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For a God hathUnto each prescribedHis destined path,Which the happy oneRuns o'er swiftlyTo his glad goal:He whose heart cruelFate hath contracted,Struggles but vainlyAgainst all the barriersThe brazen thread raises,But which the harsh shearsMust one day sever.

A thousand times her image it portrays;Enchanting now, and now compell'd to go,

Traced the figure of a lovely maiden,Fair in form, and clad in graceful fashion,Fresh the cheeks beneath her brown locks' ambush,And the cheeks possess'd the selfsame colourAs the finger that had served to paint them.