He met a dustman ringing a bell, And he gave him a mortal thrust; For himself, by law, since Adam's flaw, Is contractor for all our dust. He saw a sailor mixing his grog, And he marked him out for slaughter; Death saw two players playing at cards, THE PROGRESS OF ART. - O HAPPY time! Art's early days! When great Rembrandt but little seemed, Some scratchy strokes — abrupt and few, 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- Anon my studious art for days Accomplished in the details then, Old gods and heroes-Trojan-Greek, A Bacchus, leering on a bowl, A Dian stuck about with stars, With my right hand I murdered Mars But tired of this dry work at last, And gave my brush a drink. O then, what black Mont Blancs arose, In spite of what the bard has penned, Enchantment to the view." Not Radclyffe's brush did e'er design Or lakes so like a pall; Yet urchin pride sustained me still; "No holy Luke helped me to paint; But colors came! —like morning light, And, washed by my cosmetic brush, (Not Goldsmith's Auburn)—nut-brown hair, Her lips were of vermilion hue; A young Pygmalion, I adored The maids I made - but time was stored Perspective dawned and soon I saw My houses stand against its law; And "keeping" all unkept! My beauties were no longer things But horrors to be wept! Ah! why did knowledge ope my eyes? It only serves to hint What grave defects and wants are mine; That I'm no Hilton in design In nature no Dewint! Thrice happy time! - Art's early days! When great Rembrandt but little seemed, A FAIRY TALE. ON Hounslow heath- and close beside the road, And built like Mr. Birkbeck's, all of wood; On which it used to wander to and fro, Because its master ne'er maintained a rider, But made his business travel for itself, And then retired if one may call it so. Perchance, the very race and constant riot Of his now sedentary caravan; Perchance, he loved the ground because 't was common, And so he might impale a strip of soil, That furnished, by his toil, Some dusty greens, for him and his old woman; A stray horse came and gobbled up his bower! The same to come,-- when they had seen them one day! And, used to brisker life, both man and wife Began to suffer N U E's approaches, And feel retirement like a long wet Sunday,- And being ripened in the seventh stage, Began, as other children have begun,- Or Paley ethical, or learned Porson,- But chiefly fairy tales they loved to con, Slobbered, and kept Reading, and wept Over the White Cat, in their wooden cottage. |