13
PYGMALION.
The sculptor paused before his finished work,—
A wondrous statue of divinest mould.
Like Cytherea's were the rounded limbs,
The hands, in whose soft fulness, still and deep,
Like sleeping Loves, the chiselled dimples lay,
The hair's rich fall, the lip's exquisite curve.
But most like Juno's were the brow of pride,
And lofty bearing of the matchless head;—
While over all, a mystic holiness,
Like Dian's purest smile, around her hung,
And hushed the idle gazer, like the air
Which haunts at night the temples of the gods.
The sculptor paused before his finished work,—
A wondrous statue of divinest mould.
Like Cytherea's were the rounded limbs,
The hands, in whose soft fulness, still and deep,
Like sleeping Loves, the chiselled dimples lay,
The hair's rich fall, the lip's exquisite curve.
But most like Juno's were the brow of pride,
And lofty bearing of the matchless head;—
While over all, a mystic holiness,
Like Dian's purest smile, around her hung,
And hushed the idle gazer, like the air
Which haunts at night the temples of the gods.
As stood the sculptor with still folded arms,
And viewed this shape of rarest loveliness,
No flush of triumph crimsoned o'er his brow,
And viewed this shape of rarest loveliness,
No flush of triumph crimsoned o'er his brow,
