Poems (Hoffman)/The Gallery of the Great Artist
THE GALLERY OF THE GREAT ARTIST
'Tis not alone where from her towers Rome's antique grandeur flashes,'Tis not alone where Venice weeps o'er Art's immortal ashes,Nor yet where queenly Paris liesOr grey old London's smoke shall riseO'er countless generations;
No boastful city's narrow walls can rival to contain itLike pagan altars, in its aisles, they dare alone profane it,Among its pictures, lo! they standUntil the Mighty Artist's handShall dash them down forever.
Where is this matchless Gallery and who, ah, who hath seen it?Its corner-stone, the nadir is, its pinnacle the zenith.Its walls the Orient rainbow crowns,The Occident its distance bounds,The universe its limit.
The skies, the hills, the depths He formed, all Nature His creationWhatever human skill hath done is but an imitationOf the grand pictures He hath swungIn heights ethereal and hungThroughout the far horizon,
Left by the fading glare of time untarnished nor duller,Retouched with every passing year with light and shade and colorImmortal Artist, hand Divine,We turn from human skill to ThineAnd none is great beside Thee!
Peasant and prince alike hold the key to these Thy treasures,The magic key that opens wide the door to purest pleasures,A mind alive to Nature's lore,A stretch of mountain, sky or shore,An eye not blind to beauty.
A heart, to comprehend and love a universe infiniteOr look upon a tiny flower and feel the grandeur in it,A grandeur only born of Thee,In all Thy works Thy love to seeAll human love excelling.
This is the silver and the gold of which is formed the keyThat opens wide the golden gates to Thy great GalleryEach perfect picture Thou didst frameEngraven with Thy deathless nameIllumined with Thy glory.