Classic Poem

Galleries of art are thronged,
Yet this Painter still is wronged!
Many prize the pictures framed,
Catalogued and aptly named —
Praising all the mimic skies, —
But, outdoors they have no eyes!
Here is faultless painting truly,
Girt by hills that frame it duly;
Here is art that charms the eye —
Glorious, ever-changing sky.
And the painting has this in it,
'Tis a new one every minute;
And one never tires of gazing,
Be it clear or softly hazing;
Be it bright, or gray and hoary,
Or a burst of sunset glory.
Never in the days of yore
Was it just like this before!
Ne'er again in sun or rain,
Will it be the same again!
Peasant, look! Your painting beats
The rarest one in London's streets!
Sight on land goes little way —
Through the sky it goes for aye;
Through the blue eternal miles
Still the wondrous vista smiles.
And it seems, sometimes, for certain
Heaven's beautiful drop-curtain,
Made to charm us till it raises
On the scene the Psalmist praises!