Fly at Glory's splendid rays,

And, moth-like, die amidst a blaze;

You shall bow, and bow alone,

Before delicious Beauty's throne.

Lo! Theora treads the green,

All breathing grace and harmony she moves,

Fair as the mother of the Loves.

In graceful ringlets floats her golden hair;

From the bright azure of her eye

Expression's liquid lightnings fly.