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(Explanation of the Platc.)
What signifies the sculptor's fame,
Or glory of a painter's name!
All that an Angelo can give
Towards making the dull marble live,
Is, after many a year, at length
To clothe it with Herculean strength,
And show each muscle to the eye
In all its ponderous symmetry.
I scorn the art that merely traces,
By worn out rules, old-fashioned graces;
Or deals alone in tints to charm,
Though they were Titian's, rich and warm;
I know that I can do much more
Than artist ever did before;
With but a Dot and eke a Line,
In every shape and act I'll shine.
I want no muscles, no, not I,
To give my figures energy;
I want no colours to express
A female face; I want no dress
To fall before or gird around.

Their naked dames, let fools adore 'em,
And hang their curtains up before 'em:
My forins their every part reveal,
For they have nothing to conceal,
They show their all to every eye,
Nor wake the blush of modesty.

How gaily in the dance they meet,
Without the plague of hands or feet;
Without a finger, at their ease,
Give and return the tender squeeze:
You'll see them breathe without a lung,
And say soft things without a tongue:
Nay, feel the power of Cupid's dart,
Without that silly thing, a Heart.



As lordly topers they can shine,
Without a paunch to hold their wine;
Without a Skin, or Flesh, or Bone,
They do all that by man is done.

He's mad, the well bred artist cries,
These are impossibilities!

Mad as he is with all your pride,
Just turn your haughty eyes aside,
Unfold the page, and there you'll view
That all which I have told is true.

Then masters of all ages, yield,
And leave me master of the field:
Lick clean at once, your gaudy palettes,
And cease to drive your clattering mallets:
Go, hide your heads, while thus I shine
PROFESSOR of the Dot and Line!

Ackerman Ron


LOVE's wings were never made to soar,

Among the busy haunts of care;
Where Discord dwells he shuns the door,

For Love can find no music there.

Where Pleasure reigns, he passes by,

Or hovers fearful o'er the train, For if his bow be moisten’d there,

'Twill ne'er be strung aright again.

The rural cot, the shady grove,

The mossy bank, and silent glen, Are still the soft retreats of Love,

From malice far, and far from men.

The little urchin there can see,

His victims loitering as they go, Can mark in some the signs of glee,

In others mark the signs of wo.

To these he cries, “ Your moments short,

How wisely ye devote to joy, With sacred sweets ye idly sport,

How soon those plunder'd sweets will cloy."

To those “ I find my arrows here,

Have pierc'd the mark with surer aim; The wound is deep that draws a tear,

Weep on, weep on, it feeds the fame.”

How true the maxims time will prove,

When transient passion is decay'd; But oh! the tears of constant love Will ever be with bliss repaid.



Let not the yawning grave receive

The victim of Affection's pow'r, Without one pitying word's reprieve,

To sooth his last, his dying hour.

The puny love that seeks return,

Is selfish when compared with mine: I only ask that on my urn

My name may be inscribed with thine.

Canst thou so small a boon deny,

The slave of unrequitted love? Couldst thou, unmoved, behold me die,

Nor let me thy forgiveness prove?

Oh! no-thy soul of every grace,

Of every Virtue is the seat;
And Nature when she stamp'd thy face,

Proclaimed thee Pity's soft retreat.

Speak then the heav'nly word, “ Forgive,"

And life, unmurmuring, I resign;

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