On the Fall of the Bath Urn from Its Pedestal

All that breathes, and all that lives,
Are but heralds of decay;
Art itself, though silent, gives
Hints of death, as well as they.

From its pedestal is torn,
Broke into a mouldering heap,
Sculpture that a mass had borne
Like the Rock that stems the Deep.

Vain is now its Grecian form,
Vain the chisel's flowing art;
Victims of the pelting storm: —
So must Youth and Beauty part.

These alone were Man to lose,
It 's a tomb that he 'd survive;
In the mind's expanded views,
To enjoyments yet alive.

But the death he cannot bear
Is of Nature's filial prize;
And the tears are of despair,
When the Angel Mother dies.
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