze,
The acts of Kings and Heroes he displays;
Whether, with nymphs and satyrs lured to rove,
He frolics, wild, in Pan's laugh-echoing grove;
The landscape spreads with light, luxuriant grace,
Or hunts in sylvan scenes, the savage race;
Whatever shape the graphic Proteus wears,
The full magnificence of Art appears;
All that the head can plan, or hand perforin,
Delight in theory, or in practice charm.
Yet Genius, oft unequal found, by turns,
Now blazes fierce, and now as feebly burns;
In Rubens' course we trace each wide extreme,
Its dazzling lustre, and its doubtful gleam:
But though, like Avon's bard, his orb displays.
Some darker parts amid the general blaze,
Struck by his splendours, each rapt eye admires,
For while we see his spots, we feel his fires.

"As petty chiefs fall prostrate, and obey,

While monarchs move their strength in proud array;
But when the pomp is past, the peril o'er,
Rebel against the rod they kiss'd before:
So, cavilling tribes who roam the graphic waste,
Scarce rescued from the savage state of Taste.
Assail the rights of Rubens, grudge his praise,
And talk high treason 'gainst the state he sways;

But, when triumphant crown'd in every part,
He moves in some vast enterprize of Art;
His lawful claims, licentious critics own;
And wondering painters bend before his throne."

It is said that all extremes meet, and if we mistake not, there is no writer who evinces the truth of the assertion more clearly than Mr. Shee. He is continually warning the artist against extremes, continually call ing his attention to that happy medium in which excellence consists, and yet he is continually carried away by an enthusiasm, over which he seems to have no controul. The critic will naturally ask, what is to excite this enthusiasm? What is there in the profession of an artist to raise those energies, and awaken that fire without which we can never feel?

"Ce feu, cette devine flamme,
"L'esprit de notre esprit, et l'ame de

notre ame,"

which is the soul of genius, and the genius of enthusiasm. We reply that, so far as we can form an opinion of Mr. Shee's mind from his poetical works, his enthusiasm seems to arise principally from an ardent attachment to truth and nature. Of

both, he seems to be a zealous wor-
shipper, wherever he meets them;
and sacrifices to his devotion all his
natural and acquired prejudices.
He may be attached to a party, but
the moment they depart from nature,
he departs from them. He loves
liberty and independence, but he
despises the man who, under the
mask of freedom, dares whatever
virtue dares not do; or, in other
words, who dares do more than may
become a man. Hence it is, that
though he has communicated a
warmth and vigour to his diction.
which nothing but the glow of en-
thusiasm can alone inspire, his
attachment to truth and nature, not
only prevents him from running
into any vicious extreme,
prompts him to hold up to deserved
infamy even those who belong to
his favourite party, when they ad-
vance one step beyond the bounds
within which virtue and rational
liberty circumscribe their career.
Of this we have a beautiful instance
in the following passage

"Poured from your hand, let ancient story flow,
And Brutus breathing on your canvass glow;
Not he who stained, with Cæsar's blood his fame,
And in the assassin sunk the patriot's name;
But chaste Lucretia's hold avenger he,
Who fired by friendship-burning to be free,
High rais'd the reeking point-to heav'n address'd,
Warm from the wound in outrag'd heauty's breast;
In bursting rage his smoother'd soul betray'd,
And damn'd proud Tarquin to the infernal shade.”

Had we something of this sterling stamp from the pen of Lord Byron, with how much greater interest should we peruse it, than the sickly and effeminate witticisms that characterize his Don Juan, and vainly seek to excite our risible faculties. Perhaps we cannot be always sufficiently grave to avoid smiling, but then we smile not at the poignancy of the wit, for the wit of Don Juan compared to Hudibras or Gil Blas, is like grin, or grimace compared to heart rending laughter; but we smile at the low condition to which the noble bard has reduced himself in acting the clown, or at least at

but

tempting to act it, when he could apply his genius to higher purposes, by addressing the nobler faculties of our nature, and present us with - scenes fitted to call forth those emotions and passions which exalt our nature-which we glory to avow, and which instead of degrading and ranking us with the monkey race, awaken all the dormant principles of greatness and of virtue which turk within us, which in some men are more dormant than in others, but which in the generality of mankind require only the proper impulse to awaken them into flame. We cannot read a page of Mr. Shee's

"Elements of Art," without feeling this ennobling impulse: we cannot read a line in Lord Byron, without feeling ourselves degraded. Mr. Shee addresses himself to minds who feel they have worth and virtue, who feel there is something great and noble in human nature, and who will not suffer themselves to be identified with the monkey tribe: Lord Byron addresses himself to the upper gallery-to that noisy, bustling mob, who are as much acquainted with exalted feeling, as a cow is with a holiday. But let him enjoy the low triumph of which alone he seems ambitious: let him believe that unsophisticated nature and unsophisticated taste are to be found among butchers and the rabble alone; we envy him not the highest height, or, perhaps we should rather say, the lowest depths which he can reach in his reptile ambition; we have introduced him merely to shew the strong contrast, or rather the direct opposition that exists between exalted feeling (which necessarily implies not only the love of truth and nature, but the love of virtue), and that wreck of genius and of principle which, descending from the throne on which nature had placed it, feels no higher bition than that of scraping and strutting before the lowest and basest of the base and low.

am

Perhaps it may be thought that Lord Byron is carried away by an impetuous impulse over which be can exercise no controul, while Mr. Shee is guided by the dictates of reason; but whoever thinks so attributes qualities to human nature of which it is incapable. No man ever was swayed by mental or sentimental passion, or precipitately urged forward by the impulse of refined feeling who was not virtuous to the core, and whoever is governed by mere physical or animal impulses, appears to us to be neither virtuous nor vicious: he approaches too near the brute to be held accountable for his actions. Through the entire of Mr. Shee's poetical works, we cannot discover a line that is capable of creating or exciting an uneasy sensation in the purest and chastest mind: in Lord Byron, whenever he is not palpably obscene or immoral, the seeds of

obscenity and immorality, those lurking principles which he dare not avow, but which he cannot extinguish, are every where visible to the discriminating eye of taste and virtuous sensibility. As to poetic enthusiasm, it is idle to suppose that Lord Byron feels it for a moment: such an enthusiasm can reside only in the virtuous breast. If, therefore, he be actuated by any strong or powerful impulse, it is that of a savage, who must yield whether he will or not, to the ungovernable impetuosity of his own nature. The pugilist frequently feels impulses of a similar character, but such impulses are of too gross and animal a character to possess a single particle of enthusiasm. They arise from some immediate influence and last for a moment, while enthusiasm is a fixed and permanent habit of mind, arising from nature, virtue, sensibility, generosity, and greatness of mind. Lord Byron is always jealous of his contemporaries -always seeking to degrade them in order to exalt himself on the rains of their fame: Mr. Shee, on the contrary, forgets himself altogether, and seems only to be inspired when he dwells on the praises, or points out the merits of those who have distinguished themselves in his own art. Lord Byron is jealous of poets alone, because they alone stand in competition with him: all authors may write stark nonsense without fearing the lash of his satire, or the poignancy of his ridicule; but Mr. Shee, so far from feeling this low envy, seems to acquire new vigour whenever the artist, not the art, the painter, not painting, becomes the subject of his muse. Petrarch is said to have been inaccessible to envy; instead of being jealous of his contemporaries, he sought to remove their animosities, and conciliate them in the bonds of mutual amity; but Foseolo attributes this happy disposition of mind to his acknowledged and undisputed superiority to all the writers of his age; and asserts that if he had a rival or superior, he would descend into the ranks of the envious tribe. With this opinion, we certainly cannot agree; and if we had no other proof that Foscolo himself was not a writer of the first

order, this assertion alone would be sufficient to convince us of it. He wrote as he felt, but he mistook the feelings of superior minds. Dr. Johnson is accused of being jealous of the reputation of many of the British poets, but surely no opinion can be more erroneous than to suppose, that he who detects the faults and inaccuracies of another must be jealous of his fame. No two virtues can stand opposed to each other, and the exercise of every duty is a virtue: if, then, it be the duty of the critic to discover blemishes as well as beauties, it is a virtue to do so, and the existence of this virtue cannot consequently

imply either the absence of any other virtue, or the existence of any vice. Jealousy cannot, therefore, be attributed to him who seeks to improve the public taste by guarding it against the adoption of errors and mistaking them for real beauties, unless his manner of doing so proves its existence. Mr. Shee, however, must be allowed by all men to be free from this low and debasing passion. All men of merit are equally dear to him, whether they be of his own profession or not. It were good for authors, in general, if they adopted the advice which he gives them in the following lines:—

"Scorn the low passions which the Muse disgrace,
And stamp her sons an irritable race;
Nor e'er to self-stung jealousy submit,
That mental fiend, that pest of love and wit!
Which still with rancour of a rival hears,

Marks him a foe, and slanders while she fears.
In open, honest emulation claim

The palm of excellence, the prize of fame;
Unblamed the glorious contest, though you try,
A friend, or e'en a father to outvie;

But banish envy as a baleful guest,

The meanest, basest passion of the breast;
Which like the serpent brood in Sin's foul womb,
Still knaws the wretch's heart, who gives it room;
To its own shame each tortured sense employs,
Corrodes his peace, and poisons all his joys.'

"Where envy sways, no virtue long survives,
Beneath that deadly night-shade nothing thrives:
No generous feeling can put forth a flower,
For Taste withstand its sterilizing power.

"The sons of Genius, like the Jews, we trace,
In every clime a kind of outcast race;

That prudence fears and flies, and fortune spurns,
And pride and foHy persecute by turns:
For Mammon's sordid ministry unfit,
And hated for the heresy of wit;

Their pious zeal, the sects of dulness shew,
And all combine against the common foe.
Thus by an host assail'd, the tribes of mind,
Apollo's chosen people of mankind!

Should stand united in their own defence,

The steady guards of Virtue, Taste, and Sense;

One common cause, their heads, their hearts should own,
Nor madly point the shafts by malice thrown;

To pride and dulness, worth's strong hold betray,
And 'gainst themselves their frantic passions play;
Like ships in gales, that running foul, perform
The winds worst rage, and aggravate the storm."

It is a singular feature in Mr.
Shee's poetical character, that while

he tells the young artist medio tutissimus ibis, and warns him against

« السابقةمتابعة »