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ture, painting could not object to share exclusion with her sister arts; but that as sculpture, and music, and painting are admitted, and as many of the highest authorities in the Church have expressed their approbation at such admission, your petitioner earnest ly hopes that your honourable house will not think it a subject over which you ought to have no control. That most of the historieal productions painted in this country, by which its reputation has been raised, have been executed, not as in Italy and Greece, in consequence of encouragement, but in spite of difficulties. That Barry painted the Adelphi for nothing; that Hogarth adorned the Foundling for nothing; that Reynolds offered to grace St. Paul's by his pencil, and yet was refused. That historical pictures the full size of life being inadmissible into private houses from the nature of their execution, and such pictures being the only ones that have given countries their fame, where art has flourished; as the leading authorities of those countries were always the patrons of such productions, and from the expense attendant on their execution could alone be so, your petitioner humbly hopes your honourable house will not think it beneath its dignity to interfere, and by a regular distribution of a small part of the public wealth, place historical painting and its professors on a level with those of the other departments of the arts.

"That your petitioner (if he may be permitted to allude to his own misfortunes), has devoted 19 years to the study of historical painting; that his productions have been visited by thousands in Eng

land and in Scotland; that he has received signs of regard and esti

mation from many of the most celebrated men in Europe; that the day after he was imprisoned, he was greeted by a distinguished honour from a foreign academy; but that historical pictures of the size of life being ill-adapted to private patronage, he has been overwhelmed by the immense ex pense of such undertakings. That he has been torn from his home and his studies; and all the materials of his art, collected with the greatest care from all parts of the world, the savings and accumula tion of his life, have been seized. That he is now in the King's bench, separated from his family and his habits of employment, and will have to begin life again, with his prospects blighted, and the means by which alone he could pursue his art, scattered and destroyed.

"That your petitioner prays you would take the situation of the art into your consideration, more es pecially at a time when large sums are expending upon the erection of new churches, a very inconsider able fraction of which would im prove those sacred edifices, and ef fectually rescue historical painting and its professors from their present state of discouragement. And he humbly prays you to ap point such a committee as investi gated the subject of the Elgin mar bles, to inquire into the state of en couragement of historical painting, and to ascertain the best method of preventing, by moderate and judicious patronage, those who devote their lives to such honour able pursuits, so essential (as your committee has affirmed) to science, literature, and art, from ending their days in prison and in dis grace. And your petitioner will

ever pray, &c. &c.

"B. R. HAYDON."

POETRY.

STYRIAN EVENING-HYMN TO THE VIRGIN.

From "A Tour in Germany and some of the Southern Provinces of the
Austrian Empire."

FADING, still fading, the last beam is shining;
Ave Maria! day is declining.

Safety and innocence fly with the light,

Temptation and danger walk forth with the night;

From the fall of the shade, till the matin shall chime,
Shield us from danger, and save us from crime.
Ave Maria! audi nos.

Ave Maria! hear when we call,

Mother of him, who is brother of all:

Feeble and failing, we trust in thy might;

In doubting and darkness, thy love be our light;

Let us sleep on thy breast, while the night-taper burns,
And wake in thine arms, when the morning returns.
Ave Maria! audi nos.

HOPE AND MEMORY.

From Joanna Baillie's Collection of Poems.

HOPE.

NAY, sister, what hast thou to boast
Of joy a poor reciter thou,

Whose happiest thought is but the ghost
Of some past pleasure vanish'd now.
When better things may not be found,
By sad reflecting, weary men,
They on thy records look around,
Their only friend, and only then.

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Soon as the hop'd-for thing appears,
That was with such delight pursued,
Another aspect then it wears,

And is no more the fancied good.
So 'tis in dreams, men keenly chase
A something lov'd, desir'd, caress'd;
They overtake, and then embrace

That which they loathe, despise, detest.

True, sister, true! in every age
Will men in thy delusions share;
And thou a lasting war wilt wage

With Wisdom's joy and Reason's care.
Who comes to thee? the rash, the bold,
The dreaming bard, the sighing youth:
For what? for fame, for love, for gold,
And they receive thy tales for truth.

Emmas and Lauras at thy shrine
Attend, and deem thy answers true,
And, calling Hope a power divine,
Their Corydons and Damons view.
And girls at school and boys at taw,
Seduced by thy delusive skill,

Think life is love, and love is law,

And they may choose just whom they will.

HOPE.

Say is not mine the early hold

On man? whose heart I make my own

And, long e'er thy dull tale be told,
I bear him forth to worlds unknown.
Before the mind can trust to thee,

And slowly gain thy heavy store,
It travels far and wide with me,

My worlds and wonders to explore.

Thou lend'st him help, to read, to spell,
His progress slow, his efforts mean:
I take him in my realms to dwell,

To win a throne, to wed a queen.
How could he bear the pedant's frown,
That frights the sad bewilder'd boy,
Or hear such words as verb and noun,
But for my tales of love and joy?

MEMORY.

True, to thy fairy world he goes,
And there his terms he idly keeps,
Till Truth breaks in on his repose,
And then for past neglect he weeps.
What, if we grant the heart is thine
Of rash and unreflecting youth,
How is it in his life's decline,

When truth is heard and only truth? ·

On me the quiet few rely,

For Memory's store is certain gain; For aid to thee the wretched fly,

The poor resource of grief and pain. My friends like lawful traders deal With just accounts, with real views;

But thine as losing gamesters feel,

Who stake the more the more they lose.

HOPE.

And they are right, for thus employ❜d
They fall not to disease a prey;
Thus every moment is enjoy'd,

And 'tis a cheerful game they play.
And tell me not they lose at last;
Such loss is light, such care is vain,
For if they hope till life be past,

What hours for care or grief remain.

You say the rash, the young, the bold, Are mine, and mine they are, 'tis true;

But, sister, art thou sure the old

And grave are not my subjects too?

Struck by the palsy's powerful blow,
By the hir'd hands of servants led,
Cold, tottering, impotent, and slow,
Borne to the board, and to the bed,
Hear how the ancient trembler prays,
Smit with the love of lingering here!
"Hold yet my thread, flow on my days,
"Nor let the last sad morn appear !"

The sage physician feels my aid
Most when he knows not what to do:
I whisper then, "Be not afraid,
For I inspire thy patient too."

MEMORY.

Vain of thy victories, thus misled
Thy power I own; alas! I fear,
It is this syren song I dread

Which wretches long and die to hear.
No ears are stopt, no limbs are bound,
Impatient to thy coast they fly,

And soon as heard thy witching sound,
They rest, they sleep, they dream, they die.

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