Once I beheld the fairest of her kind, And still the sweet idea charms my mind: True, she was dumb; for nature gazed so long, Pleased with her work, that she forgot her tongue; But, smiling, said--She still shall gain the prize; I only have transferred it to her eyes. Such are thy pictures, Kneller, such thy skill, That nature seems obedient to thy will; Comes out, and meets thy pencil in the draught, Lives there, and wants but words to speak her thought. At least thy pictures look a voice; and we } Imagine sounds, deceived to that degree, } We think 'tis somewhat more than just to see. } Shadows are but privations of the light; Yet, when we walk, they shoot before the sight; With us approach, retire, arise, and fall; Nothing themselves, and yet expressing all. Such are thy pieces, imitating life So near, they almost conquer in the strife; And from their animated canvas came, Demanding souls, and loosened from the frame. Prometheus, were he here, would cast away His Adam, and refuse a soul to clay; And either would thy noble work inspire, Or think it warm enough, without his fire. But vulgar hands may vulgar likeness raise; This is the least attendant on thy praise: From hence the rudiments of art began; A coal, or chalk, first imitated man: Perhaps the shadow, taken on a wall, Gave outlines to the rude original; Ere canvas yet was strained, before the grace } Of blended colours found their use and place, } Or cypress tablets first received a face. } By slow degrees the godlike art advanced; As man grew polished, picture was enhanced: Greece added posture, shade, and perspective, And then the mimic piece began to live. Yet perspective was lame, no distance true, But all came forward in one common view: No point of light was known, no bounds of art; When light was there, it knew not to depart, But glaring on remoter objects played; Not languished and insensibly decayed.[74] Rome raised not art, but barely kept alive, And with old Greece unequally did strive; Till Goths and Vandals, a rude northern race, Did all the matchless monuments deface. Then all the Muses in one ruin lie, And rhyme began to enervate poetry. Thus, in a stupid military state, The pen and pencil find an equal fate. Flat faces, such as would disgrace a skreen, Such as in Bantam's embassy were seen, Unraised, unrounded, were the rude delight Of brutal nations, only born to fight. Long time the sister arts, in iron sleep, A heavy sabbath did supinely keep; At length, in Raphael's age, at once they rise, Stretch all their limbs, and open all their eyes. Thence rose the Roman, and the Lombard line; One coloured best, and one did best design. Raphael's, like Homer's, was the nobler part, But Titian's painting looked like Virgil's art. Thy genius gives thee both; where true design,