Or by the air’s corrosive power,
Or e’en the slowly-fretting hour,
290 Must every trace of beauty melt away.
XXXI.
When er’st Apelle’s friend enquir’d,
Why touch’d so oft in every part
With repeated strokes of art,
The picture which already they admir’d,
The Artist, with becoming pride,
“I’m Painting for Eternity,” replied.