To Dewint

Dewint! I would not flatter; nor would I
Pretend to critic-skill in this thy art;
Yet in thy landscapes I can well descry
The breathing hues as Nature's counterpart.
No painted peaks, no wild romantic sky,
No rocks, nor mountains, as the rich sublime,
Hath made thee famous; but the sunny truth
Of Nature, that doth mark thee for all time,
Found on our level pastures: — spots, forsooth,
Where common skill sees nothing deemed divine.
Yet here a worshipper was found in thee;
And thy young pencil worked such rich surprise,
That rushy flats, befringed with willow tree,
Rivalled the beauties of Italian skies.