"But the fashion or opinion of the day, in matters of taste, is not always the judgment of posterity; and it cannot be too much regretted that the principal pictures of the series, at least, have not been kept together for the future advantage of our artists, and the gratification of those whose studies might hereafter qualify them to appreciate their excellence. For be it remembered, by such persons as might otherwise be too readily induced to undervalue that which they do not understand, that Sir Joshua Reynolds became, in the latter part of his life, 'clearly of opinion that a relish for the higher excellencies of the art is an acquired taste, which no man ever possessed without long cultivation, great labour, and attention.'" VERSES TO HENRY FUSELI, ESQ. R.A. ON HIS SERIES OF PICTURES FROM THE POETICAL WORKS OF MILTON. BY WM. ROSCOE, ESQ. Spirit of him who wing'd his daring flight Towards the pure confines of primæval light, Say, whilst this nether world thy powers confin'd, Weak child of dust, frail offspring of mankind, Thy station'd barrier this terrestrial mound, Th' incumbent vault of heaven thine upward bound, Thy means the common energies of man, Thy life a shadow, and thy years a span; How couldst thou, struggling with opposing Fate, Burst through the limits of this mortal state? Thence, soaring high, pursue, with stedfast gaze, The opening wonders of th' empyreal blaze, Where countless Seraphs pour, in burning zone, Concentric glories round th' eternal throne? Or hear, and hearing live, the dread alarms Of heavenly war, and Cherubim in arms; See in th' abyss the proud apostate hurl'd, And rising into light, the infant World? Fav'rite of Heaven! 'twas thine, on mortal eyes To pour these visions, rich with rainbow dyes, Peopling the void of space with forms unseen, Rising from being to what might have been!-- Nor he not breathes a portion of thy fire, Who "bids the pencil answer to the lyre;" Marks the bright phantoms at their proudest height, And with determin'd hand arrests their flight; Bids shadowy forms substantial shape assume, And heaven's own hues in mortal labours bloom. For toils like these, whate'er the meed divine, That glorious meed, my Fuseli, is thine, Who first to Truth's embodied fulness wrought The glowing outline of the Poet's thought. Artist sublime! whose pencil knows to trace The early wonders of the kindred race! Not thine to search th' historian's scanty page, The brief memorial of a fleeting age; Not thine to call, from Time's surrounding gloom, High deeds of cultur'd Greece, or conqu'ring Rome;