The Devil-painter. a Tale

Happy the favour'd man who knows On him what talent heaven bestows! Whose life is to that sphere confin'd, Which suits his happiest turn of mind! The crowd, to endless error born, Forsake their proper sphere with scorn; The critic's, poet's, painter's name Assume, and sweat to purchase shame; When Nature (for the fault is theirs) Meant them for aldermen or mayors.

One dunce I knew, whom no restraint Could keep from pencil and from paint. Him Hogarth's praise had so bewitch'd, That every rival finger itch'd. He'd calk and dawb, and stink and smear From morn to night, from year to year. But still, with some unlucky touch, Gave here too little, there too much; Each piece he drew a monstrous birth, Like nought in air, or seas, or earth. Some laugh'd, and some look'd grave—some sneer'd, None prais'd—'twas spite—he persever'd. It chanc'd the Graces once he bought; 'Twas Titian's piece from Venice brought. To copy this, but still in vain, He tried, gave out, and tried again. At length one squallid figure rose, With goggle eyes, and crooked nose, Distorted limbs, a satyr's rump, A rude, unfinish'd, shapeless lump. Awhile his work he eyed, then swore He ne'er would copy Titian more. " I'll paint, he cried, for fame, not pelf, " And draw originals myself." Strait to his piece a tail he put, Huge curling horns, and cloven foot, Stuck asses ears beside the face, And to a Devil turn'd his Grace: This was indeed a master-stroke, The more deform'd, the more it spoke. What tho' the few, whose judging eyes The monstrous medley-shape despise, Affirm'd that now 'twas like no more To Satan, than a Grace before; To him, that horns, nor hoofs, nor tail Belong. No matter—Let them rail.— The many, smit with chill amaze, Confess the fiend, and trembling praise. " How like! 'tis Satan's self, they cry; " His cloven foot, his sawcer eye." Children ran screaming from the sight, And women shriek'd, and swoon'd with fright. Our artist now, elate with pride, Looks big, and moves with stately stride; Contracts his brow severe and awing, A first-rate hand—at devil-drawing.

Each coxcomb, thus, in nature's spite, At wit will nibble, wrong or right. In vain they copy, and they steal, Their folly still their jests reveal. They rhime—it pleases foe nor friend; They next to repartee descend. 'Tis dull—no laughter gains them fame; They fall to pun—'tis just the same. Then, tir'd with unsuccessful gleanings Of wit, they try at double meanings; In which of humour no more trace is, Than in our Goblin of the Graces; Yet see them, all their labours past, Crown'd with the wish'd success at last, Proud of their power, with hints obscene, To give fair modesty the spleen, To make bawds, whores, and coxcombs snigger, They strut—no train'd-band cit looks bigger, While all the good, polite and wise The pert, dull, graceless apes despise.