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!

THOSE EVENING BELLS.

Those evening bells, those evening bells,
How many a tale their music tells,—­
Of Yorkshire cakes and crumpets prime,
And letters only just in time!

The Muffin-boy has passed away,
The Postman gone—­and I must pay,
For down below Deaf Mary dwells,
And does not hear those Evening Bells.[40]

And so ’twill be when she is gone,
That tuneful peal will still ring on,
And other maids with timely yells
Forget to stay those Evening Bells.