Let ancient stories round the painter's art, <br />Who stole from many a maid his Venus' charms, <br />Till warm devotion fired each gazer's heart <br />And every bosom bounded with alarms. <br />He culled the beauties of his native isle, <br />From some the blush of beauty's vermeil dyes, <br />From some the lovely look, the winning smile, <br />From some the languid lustre of the eyes. <br /> <br />Low to the finished form the nations round <br />In adoration bent the pious knee; <br />With myrtle wreaths the artist's brow they crowned, <br />Whose skill, Ariste, only imaged thee. <br />Ill-fated artist, doomed so wide to seek <br />The charms that blossom on Ariste's cheek!<br /><br />Robert Southey<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ariste/
