To mimic Nature s surface. I name not
The servile copyists of the greater masters,
Or of th archangels, Raphael and Michael;
But such as paint our cheap and daily marvels.
Sometimes I fear lest they degrade our art
To a nice craft for plodding artisans
Mere realism, which they mistake for truth.
My soul rejects such limits. The true artist
Gives Nature s best effects with far less means.
Plain black and white suffice him to express
A finer grace, a stronger energy
Than she attains with all the aid of color.
I argue thus and work with simple tools,
Like the Greek fathers of our art the sculptors,
Who wrought in white alone their matchless types.
Then dazzled by the living bloom of earth,
Glowing with color, I return to that,
My earliest worship, and compose such work
As you see there. {Pointing to the picture.
DON JOHN.
Would it be overmuch,
In my brief stay in Naples, to beg of you
A portrait of myself in aqua-fortis?
T would rob you, sir, of fewer golden hours
Than the full-colored canvas, and enrich
With a new treasure our royal gallery.
