Thou, whose soft and rosy hues

Mimic form and soul infuse,

Best of painters, come portray

The lovely maid that's far away.

Far away, my soul! thou art,

But I've thy beauties all by heart.

Paint her jetty ringlets playing,

Silky locks, like tendrils straying;[2]

And, if painting hath the skill

To make the spicy balm distil,

Let every little lock exhale

A sigh of perfume on the gale.

Where her tresses' curly flow

Darkles o'er the brow of snow,

Let her forehead beam to light,

Burnished as the ivory bright.

Let her eyebrows smoothly rise

In jetty arches o'er her eyes,

Each, a crescent gently gliding,

Just commingling, just dividing.

But, hast thou any sparkles warm,

The lightning of her eyes to form?

Let them effuse the azure rays,

That in Minerva's glances blaze,

Mixt with the liquid light that lies

In Cytherea's languid eyes.

O'er her nose and cheek be shed

Flushing white and softened red;

Mingling tints, as when there glows

In snowy milk the bashful rose.

Then her lip, so rich in blisses,

Sweet petitioner for kisses,

Rosy nest, where lurks Persuasion,

Mutely courting Love's invasion.

Next, beneath the velvet chin,

Whose dimple hides a Love within,

Mould her neck with grace descending,

In a heaven of beauty ending;

While countless charms, above, below,

Sport and flutter round its snow.

Now let a floating, lucid veil,

Shadow her form, but not conceal;[3]

A charm may peep, a hue may beam

And leave the rest to Fancy's dream.

Enough—'tis she! 'tis all I seek;

It glows, it lives, it soon will speak!

[1] This ode and the next may be called companion-pictures; they are highly finished, and give us an excellent idea of the taste of the ancients in beauty.

[2] The ancients have been very enthusiastic in their praises of the beauty of hair. Apuleius, in the second book of his Milesiacs, says that Venus herself, if she were bald, though surrounded by the Graces and the Loves, could not be pleasing even to her husband Vulcan.

[3] This delicate art of description, which leaves imagination to complete the picture, has been seldom adopted in the imitations of this beautiful poem. Ronsard is exceptionally minute; and Politianus, in his charming portrait of a girl, full of rich and exquisite diction, has lifted the veil rather too much. The "questa che tu m'intendi" should be always left to fancy.