But beauty with that fearful bloom,
That hue which haunts it to the tomb,
Expression’s last receding ray,
A gilded halo hovering round decay,
The farewell beam of Feeling pass’d away!
Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth,
Which gleams, but warms no more its cherish’d earth!
Byron.
Lines Written on seeing a “Calf’s Head”
hanging up in Bene’t Street.