To Vandyck

Rare Artisan, whose pencil movesNot our delights alone, but loves!From thy shop of beauty weSlaves return, that enter'd free.The heedless lover does not knowWhose eyes they are that wound him so;But, confounded with thy art,Inquires her name that has his heart.Another, who did long refrain,Feels his old wound bleed fresh againWith dear remembrance of that face,Where now he reads new hope of grace:Nor scorn nor cruelty does find,But gladly suffers a false windTo blow the ashes of despairFrom the reviving brand of care.Fool! that forgets her stubborn lookThis softness from thy finger took.Strange! that thy hand should not inspireThe beauty only, but the fire;Not the form alone, and grace,But act and power of a face.Mayst thou yet thyself as well,As all the world besides, excel!So you th'unfeigned truth rehearse(That I may make it live in verse),Why thou couldst not at one assay,The face to aftertimes convey,Which this admires. Was it thy witTo make her oft before thee sit?Confess, and we'll forgive thee this;For who would not repeat that bliss,And frequent sight of such a dameBuy with the hazard of his fame?Yet who can tax thy blameless skill,Though thy good hand had failed still,When Nature's self so often errs?She for this many thousand yearsSeems to have practised with much care,To frame the race of women fair;Yet never could a perfect birthProduce before to grace the earth,Which waxèd old ere it could seeHer that amazed thy art and thee.But now 'tis done, oh, let me knowWhere those immortal colours grow,That could this deathless piece compose!In lilies? or the fading rose?No; for this theft thou hast climb'd higherThan did Prometheus for his fire.

'Vandyck': some think this refers to a picture of Saccharissa, byVandyck, in Hall-Barn.'Assay': attempt.