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!