And, 'tis a quaint conceit, perchance—
Thou seem'st in humid light to move
As tears concealed thy burning glance—
Such Virgil saw thee, when thine eyes,
More lovely through their glow,[2]
Won from the Thunderer of the skies
An accent soft and low.
And Mars is there with his red beams,
Tumultuous, earnest, unsubdued—
And silver-footed Dian gleams