VANDYKE is dead; but what bold Muse shall dare
(Though poets in that word with painters share)
T'express her sadness? Poesy must become
An art like Painting here, an art that's dumb.
Let's all our solemn grief in silence keep,
Like some sad picture which he made to weep,
Or those who saw 't; for none his works could view
Unmov'd with the same passions which he drew.
His pieces so with their live objects strive,
That both or pictures seem, or both alive.
Nature herself, amaz'd, does doubting stand,
Which is her own and which the painter's hand;
And does attempt the like with less success,
When her own work in twins she would express.
His all-resembling pencil did out-pass
The mimic imagery of looking-glass.
Nor was his life less perfect than his art,
Nor was his hand less erring than his heart.
There was no false or fading colour there,
The figures sweet and well-proportion'd were.
Most other men, set next to him in view,
Appear'd more shadows than the men he drew.
Thus still he liv'd, till Heav'n did for him call;
Where reverend Luke salutes him first of all;
Where he beholds new sights, divinely fair,
And could almost wish for his pencil there;
Did he not gladly see how all things shine,
Wondrously painted in the Mind Divine,
Whilst he, for ever ravish'd with the show,
Scorns his own art, which we admire below.
Only his beauteous lady still he loves
(The love of heavenly objects Heaven improves);
He sees bright angels in pure beams appear,
And thinks on her he left so like them here.
And you, fair widow! who stay here alive,
Since he so much rejoices, cease to grieve:
Your joys and griefs were wont the same to be;
Begin not now, blest pair! to disagree.
No wonder death mov'd not his generous mind;
You, and a new-born You, he left behind:
Ev'n Fate express'd his love to his dear wife,
And let him end your picture with his life.
HOW wretched does Prometheus' state appear,
Whilst he his second misery suffers here!
Draw him no more; lest, as he tortur'd stands,
He blame great Jove's less than the painter's hands.
It would the Vulture's cruelty outgo,
If once again his liver thus should grow.
Pity him, Jove! and his bold theft allow ;
The flames he once stole from thee grant him now!
HERE's to thee, Dick; this whining love despise;
Pledge me, my friend; and drink till thou be'st wise.
It sparkles brighter far than she:
'Tis pure and right, without deceit ;
And such no woman ere will be:
No; they are all sophisticate.
With all thy servile pains what canst thou win,
But an ill-favour'd and uncleanly sin?
A thing so vile, and so short-liv'd,
That Venus' joys, as well as she,
With reason may be said to be
From the neglected foam deriv'd.
Whom would that painted toy a beauty move;
Whom would it e'er persuade to court and love;
Could he a woman's heart have seen
(But, oh! no light does thither come),
And view'd her per ectly within,
When he lay shut up in her womb ?
Follies they have so numberless in store,
That only he who loves them can have more.
Neither their sighs nor tears are true;
Those idly blow, these idly fall,
Nothing like to ours at all:
But sighs and tears have sexes too.
Here's to thee again; thy senseless sorrows drown;
Let the glass walk, till all things too go round!
Again, till these two lights be four;
No error here can dangerous prove:
Thy passion, man, deceiv'd thee more ;
None double see like men in love.
WHEN chance or cruel business parts us two,
What do our souls, I wonder, do?
Whilst sleep does our dull bodies tie,
Methinks at home they should not stay,
Content with dreams, but boldly fly
Abroad, and meet each other half the way.
Sure they do meet, enjoy each other there,
And mix, I know not how nor where!
Their friendly lights together twine,
Though we perceive 't not to be so !
Like loving stars, which oft combine,
Yet not themselves their own conjunctions know.
'T were an ill world, I'll swear, for every friend, If distance could their union end : But Love itself does far advance
Above the power of time and space;
It scorns such outward circumstance,
His time's for ever, every-where his place.
I'm there with thee, yet here with me thou art,
Lodg'd in each other's heart:
Miracles cease not yet in love.
When he his mighty power will try,
Absence itself does bounteous prove,
And strangely ev'n our presence multiply.
Pure is the flame of Friendship, and divine,
Like that which in Heaven's sun does shine:
He in the upper air and sky
Does no effects of heat bestow;
But, as his beams the farther fly,
He begets warmth, life, beauty, here below.
Friendship is less apparent when too nigh,
Like objects if they touch the eye.
Less meritorious then is love;
For when we friends together see
So much, so much both one do prove,
That their love then seems but self-love to be.
Each day think on me, and each day I shall
For thee make hours canonical,
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