Impromptu, on a View of the Obelisk and of its Figures

 T HIS breathing charm of Sculpture's grace
No ravages of Time deface,
When Beauty , that all hearts could love,
No more its radiant eye can move;
Cold in the picture and the bust,
Its life and model, in the dust .
 How dreadful is the tale that here
Chills with its hovering spectre's fear!
No brighter Poet ever sung:
The bees upon her accent hung;
Her native bloom surpass'd the rose;
Her smile could strings of pearl disclose;
Grace in her step the form improv'd,
Made Envy mute, and Splendour lov'd.
Short was the lovely pageant's day,
And fleet as light it pass'd away.
 “But was the Saint for death prepar'd?
Had Pleasure Wisdom's moment spar'd,
Were jewels in the casket laid,
Which neither time nor thieves invade?”
 Muse! if such questions thou shouldst hear,
No answer make— but with a tear!
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