Classic Poem

In her own isle's remotest grove
Stands Venus' lovely shrine,
Sacred to beauty, joy and love,
And built by hands divine.

The polished structure, fair and bright
As her own ivory skin,
Without is alabaster white,
And ruby all within.

Above, a cupola charms the view
White as unsullied snow;
Two columns of the same fair hue
Support the dome below.

Its walls a trickling fountain laves,
In which such virtue reigns
That, bathed in its balsamic waves,
No lover feels his pains.

Before th' unfolding gates there spreads
A fragrant spicy grove,
That with its curling branches shades
The labyrinths of love.

Bright Beauty there her captives holds,
Who kiss their easy chains,
And in the softest, closest folds,
Her willing slaves detains.

Would'st thou, who ne'er these seas hast tried,
Find where this island lies,
Let pilot Love the rudder guide,
And steer by Chloe's eyes.