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To Sir Godfrey Kneller, Principal Painter To His Majesty.[1]

by John Dryden

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 transferr'd it to her eyes.

Such are thy pictures, Kneller: such thy skill,

That Nature seems obedient to thy will;

Comes out and meets thy pencil in the draught;

Lives there, and wants but words to speak her thought.

At least thy pictures look a voice; and we

Imagine sounds, deceived to that degree,

We think 'tis somewhat more than just to see.

Shadows are but privations of the light;

Yet, when we walk, they shoot before the sight;

With us approach, retire, arise, and fall;

Nothing themselves, and yet expressing all.

Such are thy pieces, imitating life

So near, they almost conquer in the strife;

And from their animated canvas came,

Demanding souls, and loosen'd from the frame.

Prometheus, were he here, would cast away

His Adam, and refuse a soul to clay;

And either would thy noble work inspire,

Or think it warm enough, without his fire.

But vulgar hands may vulgar likeness raise;

This is the least attendant on thy praise:

From hence the rudiments of art began;

A coal, or chalk, first imitated man:

Perhaps the shadow, taken on a wall,

Gave outlines to the rude original;

Ere canvas yet was strain'd, before the grace

Of blended colours found their use and place,

Or cypress tablets first received a face.

By slow degrees the godlike art advanced;

As man grew polish'd, picture was enhanced:

Greece added posture, shade, and perspective;

And then the mimic piece began to live.

Yet p'rspective was lame, no distance true,

But all came forward in one common view:

No point of light was known, no bounds of art;

When light was there, it knew not to depart,

But glaring on remoter objects play'd;

Not languish'd, and insensibly decay'd.

Rome raised not art, but barely kept alive,

And with old Greece unequally did strive:

Till Goths, and Vandals, a rude northern race,

Did all the matchless monuments deface.

Then all the Muses in one ruin be,

And rhyme began to enervate poetry.

Thus, in a stupid military state,

The pen and pencil find an equal fate.

Flat faces, such as would disgrace a screen,

Such as in Bantam's embassy were seen,

Unraised, unrounded, were the rude delight

Of brutal nations only born to fight.

Long time, the sister arts, in iron sleep,

A heavy sabbath did supinely keep:

At length, in Raphael's age, at once they rise,

Stretch all their limbs, and open all their eyes.

Thence rose the Roman, and the Lombard line:

One colour'd best, and one did best design.

Raphael's, like Homer's, was the nobler part,

But Titian's painting look'd like Virgil's art.

Thy genius gives thee both; where true design,

Postures unforced, and lively colours join.

Likeness is ever there; but still the best,

Like proper thoughts in lofty language dress'd:

Where light, to shades descending, plays, not strives,

Dies by degrees, and by degrees revives.

Of various parts a perfect whole is wrought:

Thy pictures think, and we divine their thought.

Shakspeare, thy gift, I place before my sight;

With awe, I ask his blessing ere I write;

With reverence look on his majestic face;

Proud to be less, but of his godlike race.

His soul inspires me, while thy praise I write,

And I, like Teucer, under Ajax fight:

Bids thee, through me, be bold; with dauntless breast

Contemn the bad, and emulate the best.

Like his, thy critics in the attempt are lost:

When most they rail, know then, they envy most.

In vain they snarl aloof; a noisy crowd,

Like women's anger, impotent and loud.

While they their barren industry deplore,

Pass on secure, and mind the goal before.

Old as she is, my Muse shall march behind,

Bear off the blast, and intercept the wind.

Our arts are sisters, though not twins in birth;

For hymns were sung in Eden's happy earth:

But oh! the painter Muse, though last in place,

Has seized the blessing first, like Jacob's race.

Apelles' art an Alexander found;

And Raphael did with Leo's gold abound;

But Homer was with barren laurel crown'd.

Thou hadst thy Charles a while, and so had I;

But pass we that unpleasing image by.

Rich in thyself, and of thyself divine,

All pilgrims come and offer at thy shrine.

A graceful truth thy pencil can command;

The fair themselves go mended from thy hand.

Likeness appears in every lineament;

But likeness in thy work is eloquent.

Though nature there her true resemblance bears,

A nobler beauty in thy peace appears.

So warm thy work, so glows the generous frame,

Flesh looks less living in the lovely dame.

Thou paint'st as we describe, improving still,

When on wild nature we ingraft our skill;

But not creating beauties at our will.

But poets are confined in narrower space,

To speak the language of their native place:

The painter widely stretches his command;

Thy pencil speaks the tongue of every land.

From hence, my friend, all climates are your own,

Nor can you forfeit, for you hold of none.

All nations all immunities will give

To make you theirs, where'er you please to live;

And not seven cities, but the world would strive.

Sure some propitious planet, then, did smile,

When first you were conducted to this isle:

Our genius brought you here to enlarge our fame;

For your good stars are everywhere the same.

Thy matchless hand, of every region free,

Adopts our climate, not our climate thee.

Great Rome and Venice early did impart

To thee the examples of their wondrous art.

Those masters then, but seen, not understood,

With generous emulation fired thy blood:

For what in nature's dawn the child admired,

The youth endeavour'd, and the man acquired.

If yet thou hast not reach'd their high degree,

'Tis only wanting to this age, not thee.

Thy genius, bounded by the times, like mine,

Drudges on petty draughts, nor dare design

A more exalted work, and more divine.

For what a song, or senseless opera

Is to the living labour of a play;

Or what a play to Virgil's work would be,

Such is a single piece to history.

But we, who life bestow, ourselves must live:

Kings cannot reign, unless their subjects give;

And they who pay the taxes, bear the rule:

Thus thou, sometimes, art forced to draw a fool:

But so his follies in thy posture sink,

The senseless idiot seems at last to think.

Good heaven! that sots and knaves should be so vain,

To wish their vile resemblance may remain!

And stand recorded, at their own request,

To future days, a libel or a jest!

Else should we see your noble pencil trace

Our unities of action, time, and place:

A whole composed of parts, and those the best,

With every various character express'd;

Heroes at large, and at a nearer view,

Less, and at distance, an ignobler crew.

While all the figures in one action join,

As tending to complete the main design.

More cannot be by mortal art express'd;

But venerable age shall add the rest:

For time shall with his ready pencil stand;

Retouch your fingers with his ripening hand;

Mellow your colours, and embrown the tint;

Add every grace, which time alone can grant;

To future ages shall your fame convey,

And give more beauties than he takes away.