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 Not hers are her graces; To gods they belong I From Venus her charms; Love lent her his arms; The Muse who presides Over harmony's tides

 Morales, the master, Doth list and rejoice. Says: 'More than Ulysses' My fear and my bliss is: He heard but the ringing Of sirens' sweet singing;

A particularly graceful expression runs through the next lines:—

 If he should chant thy wondrous grace. Dumb would the singer's music be, If he should strive to picture thee. Never a line could artist trace. For of a soul so pure as thine. How could the semblance e'er be true, If the glad brush that painted you Had not been dipped in tints divine. Or if the poet's lyre had known No tones save those of earth alone!"