"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;
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.