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It hath death's semblance;—but, how can depart The soul, yet leave its influence on the heart!

No! when the timid prayer for heaven's grace Shall warm its zeal no more, at the sweet face Of thy Madonnas; nor the patient tear Shall fall before thy Magdalen, with less fear; When never more a saint's pure brow shall speak Hope to the trembling,—mercy to the weak; When the last hue is from thy canvass fled, Their memory past,—then, Raphael, thou art dead!