Drawn by old Homer's hand, the rose
Still on the cheek of Helen blows.
Her beauty suffers no decay,
Nor moulders for the worm a prey;
Time's chisel cuts no wrinkles in
The velvet smoothness of her skin:
Nor can the thirst of Old Age sip
The dewy moisture of her lip;
And now her eyes as brilliant show,
As Paris saw them long ago.
For though her beauteous body must
Have crumbled into native dust,
Yet still her features live in song,
Like Hebe, ever fair and young.