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;
Not thine, with temporary themes to move,
Of Hope, Aversion, Pity, Rage, or Love.—
Beyond whate'er the Drama's powers can tell,
Beyond the Epic's high, impetuous swell,
Alike by clime and ages unconfined,
Thou strik'st the chords that vibrate on mankind;
Op'st the dread scenes that Heaven suspensive eyed,
A world created, or a world destroy'd;
Recall'st the joys of Eden's happier prime,
Whilst life was yet unconscious of a crime,
Whilst Virtue's self could Passion's glow approve,
And Beauty slumber'd in the arms of Love;
Till, dread reverse! on man's devoted race
Th' insidious serpent work'd the dire disgrace.
Then first, whilst Nature shudder'd with affright,
Of Sin and Death was held th' incestuous rite;
Then first, o'er vanquish'd man, began their reign,
The fiends of Woe, the family of Pain:
Disease the poison'd cup of anguish fills,
And opes the Lazar-house of human ills—
See Frenzy rushes from his burning bed;
See pining Atrophy declines his head;
See mute Despair, that broods on woes unknown,
And Melancholy gaze herself to stone!
Then, pouring forth from Hell's detested bound,
Revenge, and Fraud, and Murder stalk around;
Till opening skies declare th' avenging God,
And Mercy sleeps, whilst Justice waves the rod.
Yet, whilst the bursting deluge from the earth
Sweeps the rebellious brood of giant birth,
One proud survivor rolls his vengeful eyes,
And with last look the living God defies.
But now the waves their silent station keep,
And Vengeance slumbers o'er the mighty deep;
Again, rejoicing o'er the firm fix'd land,
The favour'd Patriarch leads his household band;
With sacred incense bids his altars blaze,
And pours to God the living song of praise.
Thus, as th' immortal Bard his flight explores,
On kindred wing the daring artist soars;
Undazzled shares with him Heaven's brightest glow,
Or penetrates the boundless depths below;
Or on the sloping sun-beam joys to ride,
Or sails amidst the uncreated void;
Imbibes a portion of his sacred flame,
Reflects his genius, and partakes his fame.
ADDRESSED TO HENRY FUSELI, ESQ. R.A.
ON SEEING ENGRAVINGS FROM HIS
DESIGNS,
BY HENRY KIRKE WHITE.
Mighty magician! who on Torneo's brow,
When sullen tempests wrap the throne of night,
Art wont to sit and catch the gleam of light,
That shoots athwart the gloom opaque below,
And listen to the distant death-shriek long,
From lonely mariner foundering in the deep,
Which rises slowly up the rocky steep,
While weird sisters weave the horrid song:
Or when along the liquid sky
Serenely chant the orbs on high,
Dost love to sit in musing trance,
And mark the northern meteor's dance;
(While far below the fitful oar
Flings its faint pauses on the steepy shore,)
And list the music of the breeze,
That sweeps by fits the bending seas;
And often bears with sudden swell
The shipwreck'd sailor's funeral knell,
By the spirits sung, who keep
Their night-watch on the treacherous deep,
And guide the wakeful helms-man's eye
To Helicé in northern sky,
And there, upon the rock inclined,
With mighty visions fill'st the mind,
Such as bound, in magic spell,
Him[75] who grasp'd the gates of Hell,
And bursting Pluto's dark domain,
Held to the day the terrors of his reign.
Genius of horror and romantic awe,
Whose eye explores the secrets of the deep,
Whose power can bid the rebel fluids creep,
Can force the inmost soul to own its law;
Who shall now, sublimest spirit,
Who shall now thy wand inherit,
From him,[76] thy darling child, who best
Thy shuddering images express'd?
Sullen of soul, and stern, and proud,
His gloomy spirit spurn'd the crowd;
And now he lays his aching head
In the dark mansion of the silent dead.
Mighty magician! long thy wand has lain
Buried beneath the unfathomable deep;
And, oh! for ever must its efforts sleep,
May none the mystic sceptre e'er regain?
Oh, yes, 'tis his!—thy other son;
He throws thy dark-wrought tunic on,
Fuesslin waves thy wand,—again they rise,
Again thy wildering forms salute our ravish'd eyes;
Him didst thou cradle on the dizzy steep,
Where round his head the volley'd lightnings flung,
And the loud winds that round his pillow rung,
Woo'd the stern infant to the arms of Sleep,
Or on the highest top of Teneriffe
Seated the fearless boy, and bade him look
Where far below the weather-beaten skiff
On the gulf-bottom of the ocean strook.
Thou mark'dst him drink with ruthless ear
The death-sob, and, disdaining rest,
Thou saw'st how danger fired his breast,
And in his young hand couch'd the visionary spear.
Then, Superstition, at thy call,
She bore the boy to Odin's Hall,
And set before his awe-struck sight
The savage feast and spectred fight;
And summon'd from the mountain tomb
The ghastly warrior son of gloom,
His fabled Runic rhymes to sing,
While fierce Hresvelger flapp'd his wing;
Thou show'dst the trains the shepherd sees,
Laid on the stormy Hebrides,
Which on the mists of evening gleam,
Or crowd the foaming desert stream;
Lastly, her storied hand she waves,
And lays him in Florentian caves;
There milder fables, lovelier themes
Enwrap his soul in heavenly dreams;
There Pity's lute arrests his ear,
And draws the half-reluctant tear;
And now at noon of night he roves
Along th' embowering moon-light groves,
And as from many a cavern'd dell
The hollow wind is heard to swell,
He thinks some troubled spirit sighs;
And as upon the turf he lies,
Where sleeps the silent beam of night,
He sees below the gliding sprite,
And hears in Fancy's organs sound
Aërial music warbling round.
Taste lastly comes, and smooths the whole,
And breathes her polish o'er his soul;
Glowing with wild, yet chasten'd heat,
The wonderous work is now complete.
The Poet dreams:—the shadow flies,
And fainting fast its image dies.
But lo! the Painter's magic force
Arrests the phantom's fleeting course;
It lives—it lives—the canvass glows,
And tenfold vigour o'er it flows.
The Bard beholds the work achieved,
And as he sees the shadow rise,
Sublime before his wondering eyes,
Starts at the image his own mind conceived.
H. K. White.
The following verses were sent to me anonymously, by the post; as they shew the author to be well acquainted with the works of Mr. Fuseli, I trust the reader will think with me, there needs no apology for inserting them in this place. It is conjectured that they are from the pen of a young lady, who is alike distinguished for personal attractions and amiability, as for her taste and knowledge; the daughter of a gentleman who has been frequently mentioned in this Memoir.
A VISION.
Last night I sunk to sleep's soft power resign'd,
When wizard Fancy's wand, before my mind,
Conjur'd in dreams a visionary shew,
That seem'd with vivid Truth's warm tints to glow.
By young Favonius' fragrant pinions fann'd,5
Amidst Elysian groves I seem'd to stand;
Here, when th' immortal spirit quits its clay,
The sons of Genius dwell in endless day:
Not they who empires founded, or o'erthrew,
Who conquer'd worlds, or who discover'd new;10
Not Philip's headlong son, not Scipio's foe,
Nor Julius, guilty of his country's woe;
In these fair fields the scourges of mankind
Reap'd not the meed to virtuous fame assign'd.
Here Music sweeps her lyre; her heav'nly lay15
The Passions hear, enraptur'd, and obey:
Here dwells th' immortal Virgin Poesy,
A noble wildness flashing in her eye;
Inspired Bards around the Goddess throng,
And catch the accents flowing from her tongue.20
Entranced, whilst gazing on the blissful scene,
I mark'd a Deity of matchless mien,
Her port majestic, in each motion grace,
Fairer she shone than nymphs of mortal race:
I recognis'd the Sov'reign of that art,25
Which through the eye finds entrance to the heart;
Plac'd on an eminence, she sat alone,
Below her vot'ries press'd around her throne.
Great Vinci first, with greater Angelo,
Sublime expression frowning on his brow,30
Led on the daring Tuscan band severe:
Next Raphael with calm dignity drew near,
Who join'd to grand conception just design,
Conducting the majestic Roman line;
Then Titian with a gay and brilliant throng,35
Sprung from the sea-born city, mov'd along;
Corregio in succession next pass'd by,
Leading the graceful School of Lombardy.
A genius vast, original, and bold,
The numerous band of Holland's sons controll'd;40
And with his Flemish train, of pomp profuse,
The gorgeous Rubens dazzled e'en the Muse.
In order due arranged on either hand,
Beside the silent Queen they take their stand;
Before whose throne Helvetia stood, to claim45
For an aspiring votary of Fame
Admittance to these realms:—"O Muse," she cried,
"The Master's works contemplate, and decide."
While speaking thus, her wand on high she rear'd,
And lo! a train of pictur'd groups appear'd;50
Heroic phantoms seem'd to start from night,
And forms of beauty floated 'fore my sight;
From ages past reflected scenes arose,
Of human passions, and eternal woes.
There I beheld pourtray'd the lofty story55
Of Man's first fall, and Satan's tarnish'd glory.
There rose the spectre Prophet from the tomb,
To Saul announcing his impending doom.
Of Ilion's tale a vision seem'd to speak,
And the long wand'rings of the prudent Greek.60
There Eriphyle bleeds upon the ground,
While Furies fly t' avenge the impious wound.
In horror plunged, deplor'd Jocasta's son
The fated crimes he strove in vain to shun.
Here stalk'd the shadow of the murder'd Dane;65
Appall'd, methought I saw th' astonish'd Thane
Hail'd by each wither'd hag;—From Helle's tide
Th' enamour'd youth rush'd to his Sestian bride.
There, lost to hope, the lovers mourn for ever!
Whom not th' infernal whirlwind's rage can sever.70
The traitor Guelph, too, 'midst his famish'd brood,
Expects in Death th' eternal feast of blood.
In knightly guise th' heroic Virgin's arm
Redeems fair Amoret from magic charm:
And Arthur slept; who woke but to deplore75
The Beauty lov'd for ever, seen no more.
On the aërial portraiture, amaz'd,
In pleasing wonder lost, intent I gaz'd;
As Sorrow, Guilt, Despair, the scenes express'd,
Awe, Terror, Pity, sway'd by turns my breast;80
When, suddenly, I saw the heaven-born Maid
Of sacred numbers, from a neighbouring glade,
'Midst the great masters of immortal song,
Toward the throne of Painting move along.
Now blind no more Mæonides, and he,85
The daring Bard of Man's apostasy,
With buskin'd Sophocles, and lofty Gray,
Spenser, sweet master of the moral lay;
Severely grand, the Florentine sublime,
And Avon's Bard, unmatch'd by age or clime,90
All crowd the visionary scenes t' admire,
Pleas'd that such scenes their genius could inspire.
While onward the poetic Virgin press'd,
And her who reign'd o'er Painting, thus address'd:—
"O Muse! who charmest silently, attend95
To Poesy, thy Sister, and thy friend.
No vot'ry of that art o'er which you reign,
The nobler walks could ever yet attain,
Unless I urged him proudly to aspire,
And kindled in his breast poetic fire.100
Belgia, without my aid, may tint the scene
With golden hues, and mimic Nature's green;
Immortalize the Peasant and his can,
Without selection, imitating Man;
Or through transparent veins life's tide may gush,105
Tinging Venetian canvass with the blush
Of glowing Nature; uninspir'd by me,
The Rose of Merian may deceive the bee;
At Rembrandt's touch the shining robe may flow,
The diamond sparkle, or the ruby glow;110
But he whom I inspire disdains such praise;
The soul's emotions, ardent, he displays;
Fearless he wields Invention's magic wand,
Sprites, fays, and spectres rise at his command;
Unveil'd, the Passions at his will appear,115
E'en Heavenly essences he dares t' unsphere;
As, from Promethean touch each image glows,
And what the Poet thought the Painter shews.
While 'midst Helvetia's native hills, before
This foster-son of Britain sought her shore,120
I mark'd the future promise in the child;
The fire of genius, vigorous, and wild,
Sparkled in infancy, in manhood blaz'd;
You won his youthful fancy, as he gaz'd,
Th' enthusiast strove your favour to attain,125
And I propitious, smil'd, and pointed to your Fane.
On Leban's brow the cedar tow'ring high
Boasts not the lowly flow'ret's gaudy dye;
Others may in the humbler parts excel,
But, Queen, did ever artist think so well?130
Is not the highest merit of your art,
T' exalt the fancy, and to touch the heart?
Then welcome the poetic Painter, Muse,
Nor to my fav'rite deathless fame refuse!"
She ceased; nor vainly pled the Heavenly fair;135
Th' assenting Muse approv'd her sister's prayer:
"Enter these realms," she cried; "th' award be thine,
Amidst the sons of Genius here to shine,
Where Envy's tongue no longer shall prevail:
Hail Fuseli! Immortal artist, hail!"140
Resounding acclamations, as she spoke,
Burst on my ear, I started, and awoke.