Donington Park, 1802 To Catch The Thought, By Painting'S Spell, Howe'Er Remote, Howe'Er Refined, And O'Er The Kindling Canvas Tell The Silent Story Of The Mind; O'Er Nature'S Form To Glance The Eye, And Fix, By Mimic Light And Shade, Her Morning Tinges Ere They Fly, Her Evening Blushes, Ere They Fade; Yes, These Are Painting'S Proudest Powers, The Gift, By Which Her Art Divine Above All Others Proudly Towers,-- And These, Oh Prince! Are Richly Thine. And Yet, When Friendship Sees Thee Trace, In Almost Living Truth Exprest, This Bright Memorial Of A Face On Which Her Eye Delights To Rest; While O'Er The Lovely Look Serene, The Smile Of Peace, The Bloom Of Youth, The Cheek, That Blushes To Be Seen. The Eye That Tells The Bosom'S Truth; While O'Er Each Line, So Brightly True, Our Eyes With Lingering Pleasure Rove, Blessing The Touch Whose Various Hue Thus Brings To Mind The Form We Love; We Feel The Magic Of Thy Art, And Own It With A Zest, A Zeal, A Pleasure, Nearer To The Heart Than Critic Taste Can Ever Feel.