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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=419887" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>To Sir Godfrey Kneller, Principal Painter to His Majesty</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Once I beheld the fairest of her kind, <br>And still the sweet idea charms my mind: <br>True, she was dumb; for nature gazed so long, <br>Pleased with her work, that she forgot her tongue; <br>But, smiling, said—She still shall gain the prize; <br>I only have transferred it to her eyes. <br>Such are thy pictures, Kneller, such thy skill, <br>That nature seems obedient to thy will; <br>Comes out, and meets thy pencil in the draught, <br>Lives there, and wants but words to speak her thought. <br>At least thy pictures look a voice; and we <br>Imagine sounds, deceived to that degree, <br>We think 'tis somewhat more than just to see. <br>Shadows are but privations of the light; <br>Yet, when we walk, they shoot before the sight; <br>With us approach, retire, arise, and fall; <br>Nothing themselves, and yet expressing all. <br>Such are thy pieces, imitating life <br>So near, they almost conquer'd in the strife; <br>And from their animated canvas came, <br>Demanding souls, and loosened from the frame. <br>Prometheus, were he here, would cast away <br>His Adam, and refuse a soul to clay; <br>And either would thy noble work inspire, <br>Or think it warm enough, without his fire. <br>But vulgar hands may vulgar likeness raise; <br>This is the least attendant on thy praise: <br>From hence the rudiments of art began; <br>A coal, or chalk, first imitated man: <br>Perhaps the shadow, taken on a wall, <br>Gave outlines to the rude original; <br>Ere canvas yet was strained, before the grace <br>Of blended colours found their use and place, <br>Or cypress tablets first received a face. <br>By slow degrees the godlike art advanced; <br>As man grew polished, picture was enhanced: <br>Greece added posture, shade, and perspective, <br>And then the mimic piece began to live. <br>Yet perspective was lame, no distance true, <br>But all came forward in one common view: <br>No point of light was known, no bounds of art; <br>When light was there, it knew not to depart, <br>But glaring on remoter objects played; <br>Not languished and insensibly decayed. <br>Rome raised not art, but barely kept alive, <br>And with old Greece unequally did strive; <br>Till Goths and Vandals, a rude northern race, <br>Did all the matchless monuments deface. <br>Then all the Muses in one ruin lie, <br>And rhyme began to enervate poetry. <br>Thus, in a stupid military state, <br>The pen and pencil find an equal fate. <br>Flat faces, such as would disgrace a screen, <br>Such as in Bantam's embassy were seen, <br>Unraised, unrounded, were the rude delight <br>Of brutal nations, only born to fight. <br>Long time the sister arts, in iron sleep, <br>A heavy Sabbath did supinely keep; <br>At length, in Raphael's age, at once they rise, <br>Stretch all their limbs, and open all their eyes. <br>Thence rose the Roman, and the Lombard line; <br>One coloured best, and one did best design. <br>Raphael's, like Homer's, was the nobler part, <br>But Titian's painting looked like Virgil's art. <br>Thy genius gives thee both; where true design, <br>Postures unforced, and lively colours join, <br>Likeness is ever there; but still the best, <br>(Like proper thoughts in lofty language drest,) <br>Where light, to shades descending, plays, not strives, <br>Dies by degrees, and by degrees revives. <br>Of various parts a perfect whole is wrought; <br>Thy pictures think, and we divine their thought. <br>Shakespeare, thy gift, I place before my sight;<br>With awe, I ask his blessing ere I write; <br>With reverence look on his majestic face; <br>Proud to be less, but of his godlike race. <br>His soul inspires me, while thy praise I write, <br>And I, like Teucer, under Ajax fight; <br>Bids thee, through me, be bold; with dauntless breast <br>Contemn the bad, and emulate the best. <br>Like his, thy critics in the attempt are lost; <br>When most they rail, know then, they envy most. <br>In vain they snarl aloof; a noisy crowd, <br>Like women's anger, impotent and loud. <br>While they their barren industry deplore, <br>Pass on secure, and mind the goal before, <br>Old as she is, my muse shall march behind, <br>Bear off the blast, and intercept the wind. <br>Our arts are sisters, though not twins in birth, <br>For hymns were sung in Eden's happy earth: <br>For oh, the painter muse, though last in place, <br>Has seized the blessing first, like Jacob's race. <br>Apelles' art an Alexander found, <br>And Raphael did with Leo's gold abound; <br>But Homer was with barren laurel crowned. <br>Thou hadst thy Charles a while, and so had I; <br>But pass we that unpleasing image by. <br>Rich in thyself, and of thyself divine, <br>All pilgrims come and offer at thy shrine. <br>A graceful truth thy pencil can command; <br>The fair themselves go mended from thy hand. <br>Likeness appears in every lineament, <br>But likeness in thy work is eloquent. <br>Though nature there her true resemblance bears, <br>A nobler beauty in thy piece appears. <br>So warm thy work, so glows the generous frame, <br>Flesh looks less living in the lovely dame. <br>Thou paint'st as we describe, improving still, <br>When on wild nature we engraft our skill, <br>Yet not creating beauties at our will. <br>But poets are confined to narrower space, <br>To speak the language of their native place; <br>The painter widely stretches his command, <br>Thy pencil speaks the tongue of every land. <br>From hence, my friend, all climates are your own, <br>Nor can you forfeit, for you hold of none. <br>All nations all immunities will give <br>To make you theirs, where'er you please to live; <br>And not seven cities, but the world, would strive. <br>Sure some propitious planet then did smile, <br>When first you were conducted to this isle; <br>Our genius brought you here, to enlarge our fame, <br>For your good stars are everywhere the same. <br>Thy matchless hand, of every region free, <br>Adopts our climate, not our climate thee. <br>Great Rome and Venice early did impart <br>To thee the examples of their wondrous art. <br>Those masters, then but seen, not understood, <br>With generous emulation fired thy blood; <br>For what in nature's dawn the child admired, <br>The youth endeavoured, and the man acquired. <br>If yet thou hast not reached their high degree, <br>'Tis only wanting to this age, not thee. <br>Thy genius, bounded by the times, like mine, <br>Drudges on petty draughts, nor dare design <br>A more exalted work, and more divine. <br>For what a song, or senseless opera, <br>Is to the living labour of a play; <br>Or what a play to Virgil's work would be, <br>Such is a single piece to history. <br>But we, who life bestow, ourselves must live; <br>Kings cannot reign, unless their subjects give; <br>And they, who pay the taxes, bear the rule: <br>Thus thou, sometimes, art forced to draw a fool; <br>But so his follies in thy posture sink, <br>The senseless idiot seems at last to think. <br>Good heaven! that sots and knaves should be so vain, <br>To wish their vile resemblance may remain, <br>And stand recorded, at their own request, <br>To future days, a libel or a jest! <br>Else should we see your noble pencil trace <br>Our unities of action, time, and place; <br>A whole composed of parts, and those the best, <br>With every various character exprest; <br>Heroes at large, and at a nearer view; <br>Less, and at distance, an ignoble crew; <br>While all the figures in one action join, <br>As tending to complete the main design. <br>More cannot be by mortal art exprest, <br>But venerable age shall add the rest: <br>For time shall with his ready pencil stand, <br>Retouch your figures with his ripening hand, <br>Mellow your colours, and imbrown the teint, <br>Add every grace, which time alone can grant; <br>To future ages shall your fame convey, <br>And give more beauties than he takes away.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=John+Dryden">John Dryden</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=419887" data-title="To Sir Godfrey Kneller, Principal Painter to His Majesty de John Dryden" data-description="Once I beheld the fairest of her kind, 
And still the sweet idea charms my mind: 
True, she was dumb; for nature gazed so long, 
Pleased with her work, that she forgot her tongue; 
But, smiling, said—She still shall gain the prize; 
I only have ..."></div>
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