Imbibing thence our bright purpureal dyes;
We were not foster’d in our shadowy vales
By guided rivulets or summer gales—
Our dew and air have been Love’s balmy tears and sighs!
PINDEMONTE.
ON THE HEBE OF CANOVA.
“Dove per te, celeste ancilla, or vassi?”
Whither, celestial maid, so fast away?
What lures thee from the banquet of the skies?
How canst thou leave thy native realms of day