Verses on Sir Joshua Reynolds's Painted Window at New-College Oxford

AH, stay thy treacherous hand, forbear to trace

Those faultless forms of elegance and grace!

Ah, cease to spread the bright transparent mass,

With Titian's pencil, o'er the speaking glass!

Nor steal, by strokes of art with truth combin'd,

The fond illusions of my wayward mind!

For long, enamour'd of a barbarous age,

A faithless truant to the classic page;

Long have I lov'd to catch the simple chime

Of minstrel-harps, and spell the fabling rime;

To view the festive rites, the knightly play,

That decks heroic Albion's elder day;

To mark the mouldering halls of barons bold,

And the rough castle, cast in giant-mould;

With Gothic manners Gothic arts explore,

And muse on the magnificence of yore.

But chief, enraptur'd have I lov'd to roam,

A lingering votary, the vaulted dome,

Where the tall shafts, that mount in massy pride,

Their mingling branches shoot from side to side;

Where elfin sculptors, with fantastic clew,

Oer the long roof their wild embroidery drew;

Where Superstition, with capricious hand

In many a maze the wreathed window plann'd,

With hues romantic ting'd the gorgeous pane,

To fill with holy light the wonderous fane;

To aid the builder's model, richly rude,

By no Vitruvian symmetry subdued;

To suit the genius of the mystic pile:

Whilst as around the far-retiring aisle,

And fretted shrines with hoary trophies hung,

Her dark illumination wide she flung,

With new solemnity, the nooks profound,

The caves of death, and the dim arches frown'd.

From bliss long felt unwillingly we part:

Ah, spare the weakness of a lover's heart!

Chase not the phantoms of my fairy dream,

Phantoms that shrink at Reason's painful gleam!

That softer touch, insidious artist, stay,

Nor to new joys my struggling breast betray!

Such was a pensive bard's mistaken train.--

But, oh, of ravish'd pleasures why complain?

No more the matchless skill I call unkind

That strives to disenchant my cheated mind.

For when again I view thy chaste Design,

The just proportion, and the genuin line;

Those native pourtraitures of Attic art,

That from the lucid surface seem to start;

Those tints, that steal no glories from the day,

Nor ask the sun to lend his streaming ray;

The doubtful radiance of contending dies,

That faintly mingle, yet distinctly rise;

Twixt light and shade the transitory strife;

The feature blooming with immortal life:

The stole in casual foldings taught to flow,

Not with ambitious ornamnents to glow;

The tread majestic, and the beaming eye

That lifted speaks its commerce with the sky:

Heaven's golden emanation, gleaming mild

Oer the mean cradle of the virgin's child:

Sudden, the sombrous imagery is fled,

Which late my visionary rapture fed:

Thy powerful hand has broke the Gothic chain,

And brought my bosom back to truth again:

To truth, by no peculiar taste confin'd,

Whose universal pattern strikes mankind;

To truth, whose bold and unresisted aim

Checks frail caprice, and fashion's fickle claim;

To truth, whose charms deceptions's magic quell,

And bind coy Fancy in a stronger spell.

Ye brawny Prophets, that in robes so rich,

At distance due, possess the crisped nich;

Ye rows of Patriarchs, that sublimely rear'd,

Diffuse a proud primeval length of beard:

Ye Saints, who clad in crimson's bright array,

More pride than humble poverty display:

Ye Virgins meek, that wear the palmy crown

Of patient faith, and yet so fiercely frown:

Ye Angels, that from clouds of gold recline,

But boast no semblance to a race divine:

Ye tragic tales of legendary lore,

That draw devotion's ready tear no more:

Ye martyrdoms of unenlighten'd days,

Ye miracles, that now no wonder raise:

Shapes, that with one broad glare the gazer strike,

Kings, Bishops, Nuns, Apostles, all alike!

Ye colours, that th' unwary sight amaze,

And only dazzle in the noontide blaze!

No more the sacred window's round disgrace,

But yield to Grecian groups the shining space.

Lo, from the canvas Beauty shifts her throne,

Lo, Picture's powers a new formation own!

Behold, she prints upon the crystal plain,

With her own energy, th' expressive stain!

The mighty Master spreads his mimic toil

More wide, nor only blends the breathing oil;

But calls the lineaments of life compleat

From genial alchymy's creative heat;

Obedient forms to the bright fusion gives,

While in the warm enamel Nature lives.

Reynolds, tis thine, from the broad window's height,

To add new lusture to religious light:

Not of its pomp to strip this antient shrine,

But bid that pomp with purer radiance shine:

With arts unknown before, to reconcile

The willing Graces to the Gothic pile.

Thomas Warton

Ode to Sleep

ON this my pensive pillow, gentle Sleep!

Descend, in all thy downy plumage drest:

Wipe with thy wing these eyes that wake to weep,

And place thy crown of poppies on my breast.

O steep my senses in oblivion's balm,

And sooth my throbbing pulse with lenient hand;

This tempest of my boiling blood becalm!

Despair grows mild at thy supreme command.

Yet ah! in vain, familiar with the gloom,

And sadly toiling through the tedious night,

I seek sweet slumber, while that virgin bloom,

For ever hovering, haunts my wretched sight.

Nor would the dawning day my sorrows charm:

Black midnight and the blaze of noon alike

To me appear, while with uplifted arm

Death stands prepar'd, but still delays, to strike.

Thomas Warton

Ode: Solitude at an Inn

          May 15th, 1769

OFT upon the twilight plain,

Circled with thy shadowy train,

While the dove at distance coo'd,

Have I met thee, Solitude!

Then was loneliness to me

Best and true society,

But ah! how alter'd is thy mien

In this sad deserted scene!

Here all thy classic pleasures cease,

Musing mild, and thoughtful peace;

Here thou com'st in sullen mood,

Not with thy fantastic brood

Of magic shapes and visions airy

Beckon'd from the land of Fairy:

'Mid the melancholy void

Not a pensive charm enjoy'd!

No poetic being here

Strikes with airy sounds mine ear;

No converse here to fancy cold

With many a fleeting form I hold,

Here all inelegant and rude

Thy presence is, sweet Solitude.

Thomas Warton

While Summer Suns O'er the Gay Prospect Play'd

WHILE summer suns o'er the gay prospect play'd,

Through Surrey's verdant scenes, where Epsom spread

'Mid intermingling elms her flowery meads,

And Hascombe's hill, in towering groves array'd,

Rear'd its romantic steep, with mind serene,

I journey'd blithe. Full pensive I return'd;

For now my breast with hopeless passion burn'd,

Wet with hoar mists appear'd the gaudy scene,

Which late in careless indolence I pass'd;

And Autumn all around those hues had cast

Where past delight my recent grief might trace.

Sad change, that Nature a congenial gloom

Should wear, when most, my cheerless mood to chase,

I wish'd her green attire, and wonted bloom!

Thomas Warton

On King Arthur's Round Table at Winchester

WHERE Venta's Norman castle still uprears

Its rafter'd hall, that o'er the grassy foss,

And scatter'd flinty fragments clad in moss,

On yonder steep in naked state appears;

High-hung remains, the pride of war-like years,

Old Arthur's board: on the capacious round

Some British pen has sketch'd the names renown'd,

In marks obscure, of his immortal peers.

Though join'd by magic skill, with many a rhyme,

The Druid frame, unhonour'd, falls a prey

To the slow vengeance of the wizard Time,

And fade the British characters away;

Yet Spenser's page, that chants in verse sublime

Those chiefs, shall live, unconscious of decay.

Thomas Warton