The Progress Of Art.

Oh happy time! - Art's early days!     When o'er each deed, with sweet self-praise,     Narcissus-like I hung!     When great Rembrandt but little seemed,     And such Old Masters all were deemed     As nothing to the young!     Some scratchy strokes - abrupt and few,     So easily and swift I drew,     Sufficed for my design;     My sketchy, superficial hand     Drew solids at a dash - and spanned     A surface with a line.     Not long my eye was thus content,     But grew more critical - my bent     Essayed a higher walk;     I copied leaden eyes in lead -     Rheumatic hands in white and red,     And gouty feet - in chalk.     Anon my studious art for days     Kept making faces - happy phrase,     For faces such as mine!     Accomplished in the details then,     I left the minor parts of men,     And drew the form divine.     Old Gods and Heroes - Trojan - Greek,     Figures - long after the antique,     Great Ajax justly feared;     Hectors, of whom at night I dreamt,     And Nestor, fringed enough to tempt     Bird-nesters to his beard.     A Bacchus, leering on a bowl,     A Pallas that out-stared her owl,     A Vulcan - very lame;     A Dian stuck about with stars,     With my right hand I murdered Mars -     (One Williams did the same).     But tired of this dry work at last,     Crayon and chalk aside I cast,     And gave my brush a drink!     Dipping - "as when a painter dips     In gloom of earthquake and eclipse," -     That is - in Indian ink.     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 penned,     I fear the distance did not "lend     Enchantment to the view."     Not Radcliffe's brush did e'er design     Black Forests half so black as mine,     Or lakes so like a pall;     The Chinese cake dispersed a ray     Of darkness, like the light of Day     And Martin over all.     Yet urchin pride sustained me still,     I gazed on all with right good will,     And spread the dingy tint;     "No holy Luke helped me to paint,     The devil surely, not a Saint,     Had any finger in't!"     But colors came! - like morning light,     With gorgeous hues, displacing night,     Or Spring's enlivened scene:     At once the sable shades withdrew;     My skies got very, very blue;     My trees extremely green.     And washed by my cosmetic brush,     How Beauty's cheek began to blush;     With lock of auburn stain -     (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,     Set all my heart in flame!     A young Pygmalion, I adored     The maids I made - but time was stored     With evil - and it came!     Perspective dawned - and soon I saw     My houses stand against its law;     And "keeping" all unkept!     My beauties were no longer things     For love and fond imaginings;     But horrors to be wept!     Ah! why did knowledge ope my eyes?     Why did I get more artist wise?     It only serves to hint,     What grave defects and wants are mine;     That I'm no Hilton in design -     In nature no De Wint!     Thrice happy time! - Art's early days!     When o'er each deed, with sweet self-praise,     Narcissus-like I hung!     When great Rembrandt but little seemed,     And such Old Masters all were deemed     As nothing to the young!