From the Italian

yes with the same blue witchery as thoseOf Psyche, which caught Love in his own wiles;Lips of the breath and hue of the red rose,That move but with kind words and sweetest smiles;A power of motion and of look, whose artThrows, silently, around the wildest heartThe net it would not break; a form which viesWith that the Grecian imaged in his mind,And gazed upon in dreams, and sighed to findHis breathing marble could not realize.Know ye this picture? There is one aloneCan call its pencilled lineaments her own.She whom, at morning, when the summer airWanders, delighted, o’er her face of flowers,And lingers in the ringlets of her hair,We deem the Hebe of Jove’s banquet-hours;She who, at evening, when her fingers pressThe harp, and wake its harmonies divine,Seems sweetest-voiced and loveliest of the Nine,The minstrel of the bowers of happiness,She whom the Graces nurtured—at her birth,The sea-born Goddess and the Huntress maid,

Beings whose beauty is not of the earth,Came from their myrtle home and forest shade,Blending immortal joy with mortal mirthAnd Dian said, “Fair sister, be she mineIn her heart’s purity, in beauty thine.”The smiling infant listened and obeyed.