Classic Poem

A brushman with hors concours to his name
May claim the profit of the portrait game.
This size , his paint seems " standing out" to say,
Ten thousand francs, and those who care to pay
Can have an honoured place upon the line,
And in full Salon brightly soar and shine.

In other words, the Artless, with the price,
May be embalmed in pigment cold as ice,
And, as a trader's bonus, have the right
To face for eight wild weeks the public sight,
Where they may take their wives and bid them see
True Worth exalted as it ought to be.

Let those who honour trickery as force,
And worship portraits if they " stand out" coarse,

Turn from these feeble fictions on the wall
To happy human faces in the hall,
And note how gray they are, how low of key,
In contrast with the pulseless paint they see.
Then will they marvel at the man who tries
With colour fictions to assault their eyes,
And portraits that " stand out" shall take their place
As vulgar produce shorn of saving grace.

A perfect portrait " stands within" its frame,
And at a depth behind it still the same
As was the distance from the model's face
To where the painter wrought in time and place.
The frame's the window or the open door
Thro' which the painter looks his model o'er,
And none but daubers, dead to art and pride,
Would drag the model on the hitherside.