Thy sun-bright splendors on the noonday rest,
Eve wears the silvery veil of thy adorning,
And night by thee in queenly robes is drest.
Oh, Beautie! still doth thy bright spirit linger
In the green vale where Jove was nurst of old:
Where the Babe Thunderer listened to the singer
Of “many-fountained Ida,” as ’tis told!
Still hauntest thou the violet-crowned city—
The Trojan Mountain, and the Cretan Hill?
Wanders thy soul yet, in the Syren’s ditty—