There is a splendour in these southern skies,
Ofttimes at sunset, which I've nowhere seen,
Wide as my range about the world hath been,
Save on Italian shores; and there the dyes
Have less of magic in them!--Who that tries,
(Artist or Bard,) to paint such glowing hues
As, in the west, mine eye this moment views,
But must confess how passing far it lies
Beyond his utmost skill?--High o'er my head
A blue intense fades into purplish gray;
And this anon to richer tints gives way,
Of yellow--orange--then of deepening red,
Until at length, in his all gorgeous bed,
Proudly sinks down the monarch of our day.
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