Soft breezes from the Myrtle vale below
And brought in faintness, solemn, sweet, and slow
A hymn from Dian's Temple; while up-swelling
The incense went to her own starry dwelling.
But though her face was clear as infant's eyes,
Though she stood smiling o'er the sacrifice,
The poet wept at her so piteous fate,
Wept that such beauty should be desolate:
So in fine wrath some golden sounds he won,
And gave meek Cynthia her Endymion."