Would it were fancy! but she's gone- That e'er a nation's wishes bless'd Angels of love, with gratulations high, The pride, or pomp of place; And every winning grace. Yet Death has dimm'd the lustre of her eyes : In lifeless loveliness his victim lies; Britannia, frantic, clasps her favourite's urn; Wit, Virtue, Beauty, for their darling mourn. But through the royal house, No loud laments arise: Silence that loathes repose There stalks with tearful eyes. Ne'er may our querulous complaints intrude On the lone mourner's sacred solitude: The flower is broken from its stem, The ring has lost its only gem: Oh! princely Claremont, wither'd be thy bowers; Mock the self-loving fair Go, whisper in the ear of kings, Cold, voiceless, joyless, motionless-) Away, away! it is not meet A circling halo is her crown, A halo of eternal light : How mild her features seem, and yet how heavenly bright! LINES TO THE MEMORY OF THE ILLUSTRIOUS CANOVA. I. WHERE is he now? an awful question! where? 'Mid spirits glorified in realms of light, Viewing angelic shapes more dazzling there Than those which gave him while on earth delight: When he would dare create, what art alone A Hebe, or a Grace without her zone, Or all that poets dream of beauty's queen, in stone. II. Whate'er of beautiful, high-minded Greece And must that master-hand for ever cease S Those forms, o'er which ideal loveliness Is, as it were, by touch ethereal flung! III. His delicate Hebe almost seems to move : While beaming, like a twin-star at her side, IV. O! 'tis a super-human skill that turns Sullies their charms; they are not of this earth, But pure as when the bards' conceptions gave them birth. V. How o'er the sculptor's manly features play'd When freedom quicken'd thought, and a soul-wakening clime. VI. Yet in Canova's mind were nursed those fine Imaginings, that, but by few possest, We call, adoring their results, divine, Since those who have them are indeed most blest Of mortal beings, far above the rest. The poetry of sculpture must be caught From heaven: it gives a feeling unexprest When bodied forth, to those by art untaught: 'Tis an ambrosial flame-the very soul of thought. |