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THE NATIONAL PAINTING.24
wake! ye forms of verse divine;
Painting! descend on canvas wing,
And hover o’er my head, Design!
Your son, your glorious son, I sing!
At Trumbull’s name, I break my sloth,
To load him with poetic riches;
The Titian of a table-cloth!
The Guido of a pair of breeches!
Come, star-eyed maid, Equality!
In thine adorer’s praise I revel;
Who brings, so fierce his love to thee,
All forms and faces to a level:
Old, young, great, small, the grave, the gay,
Each man might swear the next his brother,
And there they stand in dread array,
To fire their votes at one another.
How bright their buttons shine! how straight
Their coat-flaps fall in plaited grace!
How smooth the hair on every pate!
How vacant each immortal face!
