Джон Дайер (John Dyer)

An Epistle to a Famous Painter

Uncontrolled and unconfined,
Suit all changes of yonr mind,
Paint affected wisdom's face,
Or Silenus and his ass;
Or, deep within a wilderness,
Some lovely woman in distress;
Or a choir of woodnymphs gay,
Dancing hand in hand away.

Delightful partner of my heart,
Master of the loveliest art!
How sweet our senses you deceive,
When we, a gazing throng, believe!
Here flows the Po, the Minis there,
Winding about with sedgy hair;
And there the Tiber's yellow flood,
Beneath a thick and gloomy wood;
And there Darius' broken ranks
Upon the Granic's bloody banks,
Who bravely die, or basely run
From Philip's all-subduing son;
And there the wounded Porus, brought
(The bravest man that ever fought!)
To Alexander's tent, who eyes
His dauntless visage, as he lies
In death's most painful agonies.

To me reveal thy heav'nly art,
To me thy mysteries impart.
As yet I but in verse can paint,
And to th' idea colour faint,
What to th' open eye you show,
Seeming Nature's living glow;
The beauteous shapes of objects near,
Or distant ones confus'd in air;
The golden eve, the blinking dawn,
Smiling on the lovely lawn!
And pleasing views of checker'd glades!
And rivers winding thro' the shades!
And sunny hills, and pleasant plains!
And groups of merry nymphs and swains!

Or some old building, hid with grass,
Rearing sad its ruin'd face,
Whose columns, friezes, statues lie,
The grief and wonder of the eye!
Or swift adown a mountain tall
A foaming cat'ract's sounding fall,
Whose loud roaring stuns the ear
Of the wondering traveller;
Or a calm and quiet bay,
And a level, shining sea;
Or surges rough, that froth and roar,
And, angry, dash the sounding shore;
And vessels toss'd, and billows high,
And light'ning flashing from the sky;
Or that which gives the most delight,
The fair idea (seeming sight!)
Of warrior fierce, with shining blade,
Or orator, with arms display'd:
Tully's engaging air and mien,
Declaiming against Catiline;
Or fierce Achilles towering high
Above his foes, who round him die.
Or Hercules, with lion's hide,
And knotty cudgel thrown aside,
Lifting Antaeus high in air,
Who in his gripe expires there.
Or Sisyphus, with toil and sweat,
And muscles strain'd, striving to get
Up a steep hill a ponderous stone,
Which near the top recoils, and rolls impetuous down;
Or beauteous Helen's easy air,
With head reclin'd, and flowing hair;
Or comely Paris, gay and young,
Moving with gallant grace along! —
These you can do — I but advance
In a florid ignorance,
And say to you, who better know,
You should design them so and so.

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