Where never tree was known to grow:
And founts condemned to trickle, whether
There's water for said founts or no;--
How ev'n the wonder of the Thane
In sketching all its wonder loses,
As woods _will_ come to Dunsinane,
Or any where the sketcher chooses.

For instance, if an artist see,--
As at romantic Tivoli,--
A water-fall and ancient shrine,
Beautiful both, but not so plac'd
As that his pencil can combine
Their features in one _whole_ with taste,--
What does he do? why, without scruple,
He whips the Temple up, as supple
As were those angels who (no doubt)
Carried the Virgin's House[11] about,--
And lands it plump upon the brink
Of the cascade, or whersoever
It suits his plaguy taste to think
'Twill look most picturesque and clever!

In short, there's no end to the treacheries
Of man or maid who once a sketcher is,
The livelier, too, their fancies are,
The more they'll falsify each spot;
As any dolt can give what's _there_,
But men of genius give what's _not_.
Then come your travellers, false as they,--