Or bake a pasty, whose enormous wall
Took up almost the area of his hall:
But now, as art improves, and life refines,
The dæmon Taste attends him when he dines;
Serves on his board an elegant regale,
Where three stew'd mushrooms flank a larded quail;
Where infant turkies, half a month resign'd
To the soft breathings of a southern wind,
And smother'd in a rich ragout of snails,
Outstink a lenten supper at Versailles.
Is there a saint that would not laugh to see
The good man piddling with his fricassee;
Forc'd by the luxury of taste to drain
A flask of poison, which he calls champagne!
While he, poor ideot! though he dare not speak,
Pines all the while for porter and ox-cheek.
Sure 'tis enough to starve for pomp and show,
To drink, and curse the clarets of Bourdeaux:
Yet such our humour, such our skill to hit
Excess of folly through excess of wit,
We plant the garden, and we build the seat,
Just as absurdly as we drink and eat.
For is there aught that nature's hand has sown
To bloom and ripen in her hottest zone?
Is there a shrub which ere its verdures blow,
Asks all the suns that beam upon the Po?
Is there a flowret whose vermillion hue
Can only catch its beauty in Peru?
Is there a portal, colonnade, or dome,
The pride of Naples, or the boast of Rome?
We raise it here, in storms of wind and hail,
On the bleak bosom of a sunless vale;
Careless alike of climate, soil, and place,
The cast of nature, and the smiles of grace.
Hence all our stucco'd walls, mosaic floors,
Palladian windows, and Venetian doors;
Our Grecian fronts, whose Attic wings unfold
Fluted pilasters, tipp'd with leaves of gold;
Our massy ceilings, grac'd with gay festoons,
The weeping marbles of our damp saloons,
Lawns fring'd with citron, amaranthine bow'rs,
Expiring myrtles, and unop'ning flow'rs.
Hence the good Scotsman bids th' anana blow
In rocks of chrystal, or in Alps of snow;
On Orcus' steep extends his wide arcade,
And kills his scanty sunshine in a shade.
One might expect a sanctity of style
August and manly in an holy pile,
And think an architect extremely odd
To build a playhouse for the church of God;
Yet half our churches, such the mode that reigns,
Are Roman theatres, or Grecian fanes;
Where broad-arch'd windows to the eye convey
The keen diffusion of too strong a day;
Where in the luxury of wanton pride,
Corinthian columns languish side by side,
Clos'd by an altar exquisitely fine,
Loose and lascivious as a Cyprian shrine.
Of late, 'tis true, quite sick of Rome and Greece, We fetch our models from the wise Chinese ; European artists are too cool and chaste, For Mand'rin only is the man of taste; Whose bolder genius fondly wild to see His grove a forest, and his pond a sea,
Breaks out, and, whimsically great, designs
Without the shackles or of rules or lines;
Form'd on his plans, our farms and seats begin
To match the boasted villas of Pekin,
On every hill a spire-crown'd temple swells,
Hung round with serpents, and a fringe of bells;
Junks and balons along our waters sail,
With each a gilded cock-boat at his tail;
Our choice exotics to the breeze exhale
Within the enclosure of a zig-zag rail;
In Tartar huts our cows and horses lie,
Our hogs are fatten'd in an Indian stye;
On ev'ry shelf a joss divinely stares,
Nymphs laid on chintzes sprawl upon our chairs;
While o'er our cabinets Confucius nods,
'Midst porcelain elephants, and China Gods.
Peace to all such-but you whose chaster fires
True greatness kindles, and true sense inspires,
Or ere you lay a stone, or plant a shade,
Bend the proud arch, or roll the broad cascade,
Ere all your wealth in mean profusion waste,
Examine nature with the eye of Taste;
Mark where she spreads the lawn, or pours the rill,
Falls in the vale, or breaks upon the hill,
Plan as she plans, and where her genius calls,
There sink your grottos, and there raise your walls.
Without this Taste, beneath whose magic wand
Truth and correctness guide the artist's hand,
Woods, lakes, and palaces are idle things,
The shame of nations, and the blush of kings.
Expence and Vanbrugh, vanity and show,
May build a Blenheim, but not make a Stowe.
But what is Taste, you ask, this heav'n-born fire
We all pretend to, and we all admire?
Is it a casual grace? or lucky hit?
Or the cool effort of reflecting wit?
Has it no law but mere misguided will?
No just criterion fix'd to good and ill?
It has true Taste, when delicately fine,
Is the pure sunshine of a soul divine,
The full perfection of each mental pow'r ;-
'Tis sense, 'tis nature, and 'tis something more.
Twin-born with Genius of one common bed,
One parent bore them, and one master bred.
It gives the lyre with happier sounds to flow,
With purer blushes bids fair beauty glow;
From Raphael's pencil calls a nobler line,
And warms, Corregio! every touch of thine.
And yet, though sprung from one paternal flame,
Genius and Taste are different as their name:
Genius, all sun-beam, where he throws a smile,
Impregnates nature faster than the Nile;
Wild, and impetuous, high as heav'n aspires,
All science animates, all virtue fires;
Creates ideal worlds, and there convenes
Aerial forms, and visionary scenes.
But Taste corrects, by one ethereal touch,
What seems too little, and what seems too much;
Marks the fine point where each consenting part
Slides into beauty with the ease of art;
This bids to rise, and that with grace to fall,
And bounds, unites, refines, and hieghtens all.
THE ANTIQUARIANS.
A Tale.
Some antiquarians grave and loyal,
Incorporate by charter royal,
Last winter, on a Thursday night, were
Met in full senate at the Mitre.
The president, like Mr. Mayor,
Majestic took the elbow chair;
And gravely sat in due decorum
With a fine gilded mace before him.
Upon the table were display'd
A British knife without a blade,
A comb of Anglo-Saxon real,
A patent with King Alfred's seal
Two rusted mutilated prongs,
Suppos'd to be St. Dunstan's tongs,
With which he, as the story goes,
Once took the devil by the nose.
Awhile they talk'd of ancient modes,
Of manuscripts, and Gothic codes,
Of Roman altars, camps and urns,
Of Caledonian shields and churns;
Whether the Druid slipt or broke
The misletoe upon the oak?
If Hector's spear was made of ash?
Or Agamemnon wore a sash?
If Cleopatra dress'd in blue,
And wore her tresses in a queue?
At length a dean who understood All that had pass'd before the flood, And could in half a minute shew ye A pedigree as high as Noah,
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