BY HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

Mighty magician! who on Torneo's brow, When sullen tempests wrap the throne of night, Art wont to sit and catch the gleam of light, That shoots athwart the gloom opaque below, And listen to the distant death-shriek long, From lonely mariner foundering in the deep, Which rises slowly up the rocky steep, While weird sisters weave the horrid song: Or when along the liquid sky Serenely chant the orbs on high, Dost love to sit in musing trance, And mark the northern meteor's dance; (While far below the fitful oar Flings its faint pauses on the steepy sh.o.r.e,) And list the music of the breeze, That sweeps by fits the bending seas; And often bears with sudden swell The shipwreck'd sailor's funeral knell, By the spirits sung, who keep Their night-watch on the treacherous deep, And guide the wakeful helms-man's eye To Helice in northern sky, And there, upon the rock inclined, With mighty visions fill'st the mind, Such as bound, in magic spell, Him[75] who grasp'd the gates of h.e.l.l, And bursting Pluto's dark domain, Held to the day the terrors of his reign.

Genius of horror and romantic awe, Whose eye explores the secrets of the deep, Whose power can bid the rebel fluids creep, Can force the inmost soul to own its law; Who shall now, sublimest spirit, Who shall now thy wand inherit, From him,[76] thy darling child, who best Thy shuddering images express'd?

Sullen of soul, and stern, and proud, His gloomy spirit spurn'd the crowd; And now he lays his aching head In the dark mansion of the silent dead.

Mighty magician! long thy wand has lain Buried beneath the unfathomable deep; And, oh! for ever must its efforts sleep, May none the mystic sceptre e'er regain?

Oh, yes, 'tis his!--thy other son; He throws thy dark-wrought tunic on, Fuesslin waves thy wand,--again they rise, Again thy wildering forms salute our ravish'd eyes; Him didst thou cradle on the dizzy steep, Where round his head the volley'd lightnings flung, And the loud winds that round his pillow rung, Woo'd the stern infant to the arms of Sleep, Or on the highest top of Teneriffe Seated the fearless boy, and bade him look Where far below the weather-beaten skiff On the gulf-bottom of the ocean strook.

Thou mark'dst him drink with ruthless ear The death-sob, and, disdaining rest, Thou saw'st how danger fired his breast, And in his young hand couch'd the visionary spear.

Then, Superst.i.tion, at thy call, She bore the boy to Odin's Hall, And set before his awe-struck sight The savage feast and spectred fight; And summon'd from the mountain tomb The ghastly warrior son of gloom, His fabled Runic rhymes to sing, While fierce Hresvelger flapp'd his wing; Thou show'dst the trains the shepherd sees, Laid on the stormy Hebrides, Which on the mists of evening gleam, Or crowd the foaming desert stream; Lastly, her storied hand she waves, And lays him in Florentian caves; There milder fables, lovelier themes Enwrap his soul in heavenly dreams; There Pity's lute arrests his ear, And draws the half-reluctant tear; And now at noon of night he roves Along th' embowering moon-light groves, And as from many a cavern'd dell The hollow wind is heard to swell, He thinks some troubled spirit sighs; And as upon the turf he lies, Where sleeps the silent beam of night, He sees below the gliding sprite, And hears in Fancy's organs sound Aerial music warbling round.

Taste lastly comes, and smooths the whole, And breathes her polish o'er his soul; Glowing with wild, yet chasten'd heat, The wonderous work is now complete.

The Poet dreams:--the shadow flies, And fainting fast its image dies.

But lo! the Painter's magic force Arrests the phantom's fleeting course; It lives--it lives--the canva.s.s glows, And tenfold vigour o'er it flows.

The Bard beholds the work achieved, And as he sees the shadow rise, Sublime before his wondering eyes, Starts at the image his own mind conceived.

H. K. White.

The following verses were sent to me anonymously, by the post; as they shew the author to be well acquainted with the works of Mr. Fuseli, I trust the reader will think with me, there needs no apology for inserting them in this place. It is conjectured that they are from the pen of a young lady, who is alike distinguished for personal attractions and amiability, as for her taste and knowledge; the daughter of a gentleman who has been frequently mentioned in this Memoir.

A VISION.

Last night I sunk to sleep's soft power resign'd, When wizard Fancy's wand, before my mind, Conjur'd in dreams a visionary shew, That seem'd with vivid Truth's warm tints to glow.

By young Favonius' fragrant pinions fann'd, 5 Amidst Elysian groves I seem'd to stand; Here, when th' immortal spirit quits its clay, The sons of Genius dwell in endless day: Not they who empires founded, or o'erthrew, Who conquer'd worlds, or who discover'd new; 10 Not Philip's headlong son, not Scipio's foe, Nor Julius, guilty of his country's woe; In these fair fields the scourges of mankind Reap'd not the meed to virtuous fame a.s.sign'd.

Here Music sweeps her lyre; her heav'nly lay 15 The Pa.s.sions hear, enraptur'd, and obey: Here dwells th' immortal Virgin Poesy, A n.o.ble wildness flashing in her eye; Inspired Bards around the G.o.ddess throng, And catch the accents flowing from her tongue. 20 Entranced, whilst gazing on the blissful scene, I mark'd a Deity of matchless mien, Her port majestic, in each motion grace, Fairer she shone than nymphs of mortal race: I recognis'd the Sov'reign of that art, 25 Which through the eye finds entrance to the heart; Plac'd on an eminence, she sat alone, Below her vot'ries press'd around her throne.

Great Vinci first, with greater Angelo, Sublime expression frowning on his brow, 30 Led on the daring Tuscan band severe: Next Raphael with calm dignity drew near, Who join'd to grand conception just design, Conducting the majestic Roman line; Then t.i.tian with a gay and brilliant throng, 35 Sprung from the sea-born city, mov'd along; Corregio in succession next pa.s.s'd by, Leading the graceful School of Lombardy.

A genius vast, original, and bold, The numerous band of Holland's sons controll'd; 40 And with his Flemish train, of pomp profuse, The gorgeous Rubens dazzled e'en the Muse.

In order due arranged on either hand, Beside the silent Queen they take their stand; Before whose throne Helvetia stood, to claim 45 For an aspiring votary of Fame Admittance to these realms:--"O Muse," she cried, "The Master's works contemplate, and decide."

While speaking thus, her wand on high she rear'd, And lo! a train of pictur'd groups appear'd; 50 Heroic phantoms seem'd to start from night, And forms of beauty floated 'fore my sight; From ages past reflected scenes arose, Of human pa.s.sions, and eternal woes.

There I beheld pourtray'd the lofty story 55 Of Man's first fall, and Satan's tarnish'd glory.

There rose the spectre Prophet from the tomb, To Saul announcing his impending doom.

Of Ilion's tale a vision seem'd to speak, And the long wand'rings of the prudent Greek. 60 There Eriphyle bleeds upon the ground, While Furies fly t' avenge the impious wound.

In horror plunged, deplor'd Jocasta's son The fated crimes he strove in vain to shun.

Here stalk'd the shadow of the murder'd Dane; 65 Appall'd, methought I saw th' astonish'd Thane Hail'd by each wither'd hag;--From h.e.l.le's tide Th' enamour'd youth rush'd to his Sestian bride.

There, lost to hope, the lovers mourn for ever!

Whom not th' infernal whirlwind's rage can sever. 70 The traitor Guelph, too, 'midst his famish'd brood, Expects in Death th' eternal feast of blood.

In knightly guise th' heroic Virgin's arm Redeems fair Amoret from magic charm: And Arthur slept; who woke but to deplore 75 The Beauty lov'd for ever, seen no more.

On the aerial portraiture, amaz'd, In pleasing wonder lost, intent I gaz'd; As Sorrow, Guilt, Despair, the scenes express'd, Awe, Terror, Pity, sway'd by turns my breast; 80 When, suddenly, I saw the heaven-born Maid Of sacred numbers, from a neighbouring glade, 'Midst the great masters of immortal song, Toward the throne of Painting move along.

Now blind no more Maeonides, and he, 85 The daring Bard of Man's apostasy, With buskin'd Sophocles, and lofty Gray, Spenser, sweet master of the moral lay; Severely grand, the Florentine sublime, And Avon's Bard, unmatch'd by age or clime, 90 All crowd the visionary scenes t' admire, Pleas'd that such scenes their genius could inspire.

While onward the poetic Virgin press'd, And her who reign'd o'er Painting, thus address'd:-- "O Muse! who charmest silently, attend 95 To Poesy, thy Sister, and thy friend.

No vot'ry of that art o'er which you reign, The n.o.bler walks could ever yet attain, Unless I urged him proudly to aspire, And kindled in his breast poetic fire. 100 Belgia, without my aid, may tint the scene With golden hues, and mimic Nature's green; Immortalize the Peasant and his can, Without selection, imitating Man; Or through transparent veins life's tide may gush, 105 Tinging Venetian canva.s.s with the blush Of glowing Nature; uninspir'd by me, The Rose of Merian may deceive the bee; At Rembrandt's touch the shining robe may flow, The diamond sparkle, or the ruby glow; 110 But he whom I inspire disdains such praise; The soul's emotions, ardent, he displays; Fearless he wields Invention's magic wand, Sprites, fays, and spectres rise at his command; Unveil'd, the Pa.s.sions at his will appear, 115 E'en Heavenly essences he dares t' unsphere; As, from Promethean touch each image glows, And what the Poet thought the Painter shews.

While 'midst Helvetia's native hills, before This foster-son of Britain sought her sh.o.r.e, 120 I mark'd the future promise in the child; The fire of genius, vigorous, and wild, Sparkled in infancy, in manhood blaz'd; You won his youthful fancy, as he gaz'd, Th' enthusiast strove your favour to attain, 125 And I propitious, smil'd, and pointed to your Fane.

On Leban's brow the cedar tow'ring high Boasts not the lowly flow'ret's gaudy dye; Others may in the humbler parts excel, But, Queen, did ever artist think so well? 130 Is not the highest merit of your art, T' exalt the fancy, and to touch the heart?

Then welcome the poetic Painter, Muse, Nor to my fav'rite deathless fame refuse!"

She ceased; nor vainly pled the Heavenly fair; 135 Th' a.s.senting Muse approv'd her sister's prayer: "Enter these realms," she cried; "th' award be thine, Amidst the sons of Genius here to shine, Where Envy's tongue no longer shall prevail: Hail Fuseli! Immortal artist, hail!" 140 Resounding acclamations, as she spoke, Burst on my ear, I started, and awoke.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Those who may be curious to see Fuseli's early style in German, may consult the Life of Chevalier Hudlinger, in the preface to the translation of "Mengs' thoughts on Beauty;" and also a letter "from Switzerland to Winkelmann;" both of which were written by him without alteration, although they bear his father's signature.

[2] At this time, Rosel's "Insects' Banquet" was his favourite study.

[3] The public are indebted for many of the particulars of Fuseli's early life to this gentleman, who died in 1816, and was a canon of Zurich.

[4] Fuseli ever considered Richardson a man of great genius, and one who had a key to the human heart, and was very indignant, in the latter period of his life, with a gentleman who spoke contemptuously of Clarissa Harlowe. This person said in his presence, "No one now reads the works of Richardson." "Do they not?" said Fuseli, "then by G----d they ought. If people are now tired of old novels, I should be glad to know your criterion of books. If Richardson is old, Homer is obsolete.

Clarissa, to me, is pathetic--is exquisite; I never read it without crying like a child."

[5] "The Frank Intelligencer."

[6] The late Mr. Henry Fuessli, of Zurich, from whom the writer has received much information. Just as this Memoir was completed, this gentleman closed his mortal career. He died on the 1st of May, 1829, in his seventy-fifth year. Mr. Fuessli was a landscape painter, and held the honourable situation of President of the Society of Artists at Zurich. He had been labouring for some years under occasional attacks of asthma, and died therefrom much regretted.

[7] Mrs. Fuseli died at Zurich, 11 April, 1759, aged 44 years. She was a woman of a most amiable disposition, and respected by all who knew her.

[8] "Do but the seventh part of what thou canst."

[9] This charter, however, was never granted; the artists received the patronage of the King, and were by his command a.s.sociated under the t.i.tle of "The Royal Academy." Among its early members we find the names of Sir Joshua Reynolds, Gainsborough, and Wilson, who for talent in the several departments of the art in which they practised, have rendered their names immortal.

[10] Fuseli wrote in pencil, under this figure, "Fuseli amor mio."--Mr.

Ottley saw this still remaining in the year 1792, when he was at Bologna, and added "anche amor mio."--W. Y. Ottley.

[11] This was a satirical drawing of the Painters in England at that time.

[12] Doctor Armstrong died in September 1779.

[13] Mr. Fuessli died at Zurich the 6th of May, 1781.

[14] I beg here to acknowledge my grat.i.tude to Mr. Roscoe for having allowed me to peruse the letters which he had received from Fuseli during a period of more than forty years, from which I have gleaned much useful information, and have only to regret, I am sure, in common with every reader of this memoir, that he did not accede to my wishes of being the biographer of his friend.

[15] The omissions in this and the succeeding letter, where asterisks are placed, relate only to the names of subscribers to the translation of Homer.

[16] Samuel Johnson.

[17] ??d?as? p??a???s? f???? ?a? ???a fe???sa??

Iliad, iii. v. 6.

[18] ??? a??' ??ta??d?? ???' ?s???, ???a?? ??d???

?s??? ??ta??d??.---- Iliad, ii. v. 837-8.

[19] Iliad, v. v. 722-31.