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REYNOLDS, AS AN ARTIST.

From Mr. Shee's Commemoration of Reynolds.

Tho' Reynolds, long superior and alone,
Possessed in-Art an undisputed throne,
Yet hardly conscious what his powers achieved,
A cold, reluctant homage he received.
By some few minds of sounder judgment awed,
The mob of taste affected to applaud.

But far beyond his age his heart aspired,
And few cou'd tell his worth, though all admired :
Mistaken praise still mortified his aim-
Th' applause of Ignorance polluting fame;
With humbled hope he bowed to Fashion's reign,
And saw with sorrow he excelled in vain.
For e'en of those who felt his merits most,-
On whom his labours were not wholly lost,
How few cou'd judge the skill his works impart,
Or take his towering altitude of art!

But now with purer eye prepared to gaze,
By Taste as well as Fashion taught to praise,
We do him tardy justice and explore

With pride those beauties unobserved before;
Collect the wonders of his hand with care,
And estimate as jewels rich and rare;
As brilliant gems of art as ever graced
The Muse of painting from the mine of taste.

No longer echoing envy's idle cry,

Let fools exclaim, "how Reynolds' colours fly!"
Behold in hues that rival Nature's glow,
Bright as the sunbeam or celestial bow;
By Time untarnished, and by Genius crowned,
Our British Titian sheds his glory round.
While minor stars their weaker rays combine,
And former lights with feeble radiance shine;
His single beam illumes the graphic skies,
And pours a suminer's lustre on our eyes.

In all his works astonished Nature views
Her silvery splendors and her golden hues;
Sublime in motion, or at rest serene,
Her charms of air and action, all are seen.
There Grace appears in ever-varied forms,
There Vigor animates and Beauty warms;

While Character displayed in every stage
Of transient life, from infancy to age,

Strong in each line asserts the mind's controul,
And on the speaking feature stamps the soul.
There Imitation scorning dry detail,

Forbids that parts should o'er the whole prevail;
To Dow and Denner leaving all the fame,
The painful polishers of taste can claim,
Tho' free yet faithful to her trust remains,
And wastes no talent while she spares no pains.
And e'en where sometimes pure correctness fails,
A nobler character of form prevails-

A fire-fraught indication of design,
Beyond the mere, cold academic line;
Where Taste her seal affixes to excuse
The faults of Genius in her favourite muse.
Announcing study, yet concealing art,
Here Execution plays her proper part;
Light, airy, free, the pencil flows at will,
Yet seems to sport unconscious of its skill.
His hand impressed with painting's nobler aim,
Disdained the tribe who flourish into fame.

A spirit pure-in happy mean that moves,

Where practice prompts the sleight which truth approves. To all his labours lends an air of ease,

And e'en in trifles teaches toil to please.

But chief, endowed in right of Taste he reigns
Supreme o'er all her undefined domains;

Thro' Nature's path's his ardent course she guides,
And with simplicity her sway divides :

Diffusing grace o'er Fashion's awkward forms,
In every touch her magic influence charms :

While all the ruder airs of life refine,

And vulgar shapes avoid her glance divine.

But where to fix amidst the general blaze,
This glowing sphere, this graphic heaven displays!
From star to star the eye delighted flies,
As dazzling round, the beams of Beauty rise.
Toned by one hand to harmony divine,
According tints in coloured concert join;
And strong to truth as each chaste hue adheres,
The mellow majesty of Art appears.

While rapt Attention's eager glance devours
The pictured scene, and traces all its powers;
What mixed emotions rise as we survey,
This bright assemblage of the Great and Gay!

Of all who late adorned the public stage,
The Wit-the Worth-the Fashion-of their age.
As fixed to view by some Enchanter's power,
In better aspect caught, and happier hour,
Heroes and Statesmen-Bards, and Beauties here,
In living lustre mock the world's career :
And seem assembled to receive with grace,
Their rival visitants-the present race.

But who shall gaze upon the gorgeous train?
And think how few around him now remain,
Reflect-of all, that here in triumph placed,
Partake the immortality of Taste,

How few survive to shew the picture's truth,
And prove in age the identity of youth.
What fires of Genius-fallen in Time's decay!
The Painter-and his Subjects-passed away!
What eye by Art's allurements so engrossed?-
Encircled thus by such a radiant host,

Can view unmoved those forms of life and bloom,
Those Lights so late extinguished-in the tomb ?

LINES ON THE DEATH OF OPIE.

(From the same.)

How oft, of late, o'er worth departed shed,
The tears of Britain have embalmed the dead;
Bewailed the Hero's fall-the Sage's fate,
While public Virtue sorrowed thro' the state;
Yet still unsated with the noblest prey,
Ungorged, tho' meaner multitudes decay;
'Gainst Wit and Genius, Death directs his dart,
And strikes thro' Opie's side to Painting's heart.
Fallen from the zenith of his proud career!
Full in his fame, and sparkling in his sphere!
While o'er his Art he shed his brightest rays,
And warmed the world of letters into praise.

No feeble follower of a style or school;
No slave of system, in the chains of rule:
His Genius kindling from within was fired,
And first in Nature's rudest wild aspired.
At her pure shrine his youthful vows he paid,
Secured her smile, and sought no other aid;
Enraptured still her charms alone explored,
And to the last, with lover's faith adored :
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For when Ambition bade his steps advance
To scenes where Painting spreads her vast expanse;
When all the charts of taste before him lay,
That showed how former keels had cut their way;
With fearless prow he put to sea, and steered
His steady course, where her pure light appeared.

His vigorous pencil in pursuit of Art,
Disdained to dwell on each minuter part;
Impressive force-impartial truth he sought,
And travelled in no beaten track of thought:
Unlike the servile herd whom we behold,
Casting their drossy ore in Fashion's mould;
His metal by no common die is known,
The coin is sterling, and the stamp his own.

Opie, farewell-accept this feeble verse,
This flower of friendship-cast upon thy hearse.
Though Fate severe, in life's unfaded prime,
Hath shook thee rudely from the tree of time;
Thy laurel thro' the lapse of years shall bloom,
And weeping Art attend thee to the tomb.
While Taste, no longer tardy to bestow
The garland due to graphic skill below,
Shall point to Time thy labours, as he flies,
And brighten all their beauties in his eyes:
Exalt the Painter, now the Man's no more,
And bid thy country honour and deplore!

A NORTHERN SPRING.

From Helga, a Poem, by the Hon. William Herbert.

YESTRENE the mountain's rugged brow
Was mantled o'er with dreary snow;
The sun sat red behind the hill,
And every breath of wind was still :
But ere he rose, the southern blast
A veil o'er heaven's blue arch had cast;
Thick roll'd the clouds, and genial rain
Pour'd the wide deluge o'er the plain.
Fair glens and verdant vales appear,
And warmth awakes the budding year.
O'tis the touch of fairy hand

That wakes the spring of northern land!

It

It warms not there by slow degrees,
With changeful pulse the uncertain breeze;
But sudden on the wondering sight
Bursts forth the beam of living light,
And instant verdure springs around,
And magic flowers bedeck the ground.
Return'd from regions far away

The red-wing'd throstle pours his lay;
The soaring snipe salutes the spring,
While the breeze whistles through his wing;
And as he hails the melting snows,

The heathcock claps his wings and crows.
Bright shines the sun on Sigtune's towers,
And Spring leads on the fragrant hours.
The ice is loosed, and prosperous gales
Already fill the strutting sails.

BRYNHILDA.

A Poem by the same Author.

O STRANGE is the bower where Brynhilda reclines,
Around it the watchfire high bickering shines!
Her couch is of iron, her pillow a shield,

And the maiden's chaste eyes are in deep slumber seal'd.
Thy charm, dreadful Odin, around her is spread,

From thy wand the dread slumber was pour'd on her head,

The bridegroom must pass thro' the furnace and flame,

The boldest in fight, without fear without blame.

O whilom in battle, so bold and so free,

Like a pirate victorious she rov'd o'er the sea.
The helmet has oft bound the ringlets, that now
Adown her smooth shoulder so carelessly flow;
And that snowy bosom, thus lovely reveal'd,
Has been oft by the breastplate's tough iron conceal'd.
The love-lighting eyes, which are fetter'd by sleep,
Have seen the sea-fight raging fierce o'er the deep,
And mid the dead wounds of the dying and slain
The tide of destruction pour'd wide o'er the plain.
Those soft-rounded arms now defenceless and bare,
Those rosy-tipp'd fingers so graceful and fair,
Have rein'd the hot courser, and oft bathed in gore
The merciless edge of the dreaded claymore.

Who is it that spurs his dark steed at the fire?
Who is it, whose wishes thus boldly aspire

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