Classic Poem

Here's Muhrman with his landscapes of the Heath,
Gray skies above, poetic scenes beneath.
Why does he linger on the white chalk shores
Where the Pecksniffian Ruskinite adores
The musty " moral" tale, and counts as dross
All paint that does not preach or teach, or toss
A sop to virtue? Has he turned aside
By Happy Hampstead ever to abide?
One knows not, yet 't were well to name in rhyme
A pure pictorial painter of his time,
Whose landscapes with the solemn sorcery glow
That 's born of wistful sunsets fading slow.
The cockney " critics" rate him as a dunce,
And damn him as some did George Morland once;
Despite their damning and their ribald jeers,
The man 's an artist, honoured of his peers.