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ON THE HEBE OF CANOVA.
ON THE HEBE OF CANOVA.
From the Italian of Pindemonte.
Whither, celestial maid, so fast away?
What lures thee from the banquet of the skies?
How canst thou leave thy native realms of day,
For this low sphere, this vale of clouds and sighs?
—O thou, Canova! soaring high above
Italian art,—with Grecian magic vying!
We knew thy marble glowed with life and love,
But who had seen thee image footsteps flying?
—Here to each eye the wind seems gently playing
With the light vest, its wavy folds arraying
In many a line of undulating grace;
While nature, ne'er her mighty laws suspending,
Stands, before marble thus with motion blending,
One moment lost in thought, its hidden cause to trace.
