Mark how the clouds now glow like molten gold,
Now gleam like snow-banks, heap’d on banks of snow;
Now dash’d with azure, softer hues unfold,
Now shift and kindle to a furnace-glow!
Compared with these, what is the pride of art!
Your petty palaces and pigmy spires—
The paltry pageants of the noisy mart,
And all the city-connoisseur admires!
Should the whole race of man unite as one
To celebrate some glorious festal day,