And brilliant wreaths the altar have array’d,
Where meet her noblest youth and loveliest maid.
To that young bride each grace hath Nature given
Which glows on Art’s divinest dream: her eye
Hath a pure sunbeam of her native heaven—
Her cheek a tinge of morning’s richest dye;
Fair as that daughter of the south, whose form
Still breathes and charms, in Vinci’s colours warm.[195]
But is she blest?—for sometimes o’er her smile
A soft sweet shade of pensiveness is cast;