Condolatory Address To Sarah, Countess Of Jersey, On The Prince Regent's Returning Her Picture To Mr
When
the
vain
triumph
of
the
imperial
lord,
Whom
servile
Rome
obey'd,
and
yet
abhorr'd,
Gave
to
the
vulgar
gaze
each
glorious
bust,
That
left
a
likeness
of
the
brave
or
just;
What
most
admired
each
scrutinising
eye
Of
all
that
deck'd
that
passing
pageantry?
What
spread
from
face
to
face
that
wondering
air?
The
thought
of
Brutus
-
for
his
was
not
there!
That
absence
proved
his
worth,
-
that
absence
fix'd
His
memory
on
the
longing
mind,
unmix'd;
And
more
decreed
his
glory
to
endure,
Than
all
a
gold
Colossus
could
secure.
If
thus,
fair
Jersey,
our
desiring
gaze
Search
for
thy
form,
in
vain
and
mute
amaze,
Amidst
those
pictured
charms,
whose
loveliness,
Bright
though
they
be,
thine
own
had
render'd
less:
If
he,
that
vain
old
man,
whom
truth
admits
Heir
of
his
father's
crown,
and
of
his
wits,
If
his
corrupted
eye,
and
wither'd
heart,
Could
with
thy
gentle
image
bear
to
part;
That
tasteless
shame
be
his,
and
ours
the
grief,
To
gaze
on
Beauty's
band
without
its
chief:
Yet
comfort
still
one
selfish
thought
imparts,
We
lose
the
'portrait,
but
preserve
our
hearts.
What
can
his
vaulted
gallery
now
disclose?
A
garden
with
all
flowers--except
the
rose;--
A
fount
that
only
wants
its
living
stream;
A
night,
with
every
star,
save
Dian's
beam.
Lost
to
our
eyes
the
present
forms
shall
be,
That
turn
from
tracing
them
to
dream
of
thee;
And
more
on
that
recall'd
resemblance
pause,
Than
all
he
shall
not
force
on
our
applause.
Long
may
thy
yet
meridian
lustre
shine,
With
all
that
Virtue
asks
of
Homage
thine:
The
symmetry
of
youth,
the
grace
of
mien,
The
eye
that
gladdens,
and
the
brow
serene;
The
glossy
darkness
of
that
clustering
hair,
Which
shades,
yet
shows
that
forehead
more
than
fair!
Each
glance
that
wins
us,
and
the
life
that
throws
A
spell
which
will
not
let
our
looks
repose,
But
turn
to
gaze
again,
and
find
anew
Some
charm
that
well
rewards
another
view.
These
are
not
lessen'd,
these
are
still
as
bright,
Albeit
too
dazzling
for
a
dotard's
sight;
And
those
must
wait
till
ev'ry
charm
is
gone,
To
please
the
paltry
heart
that
pleases
none;-
That
dull
cold
sensualist,
whose
sickly
eye
In
envious
dimness
pass'd
thy
portrait
by;
Who
rack'd
his
little
spirit
to
combine
Its
hate
of
Freedom's
loveliness,
and
thine.
