And the pale smile of Beauties in the grave,

The charms of other days, in starlight gleams,

Glimmer on high; their buried locks still wave

Along the canvas; their eyes glance like dreams

On ours, or spars within some dusky cave,[780]But Death is imaged in their shadowy beams.

A picture is the past; even ere its frame

Be gilt, who sate hath ceased to be the same.