THE PROGRESS OF ART. O HAPPY time! Art's early days! When great Rembrandt but little seem'd, Some scratchy strokes-abrupt and few, Sufficed for my design; My sketchy, superficial hand, Drew solids at a dash-and spann'd Not long my eye was thus content, I copied leaden eyes in lead- Anon my studious art for days Kept making faces-happy phrase, For faces such as mine! Accomplish'd in the details then, I left the minor parts of men, And drew the form divine. Old Gods and Heroes-Trojan-Greek, A Bacchus, leering on a bowl, A Dian stuck about with stars, With my right hand I murder'd Mars(One Williams did the same.) But tired of this dry work at last, And gave my brush a drink? 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 penn'd, I fear the distance did not "lend Enchantment to the view." Not Radclyffe's brush did e'er design The Chinese cake dispersed a ray Yet urchin pride sustain'd me still, But colours came !-like morning light, At once the sable shades withdrew; And wash'd by my cosmetic brush, (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, The maids I made-but time was stored Perspective dawn'd-and soon I saw But horrors to be wept! Ah! why did knowledge ope my eyes? It only serves to hint, What grave defects and wants are mine; In nature no Dewint! Thrice happy time!-Art's early days! When o'er each deed with sweet self-praise, When great Rembrandt but little seem'd, As nothing to the young! A FAIRY TALE. On Hounslow heath-and close beside the road, And built like Mr. Birkbeck's, all of wood; [West, On which it used to wander to and fro, And then retired-if one may call it so, Perchance, the very race and constant riot Perchance, he loved the ground because 'twas common, And so he might impale a strip of soil, That furnish'd, by his toil, |