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AT last she calls to mind where hangs a piece | |
| Of skilful painting, made for Priam’s Troy; | |
| Before the which is drawn the power of Greece, | |
| For Helen’s rape the city to destroy, | |
| Threatening cloud-kissing Ilion with annoy; | 5 |
| Which the conceited painter drew so proud, | |
| As heaven (it seemed) to kiss the turrets bow’d. | |
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| A thousand lamentable objects there, | |
| In scorn of nature, art gave lifeless life: | |
| Many a dry drop seem’d a weeping tear, | 10 |
| Shed for the slaughter’d husband by the wife: | |
| The red blood reek’d, to shew the painter’s strife; | |
| And dying eyes gleam’d forth their ashy lights, | |
| Like dying coals burnt out in tedious nights. | |
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| There might you see the labouring pioneer | 15 |
| Begrim’d with sweat, and smeared all with dust; | |
| And from the towers of Troy there would appear | |
| The very eyes of men through loop-holes thrust, | |
| Gazing upon the Greeks with little lust: | |
| Such sweet observance in this work was had, | 20 |
| That one might see those far-off eyes look sad. | |
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| In great commanders grace and majesty | |
| You might behold triumphing in their faces; | |
| In youth, quick bearing and dexterity; | |
| And here and there the painter interlaces | 25 |
| Pale cowards, marching on with trembling paces; | |
| Which heartless peasants did so well resemble, | |
| That one would swear he saw them quake and tremble. | |
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| In Ajax and Ulysses, O, what art | |
| Of physiognomy might one behold! | 30 |
| The face of either ’cipher’d either’s heart; | |
| Their face their manners most expressly told: | |
| In Ajax’ eyes blunt rage and rigour roll’d; | |
| But the mild glance that sly Ulysses lent | |
| Shewed deep regard and smiling government. | 35 |
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| There pleading might you see grave Nestor stand, | |
| As ’t were encouraging the Greeks to fight; | |
| Making such sober action with his hand, | |
| That it beguiled attention, charm’d the sight; | |
| In speech, it seem’d, his beard, all silver white, | 40 |
| Wagg’d up and down, and from his lips did fly | |
| Thin winding breath, which purl’d up to the sky. | |
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| About him were a press of gaping faces, | |
| Which seem’d to swallow up his sound advice; | |
| All jointly listening, but with several graces, | 45 |
| As if some mermaid did their ears entice; | |
| Some high, some low; the painter was so nice, | |
| The scalps of many, almost hid behind, | |
| To jump up higher seem’d to mock the mind. | |
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| Here one man’s hand lean’d on another’s head, | 50 |
| His nose being shadow’d by his neighbour’s ear; | |
| Here one, being throng’d, bears back, all boll’n and red; | |
| Another, smother’d, seems to pelt and swear; | |
| And in their rage such signs of rage they bear, | |
| As, but for loss of Nestor’s golden words, | 55 |
| It seem’d they would debate with angry swords. | |
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| For much imaginary work was there; | |
| Conceit deceitful, so compact, so kind, | |
| That for Achilles’ image stood his spear, | |
| Griped in an armed hand; himself, behind, | 60 |
| Was left unseen, save to the eye of mind: | |
| A hand, a foot, a face, a leg, a head, | |
| Stood for the whole to be imagined. | |
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| And from the walls of strong-besieged Troy | |
| When their brave hope, bold Hector, march’d to field, | 65 |
| Stood many Trojan mothers, sharing joy | |
| To see their youthful sons bright weapons wield; | |
| And to their hope they such odd action yield, | |
| That, through their light joy, seemed to appear | |
| (Like bright things stain’d) a kind of heavy fear. | 70 |
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| And, from the strond of Dardan where they fought, | |
| To Simois’ reedy banks the red blood ran, | |
| Whose waves to imitate the battle sought | |
| With swelling ridges; and their ranks began | |
| To break upon the galled shore, and then | 75 |
| Retire again, till meeting greater ranks | |
| They join, and shoot their foam at Simois’ banks. | |
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