So feebly, and with wistful eyes,
He crawls along the floor;
A dying man, who, ere he dies,
Would count his treasures o'er.
And, from the landscape's soft repose,
Smiled thy calm soul, Lorraine;
And, from the deeps of Raphael, rose
Celestial Love again.
In pomp, which his own pomp recalls,
The haggard owner sees
Thy cloth of gold and banquet halls,
Thou stately Veronese!
While, cold as if they scorn'd to hail
Creations not their own,
The Gods of Greece stand marble-pale
Around the Thunderer's throne.
There, Hebè brims the urn of gold;
There, Hermes treads the skies;
There, ever in the Serpent's fold,
Laocoon deathless dies.
There, startled from her mountain rest,
Young Dian turns to draw
The arrowy death that waits the breast
Her slumber fail'd to awe.
There, earth subdued by dauntless deeds,
And life's large labours done,
Stands, sad as Worth with mortal meeds,
Alcmena's mournful son.[B]
They gaze upon the fading form
With mute immortal eyes;—
Here, clay that waits the hungry worm;
There, children of the skies.
Then slowly as he totter'd by,
The old Man, unresign'd,
Sigh'd forth: "Alas! and must I die,
And leave such life behind?
"The Beautiful, from which I part,
Alone defies decay!"
Still, while he sigh'd, the eternal Art
Smiled down upon the clay.