Serene the Marble Images
Gleam'd down, in lengthen'd rows;
Their life, like the Uranides,
A glory and repose.
Glow'd forth the costly canvas spoil
From many a gorgeous frame;
One race will starve the living toil,
The next will gild the name.
That stately silence silvering through,
The steadfast tapers shone
Upon the Painter's pomp of hue,
The Sculptor's solemn stone.
Saved from the deluge-storm of Time,
Within that ark, survey
Whate'er of elder Art sublime
Survives a world's decay!
There creeps a foot, there sighs a breath,
Along the quiet floor;
An old man leaves his bed of death
To count his treasures o'er.
Behold the dying mortal glide
Amidst the eternal Art;
It were a sight to stir with pride
Some pining Painter's heart!
It were a sight that might beguile
Sad Genius from the Hour,
To see the life of Genius smile
Upon the death of Power.
The ghost-like master of that hall
Is king-like in the land;
And France's proudest heads could fall
Beneath that spectre hand.
Veil'd in the Roman purple, preys
The canker-worm within;
And more than Bourbon's sceptre sways
The crook of Mazarin.
Italian, yet more dear to thee
Than sceptre, or than crook,
The Art in which thine Italy
Still charm'd thy glazing look!