Enough! the frighted Painter cried,
And hung his head in fallen pride.

Not so the other.  He, of stuff
More stubborn, ne’er would cry enough;
But like a soundly cudgell’d oak,
More sturdy grew at every stroke,
And thus again his ready tongue
With fluent logick would have rung: 
My Lord, I’ll prove, or I’m a liar—­
Whom interrupting then with ire,
Thus check’d the Judge:  Oh, proud yet mean! 
And canst thou hope from me to screen
Thy foolish heart, and o’er it spread
A veil to cheat th’ omniscient dead? 
And canst thou hope, as once on Earth,
Applause to gain by specious worth;
Like those that still by sneer and taunt
Would prove pernicious what they want;
And claim the mastership of Art,
Because thou only know’st a part?

Had’st thou from Nature, not the Schools
Distorted by pedantic rules,
With patience wrought, such logic vain
Had ne’er perverted thus thy brain: 
For Genius never gave delight
By means of what offends the sight: 
Nor hadst thou deem’d, with folly mad,
Thou could’st to Nature’s beauties add,
By taking from her that which gives
The best assurance that she lives;
By imperfection give attraction,
And multiply them by subtraction.

Did Raffaelle thus, whose honour’d ghost
Is now Elysium’s fairest boast? 
Far diff’rent He.  Though weak and lame
In parts that gave to others fame,
Yet sought not he by such defect
To swindle praise for wise neglect
Of vulgar charms, that only blind
The dazzled eye to those of Mind. 
By Heaven impressed with Genius’ seal,
An eye to see, and heart to feel,
His soul through boundless Nature rov’d,
And seeing felt, and feeling lov’d. 
But weak the power of mind at will
To give the hand the painter’s skill;
For mortal works, maturing slow,
From patient care and labour flow: 
And hence restrain’d, his youthful hand
Obey’d a master’s dull command;
But soon with health his sickly style
From Leonardo learn’d to smile;
And now from Bonarroti caught
A nobler Form; and now it sought
Of colour fair the magic spell,
And trac’d her to the Friar’s[6] cell. 
No foolish pride, no narrow rule
Enslav’d his soul; from every School,
Whatever fair, whatever grand,
His pencil, like a potent wand,
Transfusing, bade his canvass grace. 
Progressive thus, with giant pace. 
And energy no toil could tame,
He climb’d the rugged mount of Fame: 
And soon had reach’d the summit bold,
When Death, who there delights to hold
His fatal watch, with envious blow
Quick hurl’d him to the shades below.