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 lies
Or grey old London's smoke shall rise
O'er countless generations;
'Tis not alone where Venice weeps o'er Art's immortal ashes,
Nor yet where queenly Paris lies
Or grey old London's smoke shall rise
O'er countless generations;
No boastful city's narrow walls can rival to contain it
Like pagan altars, in its aisles, they dare alone profane it,
Among its pictures, lo! they stand
Until the Mighty Artist's hand
Shall dash them down forever.
Like pagan altars, in its aisles, they dare alone profane it,
Among its pictures, lo! they stand
Until the Mighty Artist's hand
Shall 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.
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 creation
Whatever human skill hath done is but an imitation
Of the grand pictures He hath swung
In heights ethereal and hung
Throughout the far horizon,
Whatever human skill hath done is but an imitation
Of the grand pictures He hath swung
In heights ethereal and hung
Throughout the far horizon,
Left by the fading glare of time untarnished nor duller,
Retouched with every passing year with light and shade and color
Immortal Artist, hand Divine,
We turn from human skill to Thine
And none is great beside Thee!
Retouched with every passing year with light and shade and color
Immortal Artist, hand Divine,
We turn from human skill to Thine
And none is great beside Thee!
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