The Poetry Corner

The Progress Of Art.

By Thomas Hood

Oh happy time! - Art's early days! When o'er each deed, with sweet self-praise, Narcissus-like I hung! When great Rembrandt but little seemed, And such Old Masters all were deemed As nothing to the young! Some scratchy strokes - abrupt and few, So easily and swift I drew, Sufficed for my design; My sketchy, superficial hand Drew solids at a dash - and spanned A surface with a line. Not long my eye was thus content, But grew more critical - my bent Essayed a higher walk; I copied leaden eyes in lead - Rheumatic hands in white and red, And gouty feet - in chalk. Anon my studious art for days Kept making faces - happy phrase, For faces such as mine! Accomplished in the details then, I left the minor parts of men, And drew the form divine. Old Gods and Heroes - Trojan - Greek, Figures - long after the antique, Great Ajax justly feared; Hectors, of whom at night I dreamt, And Nestor, fringed enough to tempt Bird-nesters to his beard. A Bacchus, leering on a bowl, A Pallas that out-stared her owl, A Vulcan - very lame; A Dian stuck about with stars, With my right hand I murdered Mars - (One Williams did the same). But tired of this dry work at last, Crayon and chalk aside I cast, And gave my brush a drink! Dipping - "as when a painter dips In gloom of earthquake and eclipse," - That is - in Indian ink. Oh then, what black Mont Blancs arose, Crested with soot, and not with snows: What clouds of dingy hue! In spite of what the bard has penned, I fear the distance did not "lend Enchantment to the view." Not Radcliffe's brush did e'er design Black Forests half so black as mine, Or lakes so like a pall; The Chinese cake dispersed a ray Of darkness, like the light of Day And Martin over all. Yet urchin pride sustained me still, I gazed on all with right good will, And spread the dingy tint; "No holy Luke helped me to paint, The devil surely, not a Saint, Had any finger in't!" But colors came! - like morning light, With gorgeous hues, displacing night, Or Spring's enlivened scene: At once the sable shades withdrew; My skies got very, very blue; My trees extremely green. And washed by my cosmetic brush, How Beauty's cheek began to blush; With lock of auburn stain - (Not Goldsmith's Auburn) - nut-brown hair, That made her loveliest of the fair; Not "loveliest of the plain!" Her lips were of vermilion hue: Love in her eyes, and Prussian blue, Set all my heart in flame! A young Pygmalion, I adored The maids I made - but time was stored With evil - and it came! Perspective dawned - and soon I saw My houses stand against its law; And "keeping" all unkept! My beauties were no longer things For love and fond imaginings; But horrors to be wept! Ah! why did knowledge ope my eyes? Why did I get more artist wise? It only serves to hint, What grave defects and wants are mine; That I'm no Hilton in design - In nature no De Wint! Thrice happy time! - Art's early days! When o'er each deed, with sweet self-praise, Narcissus-like I hung! When great Rembrandt but little seemed, And such Old Masters all were deemed As nothing to the young!