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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE PROGRESS OF ART by THOMAS HOOD

Poet Analysis

First Line: O HAPPY TIME! ART'S EARLY DAYS!
Last Line: AS NOTHING TO THE YOUNG!
Subject(s): ART & ARTISTS; PAINTINGS & PAINTERS; REMBRANDT HARMENSZ VAN RIIJ (1606-1669); YOUTH;
I.

O HAPPY time! Art's early days!
When o'er each deed, with sweet self-praise,
Narcissus-like I hung!
When great Rembrandt but little seem'd,
And such Old Masters all were deem'd
As nothing to the young!

II.

Some scratchy strokes -- abrupt and few,
So easily and swift I drew,
Sufficed for my design;
My sketchy, superficial hand,
Drew solids at a dash -- and spann'd
A surface with a line.

III.

Not long my eye was thus content,
But grew more critical -- my bent
Essay'd a higher walk;
I copied leaden eyes in lead --
Rheumatic hands in white and red,
And gouty feet -- in chalk.

IV.

Anon my studious art for days
Kept making faces -- happy phrase,
For faces such as mine!
Accomplish'd in the details then,
I left the minor parts of men,
And drew the form divine.

V.

Old Gods and Heroes -- Trojan -- Greek,
Figures -- long after the antique,
Great Ajax justly fear'd;
Hectors, of whom at night I dreamt,
And Nestor, fringed enough to tempt
Bird-nesters to his beard.

VI.

A Bacchus, leering on a bowl,
A Pallas, that out-stared her owl,
A Vulcan -- very lame,
A Dian stuck about with stars,
With my right hand I murder'd Mars --
(One Williams did the same.)

VII.

But tired of this dry work at last,
Crayon and chalk aside I cast,
And gave my brush a drink!
Dipping -- "as when a painter dips
In gloom of earthquake and eclipse," --
That is -- in Indian ink.

VIII.

Oh then, what black Mont Blancs arose,
Crested with soot, and not with snows:
What clouds of dingy hue!
In spite of what the bard has penn'd,
I fear the distance did not "lend
Enchantment to the view."

IX.

Not Radclyffe's brush did e'er design
Black Forests, half so black as mine,
Or lakes so like a pall;
The Chinese cake dispers'd a ray
Of darkness, like the light of Day
And Martin over all.

X.

Yet urchin pride sustain'd me still,
I gaz'd on all with right good will,
And spread the dingy tint;
"No holy Luke help'd me to paint,
The devil surely, not a Saint,
Had any finger in't!"

XI.

But colours came! -- like morning light,
With gorgeous hues displacing night,
Or Spring's enliven'd scene:
At once the sable shades withdrew;
My skies got very, very blue;
My trees extremely green.

XII.

And wash'd by my cosmetic brush,
How Beauty's cheek began to blush
With lock of auburn stain --
(Not Goldsmith's Auburn) -- nut-brown hair,
That made her loveliest of the fair;
Not "loveliest of the plain!"

XIII.

Her lips were of vermilion hue;
Love in her eyes, and Prussian blue,
Set all my heart in flame
A young Pygmalion, I ador'd
The maids I made -- but time was stor'd
With evil -- and it came!

XIV.

Perspective dawn'd -- and soon I saw
My houses stand against its law;
And "keeping" all unkept!
My beauties were no longer things
For love and fond imaginings;
But horrors to be wept!

XV.

Ah! why did knowledge ope my eyes?
Why did I get more artist-wise?
It only serves to hint,
What grave defects and wants are mine;
That I'm no Hilton in design --
In nature no Dewint!

XVI.

Thrice happy time! -- Art's early days!
When o'er each deed, with sweet self-praise,
Narcissus-like I hung!
When great Rembrandt but little seem'd,
And such Old Masters all were deem'd
As nothing to the young!



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