Now whispering soft and low as rustling leaves,
Now rolling with the boom of tumbling waves,
Now clanging as the clash of brazen arms.
There sat the virgin queen whose buskined feet
Are swift to chase at early dawn, across
The breezy hills, the flying stag that falls
By wingëd shaft shot from her sounding bow;
And Venus, favored child of mighty Jove,
With perfect moulded arm and breast of snow,