Classic Poem

The sins of Vibert are as scarlet grown,
'Gainst Art and all that Art can call her own.
His panels with rude anecdote replete
Are like discordant faces of the street;
The eye suspects them at a half a mile,
The red is so much stronger than the style.
He has the Salon Mind and knows his trade —
All of his work is strictly " custom-made,"
And so, perhaps, 't is idle to expect
That he will ever dare a new effect,
Or cease to ply his carmined brush by rote
And paint a Cardinal without a coat.