Let ancient stories sound the painter's art,
Who stole from many a maid his Venus' charms,
'Till warm devotion fir'd each gazer's heart,
And every bosom bounded with alarms.
He cull'd the beauties of his native isle,
From some the blush of beauty's vermeil dyes,
From some the lovely look, the winning smile,
From some the languid lustre of the eyes.
Low to the finish'd form the nations round
In adoration bent the pious knee;
With myrtle wreaths the artist's brow they crown'd,
Whose skill, Ariste, only imaged thee.
Ill-fated artist, doom'd so wide to seek
The charms that blossom on Ariste's cheek!