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.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Those who may be curious to see Fuseli's early style in German, may consult the Life of Chevalier Hudlinger, in the preface to the translation of "Mengs' thoughts on Beauty;" and also a letter "from Switzerland to Winkelmann;" both of which were written by him without alteration, although they bear his father's signature.
[2] At this time, Rösel's "Insects' Banquet" was his favourite study.
[3] The public are indebted for many of the particulars of Fuseli's early life to this gentleman, who died in 1816, and was a canon of Zurich.
[4] Fuseli ever considered Richardson a man of great genius, and one who had a key to the human heart, and was very indignant, in the latter period of his life, with a gentleman who spoke contemptuously of Clarissa Harlowe. This person said in his presence, "No one now reads the works of Richardson." "Do they not?" said Fuseli, "then by G—d they ought. If people are now tired of old novels, I should be glad to know your criterion of books. If Richardson is old, Homer is obsolete. Clarissa, to me, is pathetic—is exquisite; I never read it without crying like a child."
[5] "The Frank Intelligencer."
[6] The late Mr. Henry Füessli, of Zurich, from whom the writer has received much information. Just as this Memoir was completed, this gentleman closed his mortal career. He died on the 1st of May, 1829, in his seventy-fifth year. Mr. Füessli was a landscape painter, and held the honourable situation of President of the Society of Artists at Zurich. He had been labouring for some years under occasional attacks of asthma, and died therefrom much regretted.
[7] Mrs. Fuseli died at Zurich, 11 April, 1759, aged 44 years. She was a woman of a most amiable disposition, and respected by all who knew her.