West tells the world that Peter can not rhyme-- Peter declares, point blank, that West can't paint. West swears I've not an atom of sublime-- I swear he hath no notion of a saint; And that his cross-wing'd cherubim are fowls, Baptized by naturalists, owls: Half of the meek apostles, gangs of robbers; His angels, sets of brazen-headed lubbers. The Holy Scripture says, "All flesh is grass," With Mr. West, all flesh is brick and brass; Except his horse-flesh, that I fairly own Is often of the choicest Portland stone. I've said it too, that this artist's faces Ne'er paid a visit to the graces: That on expression he can never brag: Yet for this article hath he been studying, But in it never could surpass a pudding- No, gentle reader, nor a pudding-bag. I dare not say, that Mr. West Can not sound criticism impart: I'm told the man with technicals is blest, That he can talk a deal upon the art; Yes, he can talk, I do not doubt it-- "About it, goddess, and about it." Thus, then, is Mr. West deserving praise-- And let my justice the fair laud afford; For, lo! this far-fam'd artist cuts both ways, Exactly like the angel Gabriel's sword; The beauties of the art his CONVERSE shows, His CANVAS almost ev'ry thing that's bad! Thus at th' Academy, we must suppose, A man more useful never could be had: Who in himself, a host, so much can do; Who is both precept and example too! BARRY'S ATTACK UPON SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS When Barry dares the President to fly on, 'Tis like a mouse, that, work'd into a rage Daring some dreadful war to wage, Nibbles the tail of the Nemaean lion. Or like a louse, of mettle full, Nurs'd in some giant's skull-- Because Goliath scratch'd him as he fed, Employs with vehemence his angry claws, And gaping, grinning, formidable jaws, To CARRY OFF the GIANT'S HEAD! ON THE DEATH OP MR. HONE, R. A. There's one R. A. more dead! stiff is poor Hone-- His works be with him under the same stone: I think the sacred art will not bemoan 'em; But, Muse!--DE MORTUIS NIL NISI BONUM-- As to his host, a TRAV'LER, with a sneer, Said of his DEAD SMALL-BEER. Go, then, poor Hone! and join a numerous train Sunk in OBLIVION'S wide pacific ocean; And may its WHALE-LIKE stomach feel no motion To cast thee, like a Jonah, up again. ON GEORGE THE THIRD'S PATRONAGE OF BENJAMIN WEST. Thus have I seen a child, with smiling face, A little daisy in the garden place, And strut in triumph round its fav'rite flow'r; Gaze on the leaves with infant admiration, Thinking the flow'r the finest in the nation, Then pay a visit to it ev'ry hour: Lugging the wat'ring-pot about, Which John the gard'ner was oblig'd to fill; The child, so pleas'd, would pour the water out, To show its marvelous gard'ning skill; Then staring round, all wild for praises panting, Tell all the world it was its own sweet planting; And boast away, too happy elf, How that it found the daisy all itself!