The Venus of Milo

O peerless marble marvel! what of grace, Or matchless symmetry is not enshrined In thy rare contours! Could we hope to find The regal dignity of that fair face In aught less beautiful? We would retrace, At sight of thee, our willing steps where wind The paths great Homer trod. Within whose mind Wast thou a dream, O Goddess? Nearer pace Brave Hector, reckless Paris, as we gaze; Then stately temples, fluted colonnades Rise in their sculptured beauty. Yes! ’tis Greece, With all the splendor of her lordliest days, That comes to haunt us: ere the glory fades Let Fancy bid the rapture never cease.